Ratings: Definitely adult. If a sexual, loving relationship between two women offends you, why are you reading this far? I already told you it is about two women. Offensive language. Some violence - one character has an abusive past.

Thanks To: Carla, Bett, Glenda, Trish, and Pam for reading and editing; The Rainbow Chorus writers' group for your support and incite; Mags and Cinny for keeping me sane during all this time.

Feedback: CheyenneCJ@attbi.com

Chapter 1

To entertain is to charm, beguile, amuse, deceive. The good entertainer is an expert at illusion, drawing the masses into a make believe world and taking them away from the trivia of their daily lives. The entertainer can make us believe anything is possible in spite of reality. The up side is that the illusion allows the recipient, and the entertainer, to escape. The down side is the difficulty for the entertainer and those around to peel away the layers to discern reality. Everyone avoids dealing with the perverse troubles of the moment. Escape into illusion and be entertained. The mundane will be taken care of later. M. J. Carson was an expert at make-believe. It was her life-jacket through childhood and her passport in her present world. It also made it a challenge to live or work with her.

"Shit, Sandy, I want these tracks done by the end of the year." Her voice filled the large office, causing her assistant to cringe. "I'm supposed to leave tonight and this CD is scheduled for release in January."

"I'll get the band together and fly them to Orlando. I promise we will have the music done in the next couple of weeks. We'll rent a studio, get your vocals. It'll be done in time. Don't worry. Chill." This wasn't the first time Sandy Browning had survived the flack from one of her boss' tirades. Nor the last, she reminded herself. "We can have it done the end of the month and to the distributor before Christmas."

"Why the hell am I just finding out this hasn't been finished? I thought the studio sessions last month took care of the problems."

Sandy forced calm into her answer, "When we listened to the master there were some rough places. The sound engineer wasn't sure what caused it and couldn't fix it. He called me this morning. M.J., he has been working all month to get this taken care of. We've got to redo some of the music."

M. J. arose from her desk and stared out the window of her office. Another fucking sunny day, the troubled brunette thought. Turning, she lowered her voice, "Call Karl. Tell him to get the same engineers and mixers on the last CD. I don't want anyone else. Understand?"

Sandy nodded, making notes, then staring at the ceiling. M.J. stood over her assistant's chair, leaned on its arms and repeated her warning, "Do you understand?" The low dark voice drawled out each syllable. The shorter woman glared up into the dark, glacial eyes. No words came out, only an accepting nod. "Go on. Get out. I need to finish packing." Then hesitating, she returned to her usual voice, "Oh, by the way, have all the arrangements been made for this trip? I don't want any hassles for the next three weeks. And no media!"

"Your itinerary is with your tickets. I'll have the recording set up for three weeks from now. Just let me know where you will be."

After her staff left, M. J. sat in her office staring out at the gardener. The room faced the eastern edge of her estate. A large natural wood gazebo nestled among the forty-year-old shade trees was the only object not pruned or manicured on this side of the estate. The solitude of the structure was the deciding factor when the place had been purchased seven years ago. And the reason this room had become her office. It stood as a silent sentinel, a symbol of the peace and quiet she rarely experienced in her own life. M. J. sighed, "Another fucking sunny day."

For seven years I was a successful accountant in a major consulting firm. In the world of number crunchers, my work was valued and praised and no one questioned me. "Great job, Susan. I liked the way you moved the numbers around." "Creative! Good idea to move some of the items out of fixed expense." No one, except other accountants, knew what we were talking about but we all appreciated each other's work.

Six years ago I accepted a job in the entertainment industry and my status went into a sharp decline. Today when I announce I'm an accountant, people get a dazed look, yawn, and say "How nice."

If, instead, I say, "I work in the entertainment industry," I am suddenly much more interesting. For the next fifteen minutes, I am the center of attention.

"Do you know (some famous entertainer)?" Have you ever worked with (some famous athlete)?"

Finally, I explain, "I am the financial manager for projects. The accountant in charge of paying bills, watching investments and costs, and crunching all the numbers."

Then they yawn and say, "How nice." Gaffers, carpenters, electricians, best boys, animal wranglers, and, at times, even caterers get higher billing in movie credits. At first, I enjoyed seeing my name listed on some of the smaller films I handled, but even that lost any appeal.

Today I manage a team of professionals who handled $37 million in projects last year. Few people in the industry can explain what I do. No one, except the producers and backers, care what I do. So, I generally introduce myself as an accountant. It saves questioning. And time.

My boss, however, actively pursues relationships with the gliterati, in the entertainment, sports, and political arena. He merged his venture capital business with the burgeoning entertainment market in central Florida, forming a very successful enterprise. Ed Howard develops creative dreams for the famous.

