

Helen & Sharon

By

Kay Hemlock Brown

Copyright © 2018 by Kay Hemlock Brown

Published at Smashwords (Smashwords.com)

Contents

Preliminaries

Introduction

Prologue

Westfield

The First Week

Marsha's Idea

The Pelican Movies

Natasha

Marsha's Plan

The Passion

Mr. Chips

Limelight

Back in the USA

Merit

Vancouver

Spain

Sita's History

Sharon meets Sita

The Story

The end of filming

Sita and Lalitha

Back at work

Mastersingers

Merit hits the Big Screen

Helen visits Philadelphia

Helen wears a Saree

England

Christmas

Sita in London

Sharon in Hollywood

Grief

A midnight phone call

Funeral and Blood Sugar

The graveyard

Red Carpet

Crashing the Oscars

The Academy Awards

Florida

Aftermath

Travel with Sita

Helga

Conchita

Mother's Day race

Filming

Publicity

Retreat

End of Term

Philadelphia

Calamities and Trials

Sita

Echoes

Retirement

Sita bares her soul

The Fading of Sharon

Catastrophe

Helen crashes at the studio

Hospital

Helen back at home

Christmas

Vicky's Problem

Preliminaries
Introduction

This is a major excerpt from the story of Helen.

_Helen,_ a long, rambling story that was originally never intended to be published, has gradually turned into something that is being published in segments. Because of the way it was written, _Helen_ lent itself to segmentation, many of the episodes being essentially self-contained.

One suite of adventures had such a major impact on Helen's life that it almost qualifies as a story in itself. Furthermore, rather than being a story that is confined to a short period, this one drags on for years, and events that take place many years later are directly related to the events of this story, so the events in this 'episode' are from all up and down the Helen saga, starting from when she began to teach at Westfield College.

However, the influence on the character's life curve is not yet completely determined, because as I write this, I'm also writing the last few chapters of Helen's life. The Sharon Vuehl story will be brought to a close (with the demise of Sharon Vuehl), but its final resolution must wait until I think a bit longer on what to do with Helen. This is embarrassing, but you know by now that you're not dealing with a professional author!!

I will introduce the various characters in the Helen / Sharon story in the main text, many of them in the Prologue. As you read this excerpt, you will quickly see why it could influence Helen's story so dramatically.

Bear in mind that these episodes are extracted from a large file (or many large files), and there is an enormous volume of interesting material that may have been relevant, which has been omitted. I will try my best to summarize the excluded material at the head of each chunk.

Some of the background material for this story is material found elsewhere, which is presented in small print. Essential background that is central to this story is presented as ordinary text.

Prologue

"It's Marsha," she said, when Helen had picked up the phone. "Remember me?"

Marsha Moore was a popular Hollywood actress. Helen, in her junior year at college, had decided to take the year off, and had some adventures, assisted by a strange woman called Sandy. This was, it turned out, Marsha Moore in disguise. Sandy was a sort of fairy godmother, who helped people disguise themselves and go on goofy escapades. Helen had to be bailed out by Sandy fairly frequently, but over the course of the year, Helen and Sandy fell in love. Helen had been pregnant at the time, with twins; but it turned into a high-risk pregnancy, and Sandy (Marsha Moore, of course) whisked Helen off to Hollywood, but she aborted, and Marsha encouraged Helen to return to college and finish her degree. It was now about 15 years later, Helen was a professor at a college.

"Hi!" said Helen, her heart falling like a stone.

Marsha knew instantly that Helen was unhappy, and gradually dragged it out of her. It wasn't hard to convince Marsha that Helen was getting drawn into things that she couldn't betray with their planned movie.

"The whole idea is to shock them," Marsha reminded her, sounding very downcast.

"Well ... it would be nice to do just a raunchy movie, period," Helen said, equally mournfully. "I just like the thought of a really tough gal, who really fights, really flirts, seduces all the guys, and walks off with the girl!"

"Oh, man! I wish I could tell you what I've got, so far!"

"Tell me!"

"But what's the use?"

"Shit," said Helen, looking at the clock. "Marsha, I have to go; rehearsal is in two minutes; I'm late. I'll call you as soon as it's over."

"Think of a way we can do it! I'll think, too. The only idea I have is that you do it incognito. That's better than nothing!"

"Yeah ... I thought of that. Anyway, I'll call you! Bye!"

Fortunately, the students were so well trained that the rehearsal went like butter, though Helen's thoughts were far away.

Westfield

The First Week

A little less than a year before the events in the Prologue, Helen has just joined the faculty of a college in northwestern Pennsylvania, together with her friend and mentor Nadia van der Wert. Helen had three adopted daughters, Gena, 15, Erin, 10, and Alison, 2, who all lived with Helen's friend Janet Kolb, and sundry friends, in the village of Ferguson in Minnesota. The older girls attended Ferguson School, of which Janet was the principal. Helen and her little boy James, six months old, lived in Westfield, with Nadia.

Helen had been teaching already for four days, and she welcomed Friday morning with far greater enthusiasm than she had ever done! After her little boy James had finished nursing at her breast, she laid him in his playpen where Nadia knew where to find him, and went off to shower. By seven, Helen, Nadia, and little James were all dressed and ready for school.

Today was going to be her last day keeping James with her at school; on Monday she would leave him with a young woman, Nicole, who lived close to the Campus, and who was expecting her first baby around Christmas.

Helen and Nadia walked the quarter mile or so to school, talking over a project they were working on. "How are your classes coming along, Cherie?" asked Nadia, who was Belgian.

"Pretty well. I think I like the early morning freshmen the best. They love James, of course, especially the girls, but it works better when I leave him in my office. He's a bigger distraction than he was at Ferguson!" (Helen had taught at Ferguson briefly.)

The quarter mile was just about as much as Nadia could walk comfortably. She was nearly eighty years old, and her spindly legs couldn't handle even her tiny weight on long walks. Both women had braids: Helen's hair was a glorious thick rope of tightly curling golden-blond hair that used to hang down almost to her waist, but the braid was now just down to the middle of her back. Nadia wore her dark brown hair, sprinkled lightly with grey, in a thick plait. Nadia had been her collaborator and mentor for many years, and Helen loved her dearly.

The Music Department occupied a wing in a corner of the Academic Building, which also housed the practice rooms, and the usual things that one found in every music department anywhere: a library of music scores, a record library, an electronic equipment room, a room for choir rehearsals with risers, and lots of pianos. Every professor had a piano in his or her office. Helen and Nadia constituted two thirds of the Music Department, the other third being Rich Wilson. (All three professors had earned doctorates, but most of the time we will omit the title.)

Helen had arranged with a student to babysit James while she was in class, and this young lady was waiting when Helen and Nadia got in. Nadia kissed James farewell, and said, " _Au revoir, mon ami!"_ and went into her office, and Helen got the little boy settled, and carefully getting her notes together, hurried off to her early morning Music Theory I class.

In this morning class, there were a few unavoidable minutes of talking about Helen-related matters which had nothing to do with music theory, but more to do with the _Galaxy Show,_ which was a TV series in which Helen played an important character. From experience, Helen knew that it was better to let the kids get all that out of the way while she set out her notes and her equipment; if she cut them off, she hurt their feelings, and that got in the way of the lesson.

Helen was a musical all-rounder. She had gone to college on a choir scholarship, but discovered that she was an amazing violinist. By the end of her long college career, she was in great demand as a solo violinist, but also as a lyric operatic soprano. She still had a busy schedule of violin concerts all over the US, and occasionally abroad, but had mostly given up her singing. Her voice had dropped after little James had been born, but Helen loved to sing. Helen had founded a choir and small orchestra of amateurs while she was still in graduate school in Philadelphia, but for various reasons had had to leave the choir and orchestra to fend for itself for nearly two years. But, most excitingly, Helen now had a recurring part in a TV science fiction series that aired weekly on Saturday nights at 9 PM. It was set in the future, on an enormous space vessel called _The Galactic Voyager_ (which its fans abbreviated to _the Galaxy Show_ ). On the show, Helen played a musical celebrity—of the distant future, of course—Cecilia Yorke, who had been put aboard this vessel. Once a month or so, Helen had to go to Seattle, Washington, to be filmed in the various scenes in which she would appear. The kids in her class were more interested in the " _Galaxy Show"_ than in her various appearances as a concert violinist.

"So, on Wednesday we were looking at examples where Bach was using the _melodic minor_. Let's look at some examples, and see whether you can spot the _leading note_ , first, without the music on the screen. Obviously, anyone can do it with the music, right?" There was a little nervous laughter. "OK, here we go!"

Helen really wasn't much more innovative than music professors anywhere else; the electronic and computer software gadgets commonly available made it much easier for students to get what she was trying to explain than it had been when Helen was in college herself. She went on to harder exercises, after which they started writing some basic harmony examples on paper. Music Theory I at Westfield was a rich mix of music appreciation and Theory.

By the time she finished the class and got back to her desk, James was beginning to fret. A few young things that followed Helen to her office simply had to coo over the baby, and the friendly little boy gurgled back at them like a miniature dirty old man. Helen smiled and thanked her babysitter, and arranged for when she would be needed again.

"When do we get to see James's dad, Dr. Nordstrom? Are you divorced?"

Helen put down her materials and turned to her students with an exasperated look. Before she could answer, one of the girls realized that her friend might be getting just a bit too curious for good taste. "Andie, that's a bit personal."

Helen shrugged. "I was not married to James's Dad, Andie. He lives in Minnesota, and his name is Mr. Gibson, which is why James is James John Jeffrey Nordstrom Gibson! Right, my boy? Right!"

"Whoa, what a mouthful! What's it again? _James John_ ..."

At ten, Helen had an orchestration class for seniors, and that was a lot of fun. When she finished and got back to the office, the secretary Rita had a message for her.

"Dr. Nordstrom, your Philadelphia office called for you, and said they'll call back!"