Ed describes my role as important. He tends to exaggerate. "Susan, I don't know how I would survive without you. We would all be selling pencils at Church Street Station if it weren't for you." I roll my eyes and wonder what he wants. "It's true. Look at the money you saved some of our biggest clients last year. That resulted in hefty bonuses for everyone." Now I know he wants something.

My role is to make the projects financially successful. That involves finance knowledge rather than star knowledge. And frequent, not-so-nice, complaining sessions. Especially when I force someone to choose between spending money and making money.

I can read a Profit and Loss Statement and instantly analyze the business. Ask me about the above the line costs of a particular film or the financial liquidity of the backers for a particular venture project and I spout out particulars. Ask me about the breakeven point for a theatrical production and I will provide production costs and income.

I occasionally meet recognizable individuals in the arts, but I am more likely to be found negotiating or arguing with their financial people. When Robert Redford says, "Have your people get with my people and arrange the details," I am one of the detail people called to handle financial management. Not the first or even the second person. But sooner or later I am called.

My job and my family keep me too busy to be current with "who is number one" at the box office or in Billboard. Besides, that's my boss' job-wining and winning the opportunity to do business with 'names.' I don't listen to any music recorded after 1980 and I prefer old movies. Rebecca, Alfred Hitchcock's first American movie, is still one of my favorites. Very little new music and very few new movies stir that sense of mystery and romance. That may seem incongruous with my job, but, as I said, I don't usually spend time with current entertainers. When I finally met a "name," it changed my life forever. But at that time all I noticed were her hands.

Her hands are large, yet, definitely a woman's hands. Beautiful, strong, and...dangerous. Long, slender fingers. Broad palms. They could not be called delicate or fragile, but there is something gentle and creative about them, especially the way they move. As she speaks they are in constant motion. She doesn't utter a sentence. She conducts a conversation. She is the maestro and her hands are her orchestra. If you miss the verbal intent, then she recapitulates the slightest nuance, the greatest import in the flowing gestures of her hands. There is no way to miss the emphasis of conversation then. Her fingers curve and entice. Her arms fly in widening arcs or in barely detectable lines, pulling you in or pushing you away. And, always, her hands hold your attention. At times, I force myself to look up into dark expressive eyes and away from those magnificent hands. They are the most beautiful hands I have ever seen.

This is how Maggie first came into my life. She sat next to me on a flight from Los Angeles to Orlando.

"Hi, my name is Margaret Carson-Baxter. Most people call me Maggie." She put out her strong hand.

"Susan, uh, Susan…Susan Hettinger," I stumble over my own name but she acts as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

I don't even remember all of our conversation. Her two young children sat across the aisle. Occasionally I watch them engaged in their own conversation. The real fascination came in seeing echoes of their mother in their own gestures. What a remarkable family! My own seems to pale in comparison.

It is unfair to speak of Maggie and only mention her hands. There is so much more to her. She is tall and solid. Her conservative, but well-tailored, blazer, her designer jeans, her casual button-down cotton shirt would have fit in with many of the offices I frequent. In fact, we seemed very similar. Successful businesswomen balancing working and parenting. Her children also fit this image. Attired in quiet, but comfortable clothes. You know if you look at the labels they would be familiar...and expensive.

Indeed, her whole appearance speaks of reserve and control. It is only when she opens up and begins to talk that some...I struggle for a word...I can only describe it as magic, comes out and engulfs Maggie. Like the child who sits in wonder as the magician pulls rabbits and flowers and other whimsical items from a hat, I sit and listen to Maggie and watch those wonderful hands.

Her dark shoulder length hair bobs and weaves. There is not an ounce of curl or wave that isn't in motion. Her skin is lightly tanned. Like many Californians I have met, she has enough color to look healthy, but always enough sun protection to guard against wrinkles and the big C. When she speaks her skin shines even brighter. I am speechless. But then my background is financial management and accounting, not English or poetry.

Her daughter had been sitting next to me and she and her son were across the aisle. During that trip I picked up some games and surprises for my own daughter and was sharing a particular card game with Beth-Maggie's oldest. At first, I didn't notice Maggie. "Where are you going?" the youngster seated next to me asks.

"Orlando," I answer.

"Are you going to Disney World, too?"

I smile down at the excited child and reply, "Not anytime soon, I'm afraid. I live in Orlando. Is that where you are going?"

"My mom is taking us on a vacation. We're going to Disney World. Do you have a little girl?" The honesty and enthusiasm of the youngster is refreshing.

"Yes, I do. Her name is Cady and she is four years old."