Helen had her own corporation. She had her own music recording company, an organization that maintained a website that had public domain scores of music by Johann Sebastian Bach—music written in the eighteenth century that was no longer under copyright—a charitable foundation that, among other things, provided free surgery for infants, which was essentially to support her dear friend Dr. Amy Salvatori, a brilliant orthopedic surgeon who had gotten to know Helen while the latter was still in college, and lastly, Helen's corporation managed the finances that enabled Helen to keep up with a punishing concert schedule in addition to her teaching.

"Did Becky say what she wanted me for?" Helen asked, though she had a good idea.

"Oh, a whole lot of things, which all I couldn't completely understand," said Rita, regretfully. Rita was slightly overwhelmed by the volume of calls coming in for Helen since the semester had begun, but Rita had gotten to adore the new professor, who was so sweet and kind, and whose little baby boy was so delightful most of the time. James was just six months old, but was turning out to be quite a charmer. "She ... Becky, is it?" Helen nodded. "She's going to call back after eleven, she said."

Helen didn't have long to wait. She had just finished putting away her notes and her equipment and turned to her young son, when the desk phone rang.

"Hello?" Helen had learned not to assume that it would be Becky; too many people called her every day.

"It's Becky," said the well-known voice, soft and husky as always. Becky was a shy, retiring woman, but was a wonderful financial manager. She didn't _try_ to be sexy; her voice was just that way. "Got a few minutes?"

"Yeah, this is a good time. Shoot."

"OK, this is big. Remember the new web-servers that Gretchen set up for us?"

"Yeah?" Helen was excited. The new web equipment made BachScores.org very powerful, and enabled Becky's computer to handle an enormous number of hits all at the same time, so that downloading a free Bach score was quick and easy from practically anywhere in the world.

"Well, there's a way that we can hook up your office computer to our system, so that, you know, your PC is just as powerful as our system! It's amazing. You share our drives, everything! We can host your software ..."

"Oh." Helen was seriously underwhelmed. When she was still in grad school, students could use the University server to store files. Evidently Becky was offering server space for Helen, which she actually had already. "But Becky, I've had files on your system for a couple of years, what ..."

"No, no. This is different! This is called _tunneling;_ you can actually _run_ this system from home. Your software can live here, you don't need to have it locally. It's a kind of distributed computing, where it's almost as though you're at a terminal in the office here!"

It took some time to convince Helen that this was significantly different from what Helen was familiar with, but eventually she figured out how it worked.

"Next, we have a concert for you on Thursday in L.A., and a taping in Seattle over the weekend."

Helen sighed. This was the difficult part of the whole thing; whenever she had to leave Westfield on a weekday, Nadia had to cover her classes. Luckily, Helen's Thursday obligations consisted of recitations only. But Friday she would miss two lectures.

Helen joined Nadia in her office for a lunch of sandwiches and salad, which Helen and Nadia had hurriedly put together early morning.

"One of these days, we will have to go into the Cafeteria, Cherie," Nadia said, between chews. "The faculty will think we are avoiding them, and that's not good."

"I know, but there just isn't time!"

"Oh, there is. Your next class it at, what, 2:00?"

"Yeah," said Helen with a sigh. "Anyway, I have bad news."

"Bad news? What?"

"Concert on Thursday, in L.A. You have to cover for me."

Nadia grinned. "Theory I, huh?"

"And Orchestration. They're working on some simple things ... it's just the second week of classes!"

Helen talked some more about what would go on in the recitations, and promised to have two complete lessons ready for Nadia, all on PowerPoint, and with all the musical examples on a single CD. Nadia laughed and said that when she had been in the Conservatory, all they had was a piano and a blackboard. Anyway, she said, she would improvise; at her age it was impossible to stick to a _PowerPoint_ presentation without feeling ridiculous.

"Do you get to visit the girls sometime this weekend?"

Helen had three adopted daughters, Gena, fifteen; Erin, almost eleven; and Alison, almost three. They were, with James, the apple of her eye, and it was almost more than she could bear to have them live in Ferguson, Minnesota, with her friends Janet Kolb and Cindy Shaughnessy. When Helen began teaching at Westfield, Gena and Erin had begged Helen to let them stay at Ferguson, and keep Alison with them. Baby James, of course, had to stay with Mama. But Mama pined for the girls, especially Allie, whom she loved dearly. But everyone loved little Alison. So none of the girls had even seen Westfield yet.

Helen's afternoon class only met on Mondays and Wednesdays, so after Nadia had finished with a couple of meetings, and Helen had gone through the huge volume of mail that had come in for her from Becky, they were free to head off home. Still, it was nearly four when they actually left.

As they walked past the football field, Helen and Nadia were surprised to be hailed by a number of enormous fellows in football outfits.

"Dr. Helen! Dr. Helen! Hey! Come and watch us practice!"

Helen laughed. She had done her share of watching football practice as a girl, and had quickly learned that it was not as exciting as an actual game.

"Come on, Cherie, let's just go and chat with them for a minute!"

"Oh, okay," said Helen with a sigh. Little James, in the carry seat strapped to her back was getting quite heavy.

There were now about a dozen grinning football heroes on the other side of the fence, waiting for the two women. "Are you coming for the game Saturday?"

"Er, whom are you playing?" asked Helen. They told her. It was a pre-season friendly game. Nadia offered to bring Helen along.

"What's the little guy's name?" they wanted to know. Helen told them that he was James, and they helped to get him off the carry sling, which was normally quite a difficult job for Helen to do alone. It helped to have a six-foot friend helping her.

Helen, being a minor celebrity, deserved to have a show from the football team. The two women politely refused to come inside and sit on the stands, but they watched from the sidelines. It was the defensive team against the offensive team, and Helen smiled as they attempted a spectacular throw from midfield, which was intercepted, resulting in a beautiful pileup.

Presently the downhearted team was allowed a quick farewell to Helen's little family at the fence, and Helen and Nadia headed home.

"It seems an interesting game, Cherie. But I keep wondering: how can they get a goal, if the other side is so good?"

Helen laughed. "I have no idea! That's the sort of thing Dad would know," she mused. (Helen's father lived on a farm in Kansas.)

Once the women got home, Nadia went in through her front door, while Helen dragged herself up the steps and through her front entrance. (The two apartments connected at the back.) She set the excited little baby in his high seat, while she got herself a drink of water.

She had forgotten how hard a weekend could be, when she was all alone. Being without a relationship was hard on _anyone_ , but Helen found it harder than most.

She had recently been bereaved; Penny, the woman who had shared Helen's life for the past two years had died over the summer, entrusting Erin to Helen's care. She was one of the few women with whom Helen had had absolutely no conflicts, perhaps because they had been together so briefly. Before that, she had cohabited with a lovely Indian woman, Lalitha, but had had an affair with a babysitter, and wound up alone. The babysitter, a beautiful teenage dance student called Lorna, had moved in with Becky, while the Indian woman had found a new partner and settled down with her. But they all lived in different parts of Philadelphia, and Helen was torn between visiting her office in Philadelphia, and having to endure Lorna's attentions, on the one hand, and staying away, so that Becky and Lorna could 'gel' as a couple.

At thirty-three, Helen suffered with unbearable lust. She could barely sleep at night, lusting after practically every woman she knew, especially sweet, beautiful, frustrating Lorna. Thus far, she had avoided looking very closely at the lovely young things at the college, though she was sorely tempted.

She had done grocery shopping on Thursday, and now she fixed up a meal for herself and old Nadia. Soon Nadia joined her, to make a little pasta, and put a salad together.

"You look beautiful, Cherie, even when you're tired! What it is to be young!"

"Oh Nadia..." Helen never knew what to say to the childless old lady who lavished all her love on Helen, but was strict with her in many ways. "You must have been young once! I'm sure you were as cute as anything in your time!"

Nadia chuckled. "Cute, maybe," she admitted. "But _beautiful,_ no."

Nadia offered to take James off Helen's hands for an hour or two. Do whatever you like, she had said.

Helen changed out of her work clothes, and looked at herself in the mirror, and only saw some of the excess weight she had put on while she was pregnant and not quite lost. She had been quite slim before she had become pregnant with James, but Helen was now a hefty 190 pounds, though she didn't look heavy because of her height. She got into a leotard, and picking up an exercise video, headed to the work room at the back. She didn't want to disturb Nadia with her pounding on the floor. (Nadia lived downstairs, and Helen's was the upstairs apartment.)

It was still light when they had dinner. James had looked thoughtful, and harangued Helen with what sounded like a question.

"What are you asking, James? You've got to learn to talk, little boy; we can't go on like this!"

Nadia studied her little boyfriend. "You know, Cherie, I have a feeling he wants to know where the girls are. _Mon ami_ , are you inquiring about your sisters?"

"Huh?" asked James, looking alert.

"Are you missing Allie, James? Remember Allie?"

James pounded on his high seat with his spoon, declaiming mightily. The two women stared at each other, startled.

"He's too young to think of things like that!" murmured Helen, looking at her little boy.

"Who knows, Cherie? You're a genius, and Jeffrey is a genius, so who can tell what a genius this one is? Isn't it so, Mr. James?"

"Oh Nadia, stop it." Helen blushed. She rose from the table, and gathered some of the dishes. She was _not_ a genius; she was just an excellent violinist. It was all practice, practice, practice, and an amazing ear.

"I heard you playing the _Partitas,_ Cherie. Theory is one thing, but your keyboard technique is excellent! I have no more to teach you. The pupil is now the teacher."

Helen hated when Nadia got on that track. It was very gratifying to know that Nadia liked Helen's harpsichord playing, but all this praise was too much to have to live up to.

Early the next morning, Saturday, well before sunrise, Helen put on a spectacular pair of running tights she had bought a few months before, and was pleased that they still fit. She was going to run. She didn't need to wear such sexy clothing to go jogging out here, in the middle of nowhere in Northwestern Pennsylvania, but her hormones were still raging in her veins, and she was going mad with undirected lust. She had slept only fitfully, waking up from dreams of violent sex with faceless women, who suddenly left her bed and ran laughing away, taunting her.