"My name is Beth and I am seven. That's my brother D.J. over there and that's my mom sitting next to him." She points to the two people sitting across the aisle. "I'm the oldest."

"So I see," I smile at the pride she takes in her last statement. "I'm bringing back some cards for my daughter. Would you like to play with me?"

Beth's eyes light up. We begin to play. It is not long before the younger brother is complaining to his mom. Her son also wanted to play. Maggie tried to calm the disgruntled child.

Finally I suggest, "I would be willing to trade seats and let them play together if that is all right with you." She nods and her son and I swap seats.

Funny, I remember more detail of the first 30 minutes of conversation than the next few hours. I recall Maggie telling me she is traveling. "It's a combination of business and pleasure. I haven't had a vacation with the kids in a long time. My husband is a professional football player and is playing this weekend. He won't be able to join us until right before Christmas. So, it's just the three of us."

I know she mentions his name and I am sure my father would have known him, but I do not follow the sport. Or, for that matter, any sport.

"I'm heading home. I've been in California all week on business," I state, dreading the next question.

"What do you do?" People are so predictable. I groan and give my well-rehearsed answer, "I am the accounting director for a business in Orlando. We do consulting work for a variety of individuals and companies. What do you do?" The eyes haven't glazed over but I didn't want to give her the chance to say, "How nice."

"I'm in music," she hesitates, then continues, "mostly producing music." In the past, as a consultant in the entertainment field, I've learned that can mean anything; so I don't pursue the topic. We begin to talk, however, about the difficult role of women in the field and she becomes more animated. The more excited she becomes, the less I recall the details of our conversation and the more I am aware of her glorious hands.

"Do you realize how few women conduct major symphonies or head major recording studios?" She punctuates her statements with jabs into the air, a long slender finger becoming an exclamation point. "And women composers haven't gotten the financing men have." She speaks authoritatively of both well-known and unknown cases of women struggling to survive in the music field, and of her own struggles to produce music. If she says what kind of music or what musicians, I don't recall. "You would think that the success of Lillith Fair would have shaken more money loose. Look at all the women who participated. And the success of the concerts." She is passionate about her topic. "It doesn't matter whether it's classical music or R&B. Where are the women?"

I know I am challenged and enthralled by this woman. I try to come up with some intelligent response to keep the conversation going, "What do you think it will take to make that change?" Clever, really clever! But it gets the desired response and she is again talking. I certainly don't want this conversation or this plane trip to end. Not this time.

Fate seems to comply with my unspoken request. When we land in Dallas, we are delayed while they try to repair a leaky faucet on the plane. At the end of two hours, the airline recruits another plane and we are reloaded. Maggie, her two kids, and I have been flying First Class, so we get lots of assistance moving. Thirty minutes out of Dallas, Maggie can't find her purse or wallet.

"Damn, all my identification is in it."

Seeing the panic, the flight attendant comes up, "May we help you, Ms. Carson?"

"My wallet is missing. I think I left it in a small bag under my seat on the plane in Dallas. Is there any way to check?"

The attendant calls back to Dallas, and further rummaging reveals the errant object is not on the plane in Dallas. "A member of the cleaning crew may have picked it up," the attendant states. "I am sure we will find it. We can get it out to you, but not before late today. Do you need to make a call or other arrangements?" Maggie shakes her head and I sense her frustration. "Ms. Carson," the attendant interrupts, "could I get your autograph for my niece?" Maggie smiles and nods, signing the in-flight magazine.

I wonder if she is someone famous. I let the thought pass. I once met Reba McIntyre while working on some contracts in Nashville. That was my 15 minutes of notoriety.

"I'm sorry," Maggie turns to me, "I don't usually lose things." She again punctuates the air with her large, slender hand.

By the time we get to Orlando, it is nearly 3 a.m. After six hours of talking, I feel I have known her forever. She has dusted my life with her magic and I, too, feel special. I invite her to spend the night at my house, or, at least, stay until she gets her wallet back. She refuses but, when she couldn't pick up her rental car without identification, she reluctantly agrees. Of course, my winning argument is, "I have only one child and there is plenty of room for the kids in my daughter's room." And to think I won several debates in high school and college!

Maggie smiles, takes a long, long look at me, slowly nods her head and says, "Okay, but only if I can buy you dinner when I get some money." She has a beautiful, sensuous smile. One side of her mouth lifts higher than the other. My heart threatens to stop beating. I pause, then nod 'yes.' I seal the agreement with a handshake and herd my new friend and her family to my waiting car. Considering the amount of luggage Maggie and her kids have, I am glad I have a minivan.