Leaving a note to Nadia that James needed to be checked on, Helen slipped out of the house, and after stretching briefly, began to run, away from the town, into the surrounding farms and woods. Faster and faster she ran; this wasn't jogging. An hour later, thoroughly exhausted, Helen stumbled back up the porch steps, sweating profusely. The kids across the street were up early, and were staring at her. She gave them a friendly but tired wave, and got inside, closing the door.

"There, James, Mama is here! Helen, Cherie, what is this fantastic getup? You look like ... Wonder Woman, or something!"

Helen laughed, a little embarrassed. Nadia wouldn't say anything more, but the remark hit the target. The suit was just a tad too spectacular.

"I have another one, a little less ... fantastic; I had better tone it down!"

"Oh, _I_ don't care, Cherie. Goodness, at this rate you will disappear completely! Drink some water!"

Helen was already at the faucet, and she drank slowly.

The kids across the street came over around ten, and asked to visit with James. Evidently Nadia and James had made friends with them, and Helen watched them walk around with James, showing him everything in their yard. James was making a valiant effort to be interested. Nadia had said that they would take good care of the little fellow, and suggested that the older girl might make a good weekend babysitter. "She is sort of a princess, Cherie. James will learn excellent manners."

"Can't do any harm," murmured Helen, setting out her music. She would practice at the harpsichord for half an hour, then the violin. After a while, the girls brought James back, and Helen heard Nadia taking him from them and talking to them, while Helen continued. She would let Nadia keep the baby until she called Helen for lunch.

At 2:00, of course, Nadia had to haul Helen off to the football game. Helen put on a colorful top and a wrap-around skirt that flattered her shape, and picking James up in her arms, set out with Nadia for the football field. The Cheerleaders spotted her, and it turned out that many of them were either in Helen's freshman class, or were roommates with someone who was. Helen was presently surrounded with people anxious to chat with her. The bleachers were filled with a combination of students and townsfolk, who were rabid Westfield College football fans. Helen knew just enough about the game to see that there were some serious weaknesses in their game, but not enough to tell exactly what they were. The Cheerleaders cheered like crazy, but the home team just barely eked out a two-point lead at the end of the match. The fans were disappointed. It was a good opposing team, but they should have won the home game handily.

Marsha's Idea

A characteristic of Helen's strange life had been a desire to steal away, and have wild adventures under an assumed name, many of them highly sexual in nature. One of them was a recurrent appearance as a nude dancer at a nightclub in Florida, back when Helen was around sixteen; it was an elite establishment, and there had been no sex with the patrons, but it paid well, and the money Helen earned formed the basis of her great fortune some years later. Another was, a year later as a photographer for a 'girlie' magazine; another was, one summer, as a counselor at a nude tennis camp; another as a leader at a ballet camp in France, and so on.

Some ten years later, Helen met a family in California, and grew to love their two children, Gena, who was about 9, and newborn Alison. Helen found herself their foster-mother when the parents died, and before dying, the mother had entreated Helen to take the two girls, to which Helen had agreed willingly. But a certain couple in Philadelphia, having discovered Helen's youthful escapades, used their influence to have Helen declared an unfit mother, and had the children removed from Helen's care via the courts. Gena and Alison fled their foster home when they were left alone for a few minutes, came to Helen, and the three of them got away to the West Coast, and Helen was once again in disguise, this time first as a man, then as a woman. But the Law caught up with them, and Helen was sentenced to six months in prison, but the sentence was suspended on condition she gave up her promiscuous behavior, for the sake of the children.

Later during that first Fall Semester at Westfield, Helen met an attractive Englishwoman, who called herself Rain, and who taught French at the school. Rain invited Helen and the children to England to meet her parents, and they were well on their way to becoming a couple, when they got word from Philadelphia that Lorna, the young dancer we mentioned earlier, had left Becky, and had said that unless she was allowed to live with Helen she would kill herself. Lorna had made it clear even a few years ago that if only Helen would give the word, she would be all hers. Helen had avoided this happening, because Lorna was young, and Lorna was Becky's woman, after all. But this was serious. Helen headed back to Philadelphia with baby James and Gena, and quickly saw that unless Helen, Rain and Lorna could manage to live together somehow, things would get very bad.

As our story continues, Helen, Rain and Lorna share the upstairs apartment, while Nadia continues to live downstairs, and at this time, they had settled down together, and were reasonably happy. You will shortly meet Natasha, a famous contralto, with whom Helen has made friends.

Helen's musicology research focused on the music of J. S. Bach, and as a violinist, a conductor, lyric soprano, and a teacher at a small four-year college, Helen performed the music of Bach a large proportion of the time, and Bach's music was mostly sacred music.

Helen longed to take time off from work, and make a raunchy movie. This was a common theme of her fantasies; she wanted to shock her fans who thought of Helen as a goody-goody highly respectable singer and instrumentalist, by playing some sexy woman in a movie, who fights and seduces right and left. But this was becoming increasingly difficult to do, given that she had responsibilities now, as a mother, and a member of the faculty of a respected school, and a Bach scholar. She had laid the problem in the hands of Marsha Moore, a famous Hollywood actress, who had a sideline of assisting her celebrity friends in disguising themselves and having interesting incognito adventures. (Remember Sandy?) Any day Helen expected a call from Marsha Moore, and then she would have to decide what she wanted to do about the movie Marsha and she had planned together, and for which Marsha was writing the script even now. The more Helen was drawn into the work of the college, and was identified with the institution, the more she was involved in performing religious works, masses and passions, the less possible it became for Helen to become a porn star, or anything near it. She would push the envelope, she knew, but the particular project they had planned was impossible. And she wanted to do it with every fiber of her being!

Marsha called her finally a few days after Helen had spoken with her friend Natasha, who had agreed to sing in a performance of the Bach _St. Matthew Passion_ that Helen and her students were planning for Holy Week. Natasha was due to arrive on Thursday, and Marsha called on Tuesday.

Helen talked to Marsha, as we have seen, and it was fairly clear that Helen couldn't just run off and make a sexy movie. Helen rang off, and hurried to rehearsal.

Several weeks before, Helen had hurried home, and as usual, Lorna had danced up and put her arms round Helen. She had been dancing, and wore her leotard, hose, and a pretty muslin skirt that flared with her slightest movement.

Helen knew it was her way of seducing Helen. She wanted sex, and she wanted Helen to give it willingly. Many times Helen had begun making love to her, her mind on something else, and Lorna had pushed her away. "When you're fucking me," she had said softly, "I want you to think of nothing but me. I think of nothing but you, you should do the same for me."

"I _am_ thinking of you!"

"Not _only_ of me. I must fill your mind, Helen. Your whole body must think: Lorna, Lorna! You don't have to love me, you must _want me!"_

"Don't be melodramatic! We're not in love; we're just friends!" (This was not strictly true; Lorna had made it quite clear that she was totally in love with Helen, and Helen had to confess that she was in love with the dancer, before Becky and Lorna's family reluctantly let her move in with Helen.) But Lorna was dressing. She gave Helen a tight smile and buttoned up her cardigan. Then she came to Helen with Helen's panties, and Helen found herself stepping into them like a little girl being helped by her mother. "Lorna! I can dress myself!"

"All right! Maybe next time," she had said. Helen had wanted sex very badly, but Lorna wasn't going to give her any.

That was some weeks ago. Now Helen knew to be ready for Lorna. It was amazing sex, and it was worth it. Lorna wanted sex, but Helen had bigger fish to fry. She held the dancer close and for a few seconds they exchanged hugs. They knew that they needed each other sexually, desperately. But it was important to reassure themselves that there was love, too. They were very affectionate to each other, sometimes excessively so in private. They were determined to make their complicated arrangement work, because they knew that separation would be painful. It was as much of a desperate union as it had been between Lorna and Becky, but this time Lorna was certain that she had chosen wisely, and they were compatible. And miraculously, they both loved Rain, and Rain loved them, and so far there was harmony.

"No sex, darling ... my mind is not on it. I need your help. I need your brains."

Lorna held Helen's face in her hands and peered into her eyes. She smiled. "I could excuse you just once," she offered. "Come on, let's get naked!"

Helen let herself be led upstairs. Lorna undressed Helen, and put her on the bed, and took off her own clothes. She slid her hand inside Helen and watched her face intently. Helen just looked at her.

Lorna stopped smiling and asked what the problem was, gently stroking Helen's belly.

Helen told her about the crazy plan she and Marsha had had late in the Fall, and why she couldn't go through with it; it would embarrass the college.

"Yeah," said Lorna slowly, "you can't do that."

"But I want to!"

"I know ... I _want_ you to!" She looked eager, and her hand worked away on autopilot, and Helen was feeling very aroused. But the problem was distracting her. "And tell me again why you couldn't do it under a screen name? Like Titta Buns, or something."

"No. The whole idea is that it's Cecilia, the woman from the Galaxy Show, gone bad!"

"Uh huh ..." She had three fingers inside Helen, and was thoughtfully thrusting them slowly in and out, not hard enough to bring her to orgasm, but enough to make her wild with wanting one. In her agony, Helen was squeezing her own breasts, expelling a little milk in the process, and Lorna was licking it up.

Mercifully, Lorna's attention returned to the sex, and she brought Helen to orgasm quickly, just as Helen was about to take matters into her own hands. Then Lorna lay full on Helen, and they continued to talk.

Finally Lorna came up with an idea.

Helen would act in several movies, all under an assumed name. The first few would be family-oriented features that they would simply "throw together" with minimum effort. Then the last would be Marsha's raunchy movie. The first two movies would present a highly sedate young actress; and in the third movie, the audience would be shocked to see this same actress being crazy sexy.

"Just _throw them together?_ What do you think it takes to make a movie?"

Lorna shrugged, grinning.

"Not a lot, actually," agreed Marsha, when Helen had told her the idea later that afternoon. "You know, it's a great idea!"

"Who'll go to them?"

"Oh, don't you worry. Let me work on this!"

The Pelican Movies

Natasha

Helen had been invited to participate at a Christmas gala in Berlin, just before going on to Britain. While she was getting ready, there was a knock on the door, and it was Natalia Zemanova, a wonderful Czech contralto Helen had heard on the radio, whom Helen admired very much. Natasha lived in France and spoke fluent French, and they were soon fast friends. Natalia, who urged Helen to call her Natasha, sang with Helen's group, the Impromptu, later that winter, and they released a CD on the LMN label (for which Natasha got prior permission from her own recording label), and had promised to collaborate with Helen at every opportunity.

Shortly, Natasha arrived in the US for rehearsals, and stayed for three days. She sat in on Helen's classes, Rain's recitations, and Nadia's seminars, and Lorna danced for her in the evenings.

Helen's class was a revelation to Natasha. What Natasha had learned with diligence and hard work at the conservatory in Prague, Helen made simple for these children. They took it for granted that it would be easy, and occasionally complained when it wasn't obvious. With infinite patience Helen questioned the student until the idea was clear. She used the piano, recordings, the chalkboard, everything at her disposal, and by the end of the hour, had convinced the class of the ease of the technique she was describing.

Afterwards Helen confessed that it had been a more difficult day than usual.

"You work so hard!" said Natasha sympathetically. "In my conservatory, they would discourage the less talented ones." She smiled. "If you had to teach me and my classmates, it would have been easy for you!"

Helen laughed. "That may be, Natasha, but out of these unresponsive, complaining lumps of rock will come musicians, parents of musicians, congressmen, senators, voters... I need every one of them! In this country, Tasha, Music can afford no enemies."

Helen and Nadia cooked dinner, while Lorna danced for the sheer delight of it. Natasha and Rain sat and watched with amazement. "Why don't you wait until after dinner, when the others can see it too?" asked Natasha.

"Oh ..." said Lorna, continuing to dance, "I'll dance for them some other time!"

Lorna danced until she was perspiring profusely, and Natasha found it hard to breathe because of the sheer beauty of it. Next to her, Rain watched, her mouth hanging open. The music accelerated in a mad race to the end, and finally Lorna ended the dance in a split, her arms thrown back, an expression of absolute rapture on her face.

"There! Did you like it?!?" she gasped, like a little girl, eager for approval. She swept forward, as a dancer will do, and curtsied, her joyous face raised to Natasha. There was a hint of mischief and mockery, but mostly it was a genuine desire for praise.

"You are the most beautiful dancer I have ever seen, Lorna. Helen is absolutely right."

Lorna stood up excited, and hugged herself in an eloquent gesture of anxiousness and expectation, half covering her mouth. "What does Helen say about me?" she asked in a quiet voice, full of tension.

"Why don't you ask her?"

"No, please tell me! I can't ask her!"

It was Rain who answered. "She said you're going to be one of the great dancers of the world, and ... a great dancer can't be treated like just any other person." Natasha nodded, smiling.

Lorna's face shone like the sun. She sighed a long sigh. "I'm going to dance for her ... later!" she said, and bent to kiss Rain on the head.

The next day, Helen flew Natasha out to Philadelphia. (Helen owned and piloted a small propeller-driven plane.) They parted with a hug and a kiss.

"It was a wonderful visit, Natasha! You make us all so happy! Please come again, often! We'll see you in a couple of weeks!"

Just then a cart rolled up, and Natasha's baggage was put on board. "How super, you're getting a ride! Please call, Cherie!" cried Helen as the cart wheeled her out of sight.

At last! thought Helen, I can work on the film! While Natasha was in the house, Helen could neither think of sex in a relaxed way, nor call Marsha to talk about it. And in the nights, Helen knew, there was always the likelihood that Natasha would have come round investigating, and the three companions had been very circumspect about having sex. Lorna had suffered most, but she had been very sweet about it, and wouldn't listen to any harsh word about Natasha. "She's just curious," she insisted, "she doesn't mean any harm."

Marsha's Plan

When Helen got home, she decided to call Marsha first. There were a few visitors in the house, Nadia's little friends. The weather was cold and dry, so the paths were clean, even if the kids had to bundle up pretty heavily. Nadia had gotten them doing jigsaw puzzles. Lorna was cleaning the house, and Rain was doing the laundry. Helen offered to help, but got chased off. So she went to her room and called Marsha.

Marsha told Helen the story of her screenplay, and Helen fell in love with it immediately. It was a fantasy, set in an imaginary past. The heroine belongs to an emancipated sea-faring culture, and she and an all-woman crew are shipwrecked while exploring.

She and her crew find themselves in all kinds of messes, and manage to handle them, earning a good reputation as fighters and tough customers.

The region on whose beaches they find themselves, is governed by several warlike kings, the chief of whom has a daughter, desired by the princes of the neighboring kingdoms, none of whom have friendly relations with the girl's father. The girl, though, is more inclined to a religious life, and is about to enter a convent.

Our heroine, Merit, and her party get enlisted by one of the neighboring princes in a plot to smuggle the princess out of the convent, but instead, our heroine is attracted to the convent life, and is proselytized by the princess. Love blooms between Merit and the princess, and the princess is charmed into escaping the convent, the neighboring princess, and everything. The couple set off on adventure, but ultimately duty calls, and they part, each to her own responsibilities.

"I love it! I love the convent motif!! Marsha ... I think this one will be a hit served straight up, without the, er, sex angle. It's a simple adventure story."

"It's a love story. It's a lesbian love story, aimed at a popular audience, with characters that anyone could relate to. And I have suggestions for the ones we're going to 'toss off,' as Lorna calls it!"

"Yeah? Okay, shoot!"

"First: Goodbye Mr. Chips."

"What ... what the heck is that?"

Marsha was shocked. "You don't remember _Goodbye Mr. Chips?_ Helen ... it was ..."

"Anyway, I guess it's a good movie." Marsha got the distinct impression that Helen wasn't interested in discussing her memory lapses. "What's the other one?"

" _Limelight._ Helen, you'll love that one. And you get to act with Sam Slade!" Sam Slade was a comedic genius and all-round actor who had been a household word in the old TV variety show days. Him, at least, Helen recognized.

She quickly asked if Marsha had told him what it was all about.

"No. It's too risky. He must be convinced that he's working with an unknown talent. You have to make sure that you're not Cecilia. _You can't be even remotely like Cecilia_. That's the major challenge, as I see it." ( _Cecilia_ was the character Helen played on _the Galactic Voyager_.)

"Yes ... yes! Marsha, I think I can do it! God, I never ever in my _life_ wanted to be an actor, and ... this is incredibly exciting! I think I can do it, and I _want_ to."

It was the kind of bizarre twisted scheme that Marsha loved. First, money had to be siphoned out of Helen's corporate accounts into a fund that was controlled by a fictitious movie producer. Then a director had to be found who was sympathetic to the ostensible goals of the project: to showcase a new talent, namely a certain reformed nude dancer being impersonated by Helen. (In fact the director wouldn't even _know_ Helen was a reformed nude dancer; that would 'emerge' later on, or perhaps not. As time permitted, Marsha and Helen would concoct a shady history for the dancer/actress Helen was going to be.) Then all the other details had to be taken care of by Marsha without it being known that Marsha was involved—otherwise Helen's cover would be blown too quickly. A studio had to be found. Actors had to be hired. Oh, it was a project!

Most importantly, a name for this imaginary actress had to be chosen, and the name they chose was _Sharon Vuehl._

Most nights Helen rose around 2:00 in the morning, and went out to talk to Marsha secretly on the phone, and they crafted the character and personality of Sharon Vuehl. Helen decided that she would be a tempestuous, charismatic dancer with a heart of gold, born and raised in Maine.

The Passion

A few weeks later, Natasha was back, and on the day before Good Friday, right at noon, the performance of the Passion took place.

The first thing that struck them was that the student orchestra was clearly not in the same league as the Impromptu Orchestra, Helen's own orchestra in Philadelphia; nor was the choir as good as the Philly group. But they were nevertheless _incredibly_ good, and in addition, the Assembly Hall had incredibly good acoustics, much warmer than the little church in Philly. Lisa (who together with Marika and Helen comprised a little recording company called _LMN_ ), had capitalized on the acoustics and the antiphonal performance layout to get a sharp stereo image. In addition, the small chorus of kids from the middle school was beyond perfect. For weeks they had practiced their German pronunciation, and the balance was just right.

After the last note, everyone looked at each other in awe. The audience sat silent, still under the spell of the sad, slow music. Perhaps they were unaware that the work had ended, or uncertain whether the microphones were still on, or surprised by the intensity of the effect it had on them, or perhaps they thought that applause was inappropriate for a sacred work. In any event, the audience waited until the President stood, and then filed slowly out, a few of them staying behind for an opportunity to speak to Helen.

After a brief smile and a somewhat stiff bow to the audience, Helen turned back and awkwardly smiled at her musicians.

"Thank you!" she said, "Beautifully done. Whew! I'm sure you must be as exhausted as I am!"

The soloists smiled and nodded to each other and the choir, and made motions of silent applause, and the smiles on the faces of the choir and the orchestra told Helen that they were satisfied with this small token of appreciation.

Nadia and Peter Lawrence (a colleague) approached the performers, and Nadia declared, wiping her eyes, addressing the choir and orchestra, that it was the most moving performance she had ever attended. It was perfect, she said, over and over again. "But you know, it is traditional not to applaud!"

The others were listening to them and nodding. Helen included them all, saying that she had the best location to hear the music, but was in the worst situation to appreciate it. "But I sort of let go enough at the end," she said "to allow myself to ... be moved by the last chorus." There was nodding all round.

The unspoken sentiment was that this music left everyone unsatisfied with the need to carry on their ordinary lives. It seemed to underscore the sadness of life, but to embrace it as well.