I have no idea what kind of person Maggie is, where she lives, how she lives, how much money she earns. I figure her husband probably earns a six-figure, or seven-but who's counting, salary. Still I bring her to my modest home in Winter Park, a conservative, upper income area north of Orlando.

Large houses dot the many lakes and "old money" is still alive and well in the Winter Park social life. I live in an older neighborhood where many neighbors are old friends of my parents or are young upward-mobile families with children, looking for the "right" address for their children. The brick, ranch-style houses sprawl across large tree-shaded, oversized lots, and, when built in the 1960's, were considered luxury living. Citrus trees dot the lawns and pools have been added to many backyards.

My house belonged to my parents and was given to me right before by father died. Mom and dad continued to travel until my dad's death. Mom then came back to live with us and to care for my daughter during my frequent out-of-town trips. Living in the guest cottage gives her independence and yet keeps her close. She stays in the guest bedroom when I am away. As I pull into the driveway and the garage door opens, I suddenly wonder what my mom will think about my bringing a stranger home. This nagging parental voice reminds me of my responsibility, my lifestyle, and my recalcitrance at meeting new people. I really don't know who this person is. I have spent the entire trip entranced with Maggie. Now I have brought her and her children into my house. Me, the queen of privacy. I remember a line from an old movie and decided I am "pixilated." Well, as Scarlett O'Hara would say, "I'll think about it tomorrow." Southern women have perfected the art of quoting Margaret Mitchell whenever it is convenient. This is my baptism into that sorority!

We carry in the sleeping children, removing shoes, jackets and settling them into Cady's room. Cady looks up only briefly. My heart is filled with such emotion. Dealing with being pregnant and divorced was difficult, but now, my daughter is my life.

"Mommy, I missed you," she whispers. I hug her and tell her I love her, then Maggie and I leave the three sleeping children to go unload the car.

To be honest, I feel like a teenager. We giggle as we pull luggage and bags and boxes from the car. We defy gravity and other unnatural laws of physics and manage to get everything into the house in one trip.

Maggie continues thanking me, "You're a lifesaver. I don't know what I would have done." I'm a little embarrassed and mumble something. Maggie reaches out and touches my arm. She looks into my eyes and with a gentle, warm smile, says, "Susan, I'm serious. I can't tell you how much all this means to me. Thank you."

The place where her fingers rest becomes warm. I feel myself turn red and parts of my body begin to tingle. I am confused. There is something about her smile that says even more than her words. I look down at that miraculous hand and then she lets go. Some powerful bridge or connection has been taken away. It is only then I realize I am holding my breath.

The moment changes as Maggie picks up her kids' suitcases and proceeds to carry them to Cady's room. I follow quickly, putting mine away, and taking Maggie to the other spare room that also serves as my office at home. The white enameled day bed has been the site of many evenings of late night reports, but now it will be the place Maggie rests. The computer sits quietly. The whole room is a silent sentinel as we stand just inside the door.

"I'm sorry the room is such a mess," I mumble as I grab a stack of papers. "I leave all my folders out so I can return to them when I get home." Looking around at the carefully arranged and color-coordinated stacks of working files, I realize I have a whole Southern forest in processed paper. Maybe she's one of those rabid West Coast environmentalists, I worry.

She smiles and grabs files, papers, whatever. Her hands are able to encompass a large sheaf of papers, gently lift them, and then carefully reset them on my worktable.

She laughs at my scurrying and says, "You can organize my office any day. Yours looks so neat compared to my disaster area." She carefully puts the stack of folders on my desk. "I can't believe how organized you are. I have to rely on my assistant to help me figure out what I do each day." Her smile was breathtaking. It lit up the room.

As we finished, Maggie asks, "If it wouldn't be a problem, I'd like some tea. Do you have any herbal or caffeine free tea? I don't think I could handle any more caffeine. And,.." she pauses for effect and smiles, "I would like to just sit for awhile before going to sleep. Just show me where the shower is."

There is a small half-bath off the family room. My bedroom has a large bath, and, when I remodeled, I also put in a Jacuzzi. The other full-size bathroom is located near my daughter's bedroom, next to the spare bedroom in which my mother sleeps. Right now, I wish my mother was hard of hearing and a sound sleeper. The sound of water running would awaken my deaf Aunt Clara. I feel awkward suddenly. I did invite this person into my house, I remind myself.

I take a deep breath, go to the hall closet, and get out clean towels. Maggie follows. "If you don't mind using the shower in my bedroom, you can go ahead and clean up there while I fix us some tea. Chamomile okay?"

"Perfect. And, again, thank you." She touches my arm, turning me to face her, "Susan, you have been so wonderful. I don't want to impose. If you are feeling uncomfortable about anything, it's okay. I can wait until we get moved to the hotel."