Mr. Chips

There were exams and papers to grade, and more concerts, and warming weather, and blocked toilets. The Minnesota girls visited, and so did Elly, and Little John.

Helen put in a few weeks of heavy research with Nadia on an idea they had started in the Fall and put off. They made so much progress that Nadia declared she could continue on her own. "The student has become the master," she said.

"The student has become lazy," said Helen frankly.

One day, Helen went off with Lorna to an unknown destination. The understanding was that it was a kind of vacation. In actual fact, Helen was 'reading' for the female lead of the first of Marsha's throwaway movies.

The movie was to be made in Toronto, and the casting was to be done there, too. Helen and Lorna had taken the flight out to Toronto under aliases provided by Marsha: a mother and daughter, whose appearances were pretty nondescript—generic blonde mother and generic brunette daughter. Once they arrived at the airport, Lorna became a young man by the simple expedient of putting on sideburns and a jacket over the jeans she was already wearing. She was wearing men's sneakers anyway, a size too large for her, padded with extra socks. Helen eyed her, surprised at how good looking she was, ponytail and all. "Stop staring," Lorna had bitten out, and Helen had glared at her and complied.

Marsha had refused to get involved with transforming Helen. "This is big; you're well known for going about in disguise; and I can't trust my people as much as I used to. The game has changed," she had said.

"Then I'm screwed!" Helen had wailed. "How can I become this Sharon person all by myself?"

"Listen!" said Marsha, "Here's how you do it!"

They had checked into a hotel as Sharon and David Vuehl, and proceeded to dye Helen's hair a deep red, almost brown. Marsha had provided the dyes and careful instructions. They only had to make Helen look as if she might have had red hair to begin with. Helen had deliberately put on some fat, and her figure now looked sleek and very attractive.

Now Lorna's cosmetic training became useful. Very carefully, she painted Helen's lips slightly wider, an old trick. In fact, all they did now was to make Helen look pretty in a conventional way, with a padded bra and eyebrow shaping, and so on.

"I want to come along," insisted Lorna. Helen shrugged and let her.

The reading went smoothly. Helen acted a little temperamental, pretending to be frustrated at not getting the character exactly right.

"Just ... relax, Sharon; just be yourself. Pretend it's Mr. Chips meets Sharon."

"But where's the acting, then?"

"There's _no_ acting. That's the beauty of it!"

Helen had read beautifully, and the casting director had sent a little prayer to heaven. This girl was a 'must-hire;' it was somebody's girlfriend, awful hair and all. At least she could read.

Helen had taken the week off, and they were waiting to hear from the casting trials. It was no surprise when they heard the same evening that she had been selected to meet the director a few days later.

The meeting with the director was a tense one. Helen saw at once that this man was intelligent. Helen forced herself to relax. Even if she was found out at this stage, there was not much harm done.

Fortunately, the director's eye was not very much on Helen, it seemed to be focused on some inner vision into which Helen fit. He didn't care about what Helen was, exactly, but whether she could support his vision, and he had been so carefully set up that he couldn't help but think that Helen was the answer to his prayers.

The male lead was a very well-known English actor, Ron Patterson, and Helen began to believe that not only would the movie come off, it might actually be a good one. Ron and Helen hit it off beautifully. She acted the part of the nice All-American girl with all her heart: vivacious, man crazy, attention-demanding, warm-hearted.

"How soon can you be ready?" asked the director, Steve Pelican.

"I'm available right now, for a couple of days, and then again in June." Helen said solemnly. The sooner they started the better.

"Tell you what," said Steve, "I'll call you. We could start shooting tomorrow!"

They did. The whole movie was shot in seven days. They used a functioning private school which they used for everything. Helen was paid 50 thousand, the male lead was paid twice as much, and the remaining expenses came to under half a million.

Helen never stepped out of character for one second. She was Sharon every second of every minute. Some of the scenes would have been easy for Helen, but for Sharon they were a stretch. Nobody would know how good an actress Helen really was, she thought. Lorna wasn't allowed on the set, and Marsha had nothing to do with the filming of it. She had planned it, and left it to the quite legitimate genius of Steve to execute it.

Every night, Marsha would call and ask how it had gone, and Helen would tell her in detail, while Lorna listened. Then Helen and Lorna would make love.

They had to prepare carefully to get back. All the changes had to be restored. The eyebrows had to be thickened, the lipstick carefully cleaned off, and Helen had to have her blonde wig ready.

When they got back, they both embraced Rain as tenderly as they hugged the children. James was getting very attached to Lorna.

By now, the academic year was over, and it was graduation. The choir and the band were to perform at graduation, but fortunately not the orchestra. All the pageantry looked very different from Helen's new perspective. She knew a couple dozen of the graduating seniors, and they all brought their parents to meet Helen.

Suddenly, one day, Helen was a free woman until the beginning of the next semester!

Limelight

Putting in a week of furious work with Nadia, Helen got their paper ready to publish. Now, it was time for the next movie.

This time, Steve asked for Helen. He seemed to take it on the level that such a historic movie as _Limelight_ should be so easily purchased for a remake. While they were actually filming _Limelight, Chips_ was released.

Helen heard that the Twins had gone to see it on the third day, and wondered whether any of them would know that Sharon Vuehl was her. (The Twins were a pair of teenagers who happened to have been born on the same night, within hours of each other. Elly was the child of Janet, and Tommy was the child of Janet's mother, and Helen's father, John Nordstrom.) If they did, Helen knew, they would be tactful. That still awaited Helen when she went back to Ferguson, the little town in Minnesota in which Janet lived.

Meanwhile, Helen and Sam Slade were getting along famously. Helen was a dancer in this movie, and Slade turned out to be a great dancer himself.

It was a nervous business. The kids knew Helen's dancing, and there was a possibility that Sharon Vuehl dancing might be too much like Helen dancing and blow Helen's cover.

The movie had hired a choreographer and dance trainer who had a different take on ballet than Helen, or Helen's ballet teacher in college, Andrew White. All she had to do was to follow her instructions to the letter. Helen had to give up the rather stiff style she had adopted. Helen's dancing was stiff only compared to the best professional dancers; she was fluid and graceful, beautiful to watch. But when it came right down to it, She was just a tiny bit stiff.

Now Helen set her mind to losing that last bit of stiffness. It was agony. Lorna took over when the movie trainer had sent Helen home.

Squats, lunges, kicks, splits, stretches of all kinds, and massages. When Lorna was ready to give in, Helen insisted that they continue.

"Not any more," Lorna would say, "or you'll hurt yourself."

"Why?"

"Why? Hyper-extension!" Helen sighed and gave in.

The Twins reported on _Chips._

"Oh, Helen! It's such a cute, cute story! God, the girl is _adorable!_ I've got the hugest crush on her!"

"Yeah? Blonde? Brunette?"

"A sort of red-brown," Tom said. "Oh, but you have to see it! She has these big blue eyes ... anyway, she starts off a little tongue in cheek, but then she really falls for the guy, you know? Oh, how romantic!"

Box office receipts were unbelievable, and then the appearance requests began pouring in. Helen was completely on her own. She hired an agent, a sharp young woman recommended by Marsha called Wendy, and finally agreed to give an interview in Toronto.

Helen played the part to perfection. Sharon was supposed to be in her mid twenties. Helen played her as a rather reserved girl, not naïve, but with a sly sense of humor, very aware of her own importance. She told the interviewer that she didn't care about the salary one bit. "I work for the royalties. If it's good, I'll make money. I don't need insurance, you know? I don't want big money up front. I look for good projects. If I can't get the roles I want, I'll go back to dancing."

She had to go on TV on a celebrity game show. These were tricky because they were unscripted, and there was always the chance that her speech would give her away. But by then, Sharon's wisecracking sly style had become second nature. Helen began to think that these celebrity game shows might not be a bad thing for Helen herself to take up. She played for charity, but got a fee for her appearance.

The second movie was taking much longer, simply because of the dance scenes. Helen managed to sneak Lorna into the dance stage, and asked her to give her opinions on what Helen was doing wrong.

Lorna was stunned. Helen's dancing had improved phenomenally. The choreography was rather unusual, intended to seduce rather than to express. But Helen was doing the seduction very, very well. If there was a man with an ounce of passion in his blood, he would respond to Helen's dancing with utter adoration.

"Does it look like, you know, when you and I, we danced that one time?"

Lorna thought, startled. That was, of course, the main thing; Sharon simply could not be Helen-like.

"No," said Lorna thoughtfully, "your movements are different. When you kick, and stuff, the way your leg goes...you know? It's more classic. You're dancing with your legs, now, not your hands!"

It was true. At least, Helen's legs distracted attention away from her hands.

Suddenly, filming was over. As soon as the dancing was done, and Helen's scenes with Slade had been filmed with Steve's amazing economy of effort, Helen was free to go. The rest was all Slade's scenes to be shot with only him around, and a few connecting sequences that didn't need Helen.

Helen was back in Westfield just in time to welcome Gena and Erin back. Westfield was just beautiful in the spring, with all its trees in full leaf. The days were at a lovely 75°, the lawn was gorgeous, and Rain had put in flowers in addition to the roses Helen's father had put in the previous Fall. The neighbor children were in and out, playing with Gena, Erin, Allie, and James, and Nadia too. Sophie had gone out for the French open, and they all headed out to cheer for her at the finals, Rain, Lorna, all the children, the Twins, and Little John.

After the French Open, they all traveled to England, to Woodford. The Twins, as always, thoroughly enjoyed themselves, and charmed the natives. Within hours of arriving in the village, they had managed to make friends of about a dozen English teenagers by simply going to the record store and grinning at them. Elly had the knack. She could make friends with a suspicious pit-bull if she put her mind to it, and Gena and Little John weren't too far behind.

An important event on their British trip was going to see _Mr. Chips_ with the Woodfords, Rain's parents. When it arrived at the local cinema on the day after they got there, Elly absolutely insisted that they should all see it, and Lorna and Tommy backed her up. Lorna, of course, had her own reasons for wanting to see it. (Little John scorned the idea, saying that it was a "chick" movie. Gena promptly remarked that John would probably love it, then.) The thirteen of them all turned up at the cinema, with the Twins' new friends. The kids wanted to sit towards the front, while the adults sat further back.

The cinema was only half full. The newspaper reviews had emphasized that the movie had been shot with a budget of under 300 thousand pounds, with an unknown actress in the lead role. It didn't matter that most British movies were shot for less, it was considered an insult to the originals, one of which had starred a pair of much-loved British stars, Petula Clark and Peter O'Toole.

Helen was on pins, though she was determined not to show it. She kept up a light chatter about not getting to see movies very often—which was true.

The credits came on, and she was immediately pleased. She was also hearing the sound track for the first time, and it too seemed to be perfectly adequate, if not good. The hardest moment was her first appearance. Helen held her breath.

As the camera picked out the young woman, Helen was shocked. She could tell, since she knew, that it was herself, but an incredibly altered version of her. This young woman had a different coloring: the characteristic coloring of a redhead! The red hair—a wig—was straight and thick, pulled together loosely at the neck. The blue eyes—contact lenses, of course—and the hint of freckles, the shaped eyebrows, the varnished fingernails, the more sensuous lips ... and most of all, the tempestuous, intense personality, evident right from the outset; it all conspired to disguise the fact that it was none other than Helen. And in the movie, Sharon hardly sang a note. And Helen had abandoned her soft Midwestern speech for a slightly edgy Eastern accent that was probably the most powerful deception of all. And, to her own surprise, she had found that that alone had helped her act even more convincingly.

Helen had actually put on weight for the movie. But she was further surprised to see that she actually looked _slimmer._ Her figure, of course, had been enhanced easily to pander to the universal taste for more voluptuous women, and Helen began to understand why the Twins were so taken up with Sharon's character. She seemed to be a youthful, passionate, utterly feminine young woman, the woman Elly aspired to be, and the kind of woman that attracted Tommy.

George, Rain's father, had his criticisms, but when they left the cinema it was clear that he had enjoyed the move.

"Unpretentious," he said. "That's it's big point. It's an unpretentious story, and it's been presented that way. Simple sentimental fun."

"Helen! Did you like it? Isn't she _cute??_ "

"Mom, she really was cute, wasn't she?" Helen smiled and nodded and said, indeed, she looked very promising.

Back in the USA

It was now mid June, and while Sophie stayed in England competing on grass courts, and Rain stayed to visit with her family a little longer, the rest of them were back in Westfield.

Marsha had said that they were looking for a girl to play the young princess (not the heroine, Merit). They were also looking for a different director. They wanted the movie to be a contrast: a big-budget extravaganza. Meanwhile, Helen and Lorna feverishly worked on an excuse to disappear for a while over the summer. Lorna thought of maybe a dance project, and Helen decided that she would invent a summer teaching assignment somewhere.

It was tough being Sharon Vuehl and Helen Nordstrom at the same time. Helen had two cell-phones, the first one for herself, and the second one was for Sharon Vuehl. It had an answering service that was always filled with invitations to appear in TV spots. Helen herself had invitations too, of course, but could afford to keep turning them down, while Sharon couldn't. In the end, Sharon accepted about a week's worth of appearances on different shows. It took a lot out of Helen, the stress of leaving the kids behind, of making her excuses, of traveling incognito, of maintaining her disguise and acting the part of Sharon. Sharon was the hardest role Helen had done, simply because Sharon was a completely different person, a very superficial one. Sharon rarely had a good answer to anything; she had to make one up in real time. Helen had her _own_ answer ready, of course, but it would never have done for Sharon.

Sharon was very proper—at that time. Helen had to be ready to answer questions with conservative values. But Sharon's humor always came to the rescue.

"What do you think about men?"

"Men?" (Laughter) "What's there to think about?" (More laughter)

"I mean, do you like them, do you date, what do you think of them? What's your opinion of them?"

"No, I don't _date_ , as such; I, um, well, ... (laughter from the audience) let's just say that I don't have casual sex." The host nods, here, looking very thoughtful and encouraging. "I think men are ... underrated." (Laughter.) Sharon looks a little mischievous. "You have to sort of train 'em!"

That remark was circulated round the entire country, including news programs.

The movie was having an incredible run.

Word came that a director had been found. Marsha's spies were tickled to bits: it was a Chinese director, one who specialized in quality action movies with a message. He couldn't quite see the message in this one, but had agreed to do it if he could influence the script-writing. Marsha wasn't sure what he meant, but she was confident that she could defend her script. Meanwhile, Helen began to train. She was back to running 15 miles a day, she began to eat a high-protein diet, and work out with her machine.

This all had to be done in secret, because Helen wanted to minimize the chances of being connected with Merit, the heroine of the action/erotic movie.

Helen found light, open-weave clothes to wear, and the few times that they went hiking or climbing, Helen wore clothes that disguised her already muscular body.

And then, one day, Helen received a call to meet the director of the movie. This was it!

This time, the meeting was in Vancouver. Helen carefully prepared herself mentally. She was still Sharon Vuehl, but she had to convince them that she had reformed. She was now a high-stepping, butt-kicking love machine of a Sharon Vuehl.

The director, Tony Cheng was a small, intense man in glasses, almost a stereotype of an old-time Japanese businessman, except that he was dressed in jeans and sneakers.

"Let me see your body," he said at once, after checking out Helen in her slacks and jacket. Lorna had made Helen up as Sharon. Her hair was a lighter red, now, a little more untidy, and the surface fat was gone.

Helen pulled off her jacket, her top and her slacks, and stood in her briefs and bra. Tony's eyes widened, and he nodded.

"You know, Miss Vuehl ..."

"Sharon, please, Mr. Cheng!"

"Sharon? Okay! Tony, all right? Good! Anyway, you know there will be _some_ nude scenes!"

" _Some?_ I thought there would be a whole lot!"

"A whole lot? No, no, no." He shook his head vigorously. "That is not sexy. You have to measure it out, little by little. Just enough to keep the interest, just enough so they come to see the movie again and again!"

Helen nodded agreement. This fellow was bright.

"May I see?" he asked, pointing at the few clothes that remained.

It was a hard moment. But Helen had asked for this. She pulled off her briefs, and then her bra.

Tony stared at Helen, evidently well satisfied, except for a small tattoo which he was unhappy about, and said had to go. He indicated that Helen should get dressed.

Tony sat down, looking thoughtful. "I don't know whether we have a way to deal with this with makeup. I think not. Anyway, please come with me!"

He led the way to a large room they had set up with a mat. There were about half a dozen people watching, all Chinese, and more were coming in. Helen understood: they wanted a demonstration of her fighting ability. A man was waiting, a handsome fellow, Chinese, dressed and ready to spar. He bowed immediately and smiled. He was evidently a fan. Helen smiled back. So Sharon had fans! What a thrill!

Cheng smiled and asked if Helen could show him what she could do. "If you can't do much, we can train you, but we have to know!"

They took her jacket. He outlined what he wanted, and clapped for action. Helen was on the man in a flash, and had him down in a few seconds.

He picked himself up and bowed, and the entire group clapped and smiled, and talked among themselves in English, with broad Chinese accents.

"Wonderful! But too fast, Sharon! Even the camera couldn't grab that! Where did you learn to fight like this?"

Helen shrugged and smiled. How could she explain that Sharon Vuehl had been taught fighting by Helen Nordstrom?

Helen did it again, but this time, in slow motion, and with some changes that they wanted. Helen saw with glee how their eyes filled with greed. She was a new discovery, and they wanted her to act in their action movies. She had so much physical control that she was able to do what they wanted exactly the way they wanted.

They helped her get up, finally, and get into her jacket. With a smile, Tony led Helen back into the office he had met her in. Lorna was waiting patiently in the room outside.

"One last thing." He looked at her quizzically. "There are lesbian scenes. You know this!"

"Yes," said Helen.

"You can do them?"

"Yes," said Helen, her face expressionless.

"Have you ever done them?"

"No, ... but I'm sure I can."

"How can you be so sure?"

Helen smiled an arch smile. "It's hard to explain," she said, "you have to trust me!"

"I see," he said. "Then I trust you!"

The tattoo, of course, was a problem, but not an insurmountable one.

Merit

Vancouver

They started filming two weeks later.

Helen was introduced to the girls who were to be her crew, and a little stowaway, all already hired. They were all lean, muscular girls with rather aristocratic faces. They were being very faithful to the script so far, and Helen was secretly delighted that they hadn't cast heavy-breasted California girls that were easy to find. Some of these were Canadian and some British, with accents that suggested wealthy or merchant backgrounds without sounding distractingly foreign. Already it was a masterpiece of casting, to find such girls. And furthermore, they could fight, and last but not least, they weren't prudes.

The first few scenes they shot were out at sea. A perfectly seaworthy ship had been built for the movie, a simple ship, based on old Greek models. They also had a modern boat equipped with a crane, and all the cameras, lights and sound equipment they needed.

They filmed all the sea scenes with loving care. The same ship did double duty as an enemy vessel. For the final boarding, there was a fake ship front that they had towed with them, and which was filmed ramming the boat. Helen learned a lot about the art of illusion with film and camera.

Helen slept on the wooden boat, while the others slept on the modern ship. The girls were wonderful, friendly girls, but Helen's nights were spent alone. Lorna was in a hotel in Vancouver, taking care of the kids.

Helen was delighted with the twelve-year old called Stacy Reese, who was to play the role of Lilla, a little stowaway. Stacy was very fond of Helen, and initially bashful about nudity. Her mother was rather pushy, as one could expect, but not so much as to make them cringe. Stacy had modeled nude, and they had expected no problems with her. But she was embarrassed by the other women being nude.