She senses my awkwardness. This touches me, this sensitivity to what I may be feeling. I relax and smile and respond sincerely, "Maggie, please, make yourself at home."

She gently squeezes my arm and smiles slowly, one corner of her mouth turning up. "I will," she says. Looking directly into my eyes, she runs her hand up to my shoulder, looking deep into my soul. After an eternity, she breathes, "Thank you." With that she turns, goes into her room, and starts to unpack some items from her overnight bag.

I stand mesmerized, my arm tingling. If I close my eyes I still see and feel her touching me. It's as if I can pull her back by willing it to happen. Warmth travels up and down my arm with the center of the heat being the place where her hand rested as she spoke. Trying to retain the feeling I put my own hand on my arm.

Down the hall I can see Maggie pulling things from her luggage. Her movements are slow and deliberate. Breathing becomes more difficult. She has a certain grace and sensuality about her that draws me in and stirs my soul. She doesn't meet most people's criteria for classic beauty, but she has a magnetism that causes others to notice her. Tall, lean body. Languid movements of a cat, carefully sorting through her possessions.

Finally she holds up a midnight blue satin nightshirt, with buttons down the front and long tails in the front and back. The kind I have always wished I had the long, slender legs to wear. I know Maggie would be stunning in it. She holds it and examines it. She's aware I am watching but refuses to acknowledge me.

I feel like a voyeur, yet I have difficulty pulling myself away. She removes her blazer, slowly folding it over a chair. Next she removes the loafers she's wearing, sliding them off as she unhooks the leather belt around her jeans. She unbuttons her jeans and I know I must stop. I force myself to turn away. Returning to the kitchen I mechanically begin the process of making tea. These feelings are strange to me, and unwelcome. I force them away. They do not fit in with my worldview.

I refill the pot twice before Maggie finishes her shower. Each time I put it on the stove and promptly forget about it until it is almost empty. My thoughts dash about in rapid randomness. No cogent thought surfaces-only emotions and images. The third time I force myself to focus on the simple act of making tea. Thus, as Maggie walks into the kitchen I am setting two cups of tea on the table.

Her hair is wet, hanging down below her shoulders. Moisture glistens on her face. I want to touch her, to feel that wetness. The nightshirt comes to mid-thigh and her well-formed and tanned legs are clearly visible. She is stunning. She either works out or keeps herself physically fit in other ways. Her movements are deliberate and graceful. I find myself staring. My breathing becomes shallow and rapid. I turn away, reminding myself that she is a married woman with two children. I also briefly remind myself that I don't have time for a relationship, even if she wasn't straight. Sometimes reality is better than a cold shower.

She walks to the table, pulls out a chair, and sits down. One leg folded under her and the other foot resting on the chair seat with her knee just under her chin, she stares up at me and I am lost in those warm brown eyes.

"I seem to be constantly thanking you," her voice soft, her eyes inviting. Her lop-sided smile is beginning. "I hope you will let me reciprocate. When the kids and I get settled, I want you and your family to join us for dinner. I won't take no for an answer." Her voice caresses. I shutter. She holds me with her eyes while at the same time she reaches for the cup of tea. I am so uncoordinated that I need all my attention focused on the sheer act of picking up the cup in order to avoid spilling it. With Maggie around, any activity is a hopeless cause.

"You really don't have to do anything. I know what it is like to be stranded." From where, I ask myself, does that come? I'm always so cautious and thorough I never let that happen to me. Even my mother wonders where I developed this compulsion to organize every facet of my life.

"I told you. I won't take no. In fact, if you and your family don't have any plans for Thanksgiving, I would like you to be my guests. I realize you may have other plans, but if not, please say yes." Her voice is a balm that flows over me like warm scented oil. I want to say yes.

A prickly hits me. Thanksgiving is in two weeks. It is my turn to cook. More twinges strike. My sister and her family are coming over. And then the thorns begin to pierce. Barbara wants me to spend Thanksgiving with her, just the two of us. The full force of reality pounces. The memory of the argument before I left moves ungraciously to the forefront of my conscious mind. That is followed by another memory and another. Mentally, I can see the holes the thorns are leaving in the warp and weave of my life fabric. I am supposed to call Barb when I get home and meet her for coffee. My flight is late, I plead to a suddenly alien and unfriendly universe. I walk over to the kitchen phone and find a note from my mother. "Barbara called several times, last time at 11:00 PM, said call no matter how late. I love you but I wish you'd tell her to get lost. Mom." Damn, Barb is going to be pissed. I look at the clock and it is after four a.m. And with that the magic of Maggie and the reality of my life collide. Internally, I am bleeding.

"Susan, are you okay?"

"Yes, I...I'm...I'm fine," I finally mutter.

Oh, shit. Shit! Shit! Shit! What have I done? All the fears and inhibitions that have been my lifelong companions and against which I struggle attack at once. Some evil plot, surely. My life has been a constant battle for control. Control makes me comfortable but keeps me from decisions. Especially about my personal life. The gains I have made in the last four years appear weak, lacking resolve. I'm losing control. Oh, shit.

Chapter 2

Maggie put down her almost empty cup and stood by the table, unsure what to do. It had been so long since she'd spent this much time talking with another woman. Maybe Derek is right, she thought. I need to learn how to have friends. Keep it light, she reminded herself. This straight woman is just being kind.

Walking around the table, she stopped near her troubled hostess. She searched for some words to reach across the gap growing between them. This was new territory, and a frightening one. Maggie was not the one to initiate conversation, or, for that matter, maintain it. Others sought her. They wanted to talk to her, touch her, or simply be in her presence. They eagerly requested an audience or some recognition. She merely had to choose whom to respond to, or whom to ignore. She had lost the art of graceful conversation.

"Look, Susan, if I've said something or done something, I...I...," Maggie struggled. Her emotions were a whirlwind, confusing and treacherous. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should get dressed and see if I can have someone pick us up and take us to the hotel." Maggie picked up her cup and put it in the sink.

As her hostess turned and watched, Maggie could see tears sliding down the side of the golden woman's face. A knot began to form. She wanted desperately to reach out and wipe away those tears, to hold Susan, to reassure her. Desire and anguish were at war. She did nothing, her fists in tight balls at her side. An army of aides and assistants handled every area of her life. She had not taken care of her own problems in a long time, much less try to help someone else.

Susan spoke, slowly at first, "No, Maggie, please don't leave." She walked over and gave her guest a quick hug and then pulled back. "It's not you. I'm suddenly reminded of some unfinished business. I'm tired and feeling a little overwhelmed." Susan, preferring to keep her emotions under control, wadded the paper in her hand and continued, "Besides, you don't have any money or identification, remember?" Susan tried on a smile. Her voice gathered strength, "I'd like for you to meet Cady and my Mom. I'll give you an answer about Thanksgiving later, okay? Maybe you could join us here. But let's talk about it later. I'm really tired."

Maggie nodded agreement, hating the helplessness threatening to drown her. Susan turned, walked over to the trash, and deposited the rolled up paper in her hand. Maggie watched and waited. Accustomed to giving orders and having things fixed immediately, Maggie remained uncomfortably silent.

"May I use your phone?" the dark-haired guest asked in a whisper as Susan began to exit the kitchen. "I want to let Derek know we are okay." She hesitated then jokingly added, "I promise not to charge it all to you."

The troubled younger woman attempted another smile, nodded yes, and wished Maggie pleasant dreams. Sadness followed her as she exited.

Maggie's arms and shoulders ached. She unclenched her hands and tried to relax. For once, neither her money nor her fame could fix the situation. Walking over to the phone, she mentally replayed Friday, only in fast forward. Memories were interspersed with digits as she entered her calling card number, dialed her unlisted home number, and listened for the phone to ring. A familiar male voice answered.

She began to smile, "Hi, sweetie. It's me."

"Maggie, where the hell are you? Are you okay? Your agent has been calling the hotel and they said you never checked in. Where are the kids?" The voice was raised in concern, not anger.

"Derek, everything's okay. Beth and D. J. are asleep. How's Paul?"

"He's fine." Her husband's voice was returning to calmer levels. "Are you at the hotel? What happened?"

Maggie tried to frame an answer. No matter what she said, the truth was stranger. In her infatuation with Susan, she had forgotten that a simple call to the hotel or her agent might have prevented this confrontation.

"Do you want details or the Reader's Digest version?"

"Cute, Maggie, cute." A note of caution crept into his voice. "Maggie, just tell me where you are and what's going on?"

"Our flight was 25 minutes late leaving LAX. When we got to Dallas, something was wrong with the plane. As we're changing planes, I left one of my carry-ons on the plane in Dallas. So I arrived here with no money, no plastic, no ID. And, of course, I hadn't let Disney know when we were arriving."

"Honey, are you and the kids still at the airport? We'll wire money and have a limo come...."

"No. Wait. Hold on." She carefully divulged information about the new friend, the difficulty with picking up the car, and finally, the offer of a place to stay for the night.

There was silence on the other end. Maggie hated it. She could guess what Derek was thinking, but he was wrong.

"Derek, talk to me. She's a nice person. She lives with her mother, for godsake. And her daughter."