Helen interceded and asked that Stacy be allowed to watch from the other boat while they filmed a couple of day's worth of takes. By the end of that time, little Stacy had got over her embarrassment.

Helen's body was completely innocent of any tattoos, now. One of the pastimes they showed of the women on the boat was decorating their lower bodies with Henna tattoos. They showed them painstakingly drawing them on each other's legs all the way up to their waists. The actual design was done by an artist, and the girls would go over them for each other. They took several sequences of the girls decorating each other; the rest of the time, the girls wore light tunics and sandals.

They depicted tasteful intimacy between the women, indicating that they were very close, but stopped short of showing sex. The girls slept in pairs, but that was all they showed; pairs of them in hammocks, clothed in their tunics and covered with blankets.

Once Helen had made friends with Stacy, the latter consented to be filmed in Helen's hammock, and finally, one day, to be filmed drawing a tattoo on Helen's buttocks (actually just darkening a tattoo that was already there). She was a good actress. In the movie, she was to be witnessing a sea battle between a band of men and the girls through a crack in the boards, and Helen was amazed by the sheer talent of the kid. But a lot of it was Stacy's true character. If Helen was ever caught in a bind with a kid, she thought, she'd like it to be Stacy, if she couldn't have Gena!

Every morning, before the sun was up, Helen caught up with her people by phone. Nadia was always asking how her teaching was going, and Helen had to lie. She invented an entire class, and the progress they were making, and the fun she had between classes, playing with the kids. She talked to Lorna, and she talked to Marsha, and she talked to Gena and Erin, out in Illinois with the Twins.

Except on days when they were filming early in the morning, Helen swam for exercise. There was a lifeguard on board, and there was all kinds of trouble with insurance, and so forth, but Helen insisted, and 'Sharon Vuehl' swam for half an hour every day, carefully watched by the crew. She had to swim nude, to avoid getting panty lines. Then she had to be lathered with moisturizer, so that her skin wouldn't get dried out. The group of girls were always carefully groomed to the extent that it was plausible.

The last scenes they were to shoot with the boat was to show it being launched, and finally shipwrecked on the coast of the continent of the story, and they had decided on a site in Spain. The boat and the actors would be flown out to Spain, and the launching and the wreck both staged there, at two locations within a mile of each other.

The second stage of the movie was with the adventures of the little band after they were shipwrecked. This was partially filmed in location in Spain, and partly back in the studios in Vancouver. For the Prince, they found a wonderful Mexican actor called Francisco, or Chico. Chico was a handsome devil, and when Helen first saw him, she studied him out of the corner of her eye, realizing that potentially Tony would ask them to have a real sex scene.

This part of the movie involved the most fighting. Helen was not the leader of the band of women, though she was the highest-born in the story. The captain of the ship was a dignified blonde called Angareth. Angareth and Merit shared the leadership. In political matters, Merit took the lead, and in business and operational matters, Angareth did. The two women were fast friends, and the relationship between the two actresses echoed their roles closely.

Early on, while they were still sailing up and down the Canadian coast, the girl who played Angareth, Elizabeth Vickers from London, suggested to the girls quietly that maybe they should try and teach little Stacy a little of this and that in their spare time. "If we were on land," she said, "there are laws about her being tutored, I'm sure."

"Maybe her Mom is doing it," suggested Karen, a pretty nineteen-year-old who had the most beautiful legs of the crew, and a clear dislike of anything educational.

"She's supposed to be learning in the movie," Liz pointed out. There was a scene where Merit teaches the little stowaway the little that she knows. This scene points to a later one where Merit's literacy comes in handy.

"Great," said Sharon. "She has a little slate thing one of us could use."

In the end Helen ended up asking Stacy's mother for permission to teach her a little math. Luckily she agreed. Apparently it had been hard to get Stacy to keep at her math. So after her swim in the morning, Helen usually sat with Stacy and taught her arithmetic. They each taught her a little something, as Elizabeth had suggested, and Stacy showed more interest than she had in the past, according to her mother.

As the days went by, each of them came to realize the diverse talents that there were in the group. Helen could fight, dance, swim, sing and ride, and the others could do similar and varied things. They were all amazing riders, and learned to ride bareback with lots of blushing and lewd jokes. On land, the women wore leggings under their tunics, but during their adventures, of course, the leggings tended to get shredded.

The sex scene for Helen was not with the Prince, but with another fellow. Helen had only heard the story over the phone, and had not quite caught the details. The story was this. The women were camped out in a pasture, and came into city with the little gold they had, to get food. The men in the city at first refuse them admission, saying that they were illegally dressed like men, but the women win their way in through a mixture of argument and blackmail. Then they get taunted about the safety of sleeping out in the open, and they reply that they can take care of themselves.

Two fellows sneak up on the women at night, and one of them attempts to rape Merit. He rips away the blanket Merit and the kid are sleeping under, and rips off the tunic from the shocked Merit. The kid screams and scuttles away (and off the set, since the scene is now rated R.) The man grabs Merit, and prepares to have his way with her. Meanwhile the other women surround the two with their spears and watch, having disarmed his accomplice.

Merit puts the man on his back and rapes _him_ , and then, still nude, kicks both of the men out of the pasture, watched by the laughing women.

This was a controversial scene that Tony had put in. Most of it was filmed out in Spain, and all of the sound recorded there. Any close-ups would have to be done in the studio.

"All I can say is: wonderful! Sharon, Elizabeth, everyone; it's just marvelous! But now we are coming to the important part. I'll see you then Monday after next!"

It had been a month. Helen wondered what to do. She had been back in Vancouver for a few days now, and had a long, happy reunion with the kids and Lorna. The look in Lorna's eyes went straight to Helen's heart. It was clear that Lorna loved her desperately, and the three week parting, and being alone with the children had convinced her in an absolutely undeniable way exactly how much she loved Helen. Lorna had patiently waited until Helen had hugged and kissed Allie and James, and then approached Helen to kiss her.

"Thank you for everything," Helen said sincerely. Every morning Lorna had called her, and every night Helen had called back when they had finished filming. A week ago Lorna had begun to suffer separation pangs.

"I've been fine for two weeks," she said. "But I really, _really_ miss you!"

"I do too!"

"When are you coming back?"

"Oh, I think in about a week."

"A _week?_ When will you know for sure?"

And so it went on. It was always: when are you coming back? The kids miss you terribly. James was saying Mama. Allie was crying for you. And finally, Do you miss me at all?

Now finally Helen was here. Lorna was happy. They had made love all night, that first night. One night, the actors had gone to a restaurant to celebrate some little thing. Helen had arranged for Lorna and the kids to be seated some distance away in the same restaurant, so that Lorna could check out the actors. After the meal—an tiresomely long one—Helen had stayed behind after all of the others had gone, and come to meet Lorna and the kids.

"Yes, I heard a little voice calling Mama. Who was that?"

"Jamie!"

"Aha!"

"So that's them, huh?"

"That's them."

"Every one of them is a stunner."

"Well, your opinion doesn't count; you're a dyke!"

Lorna was not amused. She put James in his stroller in a rather pointed way. She didn't take into account that she herself was a stunner that night, dressed in a tiny skirt and a crop-top, showing acres of belly and acres of thigh, and quite a lot of breast through the wide-cut arm-holes.

When they were in bed later, Lorna said that Rain had called. "She talked to Allie, and she told me she wants to come over."

Helen started. "What? _Now?"_

"I don't know; can you blame her? Here, I'm going crazy after three weeks!"

Helen had carefully explained to Rain a little later that Helen would call her as soon as they were ready for her.

Now here they were, with a week on their hands. They decided to visit the family in Illinois.

Erin was her usual mellow self, playing violin all the time with Grelly. The nights were filled with music. Gena and Erin were full of their adventures with the aunties and uncles and three little babies, referring to Janet's siblings and their children.

The week passed like lightning. Helen's father was back at the farm with Little John, while Cindy was in Ferguson with Annie.

Grelly made a special effort to befriend Lorna. "She's a lovely child," she told Helen afterwards. "So what's going on with you two?"

"Well, everything!"

"Ah. So there's another moth to the flame."

"This one won't burn. I'm going to see to that."

"Helen ..."

"Elly, I love her."

"Of course you do!"

"I'm older, now; I'm not such a rubberneck."

Spain

When they got back, ostensibly to resume Helen's teaching assignment, their plan was to have Helen, Lorna and the kids fly out to Spain together. They had arranged to shoot at an ancient fortress that had the look of an abbey, but not the traditional Christian design. The mythical setting of the movie wasn't at all Christian, and the convent was supposed to be one of a fictitious order.

But of course, none of them had yet met the other female lead, the Princess. In the story, the Princess came from a mysterious, ancient kingdom, with peculiar customs, and hostile to outsiders. Helen had wondered who the girl would be, or at least, what she would look like. Of course Helen would either have to make love to her, or pretend to. With two women, the difference between real and simulated sex was small, from the dramatic point of view. Quite inconsistently, both Helen and the director would be satisfied with simulated sex. For Helen it was because of the difficulty for her to fake love for a girl; she was not _that_ much of an actress. For Tony it was because, as far as he was concerned, visually, lesbian sex was not the most powerful representation of lesbian love. No one had ever seen hard lesbian sex that gave any pleasure; except to those depraved souls who simply loved to see sex for its own sake.

No matter who the girl was, Helen was sure, they would make an excellent movie. The movie she had conceived as a mere joke was developing into a project that she could have been proud of, even as Helen. It would have spelled death for her career singing Bach, but still, it wasn't that bad. Perhaps, Helen had thought with a sigh, it was just as well if it was a girl she wasn't attracted to.

The girl was finally introduced the morning they got back. She was seated chatting to Tony Cheng when Helen walked in. Everyone except the girl and Tony were grinning at Helen, and she didn't quite realize that the girl was a stranger, until she rose to greet Helen. Suddenly it struck Helen that she was _the_ girl. She had long glossy black hair, loosely braided. She was Indian. And then she turned to face Helen and smiled, with pretty dimples. It was Lalitha's little sister.