"Maggie, you don't know anything about her. How could you allow some stranger take you and the kids somewhere?" She heard the anger rising.

"What do you think is going to happen?" Irritation crept into her own voice. Sadly she had to admit, in the past, he had been right. But not now, she argued, not now. "Damn it, Derek, her mother and daughter are in the house. In the morning, when my wallet arrives, I'll check into the hotel." Maybe, she mentally added. "What the hell is going to happen in four or five hours, especially with all of us asleep?"

Listening to his wife's pleas reminded him that she had changed in the last five years. He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her, but doubts nagged at him. Suppose this was the start of another round of partying; this stranger could be dangerous. Maybe she is someone after a little thrill and publicity...and money, he added.

He struggled to keep calm, "Maggie, what do you know about this woman? Does she know who you are?"

"You're right," Maggie answered, taking the offensive, "I don't know a damn thing about her, except that she is probably a decent, hard working person, living in a very traditional, fucking middle class neighborhood. And, no, I don't think she has the faintest idea what I do or who the fuck I am.

Lowering her voice, she continued, "Derek, I could be one of those California crazies and yet she offered to let me and the kids stay here until we could get settled. And she's asked for nothing. NOTHING! I think she'd have more to worry about me than I do about her. This isn't L.A. or Chicago, or even Miami."

"Hang on, Mags," Derek tried to alleviate the tension, "I'm just concerned. I'm sorry I came down so hard. I don't want you hurt." He paused, his voice softening, "Let Paul run a check on her. She could be another Brenda Harper. And if she isn't, she'll never know we checked."

Maggie recalled the hurt, anger, and embarrassment. A reporter called asking about a palimony suit the day after she found out she was pregnant with Derek Junior. The testimony of her friends and her advanced pregnancy helped to sway the jurors to her side when the case finally went to court. Paul Williams, her attorney, knew her pregnancy would be an aid in their defense. After all, lesbians don't get pregnant. Therefore, it was urgent to take the case to trial as quickly as possible. With the stress of the trial, she nearly had D. J. in the courtroom. Being rushed from the court in labor saved her ass and she knew it. That and Paul being a damned good lawyer.

"Derek, she's not like that." Even as she spoke, Maggie began to have doubts.

"Mags, what's her name? Why was she in L.A.?" Feeling protective, Derek was insistent. Maggie sighed and gave him what information she knew. Realizing she couldn't remember Susan's last name, she searched for something with a name and address. Suddenly she remembered the business card she had been given at the beginning of the flight. Putting her impatient husband on hold, she went and retrieved the card from her jacket. Susan W. Hettinger, MBA, CPA, 3629 Kirsch Avenue, Winter Park, FL. The company name was unfamiliar and her title indicated she was the company's Chief Financial Officer. She read the requested data. She still couldn't recall exactly what Susan did.

"Look, she's probably a Girl Scout leader. Christ, if you saw this neighborhood. Derek, it reminds me of the house we bought when you turned pro. Remember? And this neighborhood...it is such a nice, settled, fucking Republican area." This last she threw in, hoping to increase her bargaining power. She and Derek had rarely agreed on politics. He was a moderate Republican and she a radical Democrat. They jokingly overlooked this flaw in each other.

"Maggie, I'm sorry," a gentleness crept into his voice. This woman had been his best friend for fifteen years and saved his life more than once. "If something happened to you or the kids I would be lost. And, I don't want to see you hurt again."

Swallowing hard, she recalled the times she had come crying to this friend with a broken heart. That was years ago and at some point, she had given up on love and being hurt, deciding to keep her relationships loose, no entanglements. Light affairs. "Snacks," she had even referred to them once. No main courses, no commitments. Except for Derek and the kids. And work, she added.

"Me, either," she whispered into the phone. Regaining her composure, Maggie continued, "Right now, I'm borrowing some space. Maybe we can become friends. After all, I am going to be here for the next two months."

Silence. Trying to control the rising anger, she said good-bye, barely keeping a pleading sound out of her own voice. Her loneliness had become too strong to resist. "I love you. Tell Paul I love him, too."

"I love you, too, Mags. Give the kids a hug. Be careful and I'll call tomorrow." Derek felt both sadness and tenderness, but most of all he felt powerless. Somewhere inside a voice reminded him that Paul only highlighted Maggie's aloneness.

Maggie replaced the phone in the cradle and sat quietly. The silence of the house surrounded her. She examined the kitchen as if she was trying to record every impression, every detail. The kitchen was white and large. The recessed lights made everything seem daytime bright. The white counter tops flowed around three walls. On one side a counter separated the kitchen from the family room, toys still scattered on the floor. A large entertainment center occupied one wall. A stone fireplace decorated another. In between was one of the large screen televisions with which Derek had filled their house during the last two years. She knew they were expensive. She wondered if Susan had bought it or if there was a husband or a boyfriend around.

Bar stools were barely visible on the other side of the counter. They were white wicker and definitely had a Florida feel. Hanging baskets and potted plants completed the decor. She could imagine what they must look like in daylight with sun streaming in from the large sliding patio doors to the left. Her own house was landscaped and had live plants everywhere. Although she enjoyed them, she had never cared for them. She and Derek had housekeepers and plant keepers and animal keepers and, even, children keepers. She realized she lived a well-kept life.

The sink in the kitchen sat at an angle in the corner and glass containers, arranged in descending height order and filled with a variety of foodstuffs, sat in neat rows between the sink and the stove. Her eyes followed the line of white around to the refrigerator. It looked new. A two-door model, with water and ice dispensed from one of the doors. Behind her was a small breakfast nook built into a bay window area. Yes, the kitchen seemed very much like its owner, solid, organized, uncluttered, secure, strong.

She rose and headed for the bedroom. It would be morning soon. Even on her last tour, she had been in bed no later than three. Well, she reminded herself, I am over thirty. I can't do all the things I did when I was twenty.

She pulled back the covers and climbed into the daybed. Everything here reminded her of Susan. Organized, thorough. She smiled remembering Susan's description. There was very little out of place. Much more organized than her own life.

Maggie recalled the look on Susan's face as they moved the files. Warm, sensitive, vibrant. A tingling began to grow inside her. She remembered the brief hug in the kitchen. She wondered what it would be like to lay beside her and hold her.

Painful memories and frightening emotions surfaced. When was the last time she had been emotionally and physically close with a woman? Not just sex, but real involvement. She searched for answers and remembered a time when she had many women friends and a committed loving relationship. What had happened? When did it happen? It was so long ago, it seemed more a fragment of another life. The warm feelings grew dim and cold. A chilling memory skirted the edge of her mind, but she couldn't touch it.

She turned her thoughts back to Susan and again she felt her desire grow and a hunger invade her. She imagined Susan touching her, kissing her. She could feel Susan's hand lightly caress her body. She imagined fingers moving across her thighs with such incredible gentleness, she thought she would die with pleasure. It had been too long since she had been touched by another woman and Susan was damned attractive. With these pleasant thoughts, she fell asleep.

In California, Derek paced the floor, trying to ease his fears. Something gnawed at him. Finally, Paul made his pacing friend sit. "When are you going to let Maggie live her own life? Maybe this woman is a nice person," Paul stated in his noxiously calm voice.

Derek glared, got up, and resumed pacing. He quickly downed his scotch and started to pour another. "Why the hell didn't she arrange for a limo like she usually does? The studio is footing the bill. I don't like it." He set the drink down and continued, "I don't understand."

Paul stood and intercepted him. "We have been through this several times. Maggie is taking a vacation with the kids. It's the first time since Beth was born that she has taken time off from her career, and you, to just spend time with the kids. Derek, let her go. Your relationship is changing. You are each changing. Let her take care of herself. Besides, if Maggie showed up in a limo, do you think she could travel around Disney or Orlando unnoticed?"

"The studio could arrange special visiting for her. They have before." Derek was not easily placated.

"You're being a caretaker again. That's not good for you or for Maggie." Paul watched the expression on Derek's face quickly change to anger. "Derek, what's really bothering you? It's not the limo, and I'm not sure it's this woman."

This man knows me too well, Derek realized. A long sigh escaped before he spoke. "I'm scared. There have been so many changes. Maggie's not partying. We have two beautiful kids. You coming into my life." Derek sighed, allowing some of the anger to drain. "Everything is changing. And now...now I don't know what to think about Mags going home with a stranger and taking the kids."

"Look, she has never done anything to put the children in jeopardy. You know how protective she is. Second, she was stranded and a friendly person offered to help her. Believe it or not, I hear those things still happen in some places in America. Derek, give her a chance. She's really making an effort."

There was something both compelling and frustrating about Paul's logic. Derek was daily reminded of how lucky he had been to find him. Thanks to Maggie and that wild time in her life no less. Reluctantly, he gave in, but not without insisting Paul have someone find out more about the woman Maggie had met.

"Fine, but can it wait until morning? I do have a meeting at nine and I need to be alert. And, you have a practice scheduled."

Derek's humor was returning, "But it's never too late for some practice tonight."

Paul laughed and pretended to be shocked, "There are some things you don't need to practice."

Continued in Part 2.