Sita's History

When the missionary family for whom Lalitha had worked as a teen in India returned to the US with her, (more than a decade before the time of the movie,) the missionary society had sent out a replacement, and Lalitha's sister Sita had found work with them. To Sita's utter disappointment, at the end of their spell in India, they planned to leave without her. She had thought she had made it clear to them that she wanted to come to the US. She could not understand why her sister had been given this boon, but not she. She had worked for them loyally, honestly and wholeheartedly.

"Would you be interested in working for the new missionary sahib?"

"Of course, Ma'am," she said politely. "Where else would I go?"

"You could get married, Sita; you are so young!"

When the new missionary arrived, Sita presented herself for service. "This one is a jewel," her previous mistress told her successor, smiling at Sita lovingly. "She's about sixteen, I believe. How old are you, Sita?"

"Yes, sixteen, Ma'am."

"Sita, you speak beautifully!"

"Thank you!" said Sita.

These people were English. After three years, as they, in turn, began planning to leave, Sita approached her employer. She told her that her sister was in the US, and that she wanted to find her way there. "Please take me with you," she begged. "Is there any way I can come with you?"

"We can only try, dear," said her mistress. They were very fond of Sita, especially the children, and they had used all the influence they had, and had succeeded. And Sita had stepped off the plane with them into the London rain, and wondered what she had done. Everybody was white, or at least so it seemed. She was in a country of all sahibs. What an idiot she had been! When her older sister Lalitha had first arrived in the USA, she had been convinced of her own self-worth, and accustomed to presenting her skills as proof of it. Without her sister's background, Sita was lost.

Agonizingly slowly she began to regain her confidence. Slowly she made friends. She decided she would stop being a burden on the Maunders as soon as she could. They had already taught her to write, and she knew mathematics; now she read their history books, and some literature. Then she began taking classes at the open university, and soon was able to get a part-time job in a supermarket, but she stayed on with the Maunders, because they needed help in the Maunder home.

How was she to get to the US? She had no idea where her sister was. Her hosts got her a computer and an Internet connection, and she helped to get them using technology. She was bringing home money now. She refused to join their church, but she was, for all purposes, a member of the family, and the most useful one.

She looked for Lalitha's name everywhere, and finally found it in an advertisement for a CD. Lalitha was the lutenist. So she was alive, and she was a musician! Goddess be praised!

"I have to go to Philadelphia!" she told them at dinner. "Now I need to get a visa!"

Out of the blue, she was spotted at college, and asked to audition for a play, and she auditioned and got the part. Meanwhile she applied for a visa, and after a long procedure, was turned down because she was unable to give an exact address in the US.

She got more acting jobs. Her speech was well modulated and unaccented, and she was a brilliant actress. And she was beautiful.

One day, after a performance, a tall American came round backstage to meet her. Would she consider reading for a part in a movie? It would be filmed in several international locations, parts of it in America. However, he said, a little anxiously, there were adult themes, and possibly nudity.

Sita was now 23. She knew that she was not interested in men. She was not interested in sex. She took a deep breath and said it did not matter; she would try out.

They would want to see her nude, the man said, embarrassed. She said she didn't care, as long as it didn't require that she actually _did_ anything. He quickly set her mind at ease. It would be all fake.

This brings us to Vancouver, where Sita has arrived to start filming.

Sharon Meets Sita

Helen took several seconds to recover from her surprise, and Tony and the others though it was love at first sight. They smiled indulgently at Helen until Helen's face half relaxed and she completed the last few steps to where they were standing.

"Hi!" she said, holding out her hand. "I'm Sharon!"

The girl had stood respectfully to greet Helen. She had simply smiled at her, amused, until Helen spoke.

"I'm Sita," she said, in a silvery mezzo soprano. Her speech was pure, unaccented British, with the slight aristocratic edge she had learned from her adopted family. Helen was almost positive that this was Lalitha's sister, but she couldn't remember whether her name had been Sita. There was no way she could safely ask her if she had a sister named Lalitha, since she mercifully seemed not to recognize Helen.

"You're so pretty!" said Helen, as she was undoubtedly expected to, and the others laughed heartily. Sita smiled and shrugged modestly. She had a great dignity of bearing that made her a perfect choice for the part. If she wasn't a princess, nobody was.

Somehow, Helen managed to get seats for Lorna and the children under their own names on the flight out to Spain. She had to write a letter certifying that Lorna was a governess, and Lorna's charm and Helen's cell phone did the rest. So Lorna sat in first class with the kids, while the cast and Helen traveled business class. Helen was easily able to get a seat next to Sita.

"So, tell me all about yourself!" she invited.

For the longest time, Sita only talked about her experiences in London, stubbornly staying away from any mention of her biological family. Finally Helen hinted that Sharon might invite Sita to stay with her for a while after the movie was over. "Why don't you enjoy the States, travel a little, and then go back?"

Sita glanced at her, her long eyelashes so ravishing, her hands carefully folded in her lap, and then looked at her hands thoughtfully. Helen's heart fell. It was clear that Sita had misunderstood Helen's invitation.

"Why are you being so kind?"

Helen turned red. "I'm sorry," Helen mumbled, "I guess I got carried away! I'm a very impulsive person, and I don't have many friends."

"You're a famous actress! I saw you in _Goodbye Mr. Chips,_ and I thought you were wonderful!"

" _Friends_ , Sita, not admirers! But you're right; let's talk about it after we're done filming. Who knows; we might hate each other by then!"

Helen welcomed the polite silence that ensued. She slowly exhaled, thanking the girl's generous nature, but cursing her astuteness.

"Actually ..." Sita paused, lost in thought, and then shook her head slowly.

"What were you going to say?"

Sita kept shaking her head, more and more vigorously. Helen persisted, but got nowhere. Then, taking her courage in her hands, Helen decided to take a risk.

Thoughtfully, as if recalling something from long ago, she looked at Sita and said, "You know, you remind me of someone ..."

"I do? Who?"

"I'm trying to think ..."

"Someone you've met, or someone you've seen somewhere?"

"Someone I've seen somewhere."

"Who? An actress? A model?"

"Oh no, nothing like that, more like ..."

"A woman who plays the lute?"

" _Yes!_ How did you know?"

The whole story came out. It wasn't a shameful story, just a pathetic one. And Helen's soft heart burned with sorrow and sympathy for the girl. Repeatedly she had to remind herself that she was playing a role. It was agony to try to think how _Sharon_ would react to such a story, and Helen decided she would be extremely sympathetic.

She expressed her sympathy with the utmost gravity. "I don't even know her name," Helen said, "I just saw her the once, at a concert in Philadelphia," she improvised. "She looks comfortable; I mean, a lute-player must make good money, right?"

"I have no idea; I suppose she must! The problem is how to find her!"

"Oh, I'll help you. I'll help you as much as I can. I have connections," Helen said. "Isn't it strange she never tried to find you?"

"Where would she look for me? She hadn't a clue where I was!"

Helen bit her tongue. What evil impulse had made her question Sita's sister's good intentions?

Smiling sweetly, Helen asked if Sita got along well with her sister.

Sita looked right into Helen's eyes and declared that her sister was the most wonderful woman who had ever lived. "She is a devotee of the Goddess ... it's a bit hard to explain; it's a part of Hinduism, that a woman can be possessed by the goddess Sarasvati. And my sister has had visions, and ... frankly, I believe that she has been a vehicle for the Goddess countless times." Sita shuddered.

"Why are you shaking?" Helen asked, smiling.

"After this movie ... I doubt that the goddess will give me another thought."

"Why not?"

"It's just that ..." Sita blushed. " ... all this sex and nudity; I wonder what the goddess thinks of it all."

Helen could hardly bear the way the conversation was developing. It was extremely disorienting to hear the very British voice expressing the exact same thoughts and beliefs that Helen and Lalitha had discussed in their first days of love. Helen wanted to weep for her lost love, and the doubts of this young woman. Would her Goddess forsake her, as she had forsaken Lalitha? Without thinking, Helen reached out to Sita's hand to reassure her. Sita reflexively moved her hand away, and Helen snatched her hand back. "I'm sorry!" gasped Helen, staring at Sita mortified. "I only wanted to say ..." No words came to her.

"No, it's just me; I'm such a ... prude, I suppose." She gently squeezed Helen's hand and smiled awkwardly and released it. Helen noticed the fine hair on Sita's fair forearm.

Helen closed her eyes. Why, God? Why do you tempt me this way? Why do you make me do these things? Why do I have these crazy thoughts? Why, Goddess, Sarasvati, or whoever? What are you doing while your people get fucked? What have they ever done to you but love you?

"If there were ways to punish the gods ..." Helen breathed, "... if your Goddess forsakes you for doing this movie, knowing why you do it—what good is she?"

Sita gasped, stared at Helen, and hung her head, and then slowly shook it, saying nothing, appalled at Helen's presumption. They spoke no more until they got to Spain, except to discuss meals. Sita was perfectly friendly, but there was a caution there that hurt Helen to the quick.

The next two weeks were some of the most harrowing in Helen's life. It was tricky, but Helen managed to help Lorna get transport with them out to a town near their filming location, and to get her a room in the same hotel. Helen was given a room with the rest of the cast on the top floor.

When Lorna saw Sita for the first time at the hotel, she barely disguised a stare. Helen knew that Lorna couldn't quite figure out why this new addition to the cast disturbed her. The fact was that from Sita's dress and manner it wasn't immediately obvious that she was Indian. She had pinned up her hair, and looked more Spanish than anything else. Like her sister, Sita was very light-skinned for an Indian.

The filming began, and from the first day Helen was in a constant state of emotional turmoil. She lived with Sita her revulsion for the nudity, and delighted with her in her pleasure at the character she played, the gentleness and wisdom of the Princess. Helen could feel Sita's emotions almost viscerally. But she was an amazing actor, and Helen's heart filled with proprietary pride at her achievements.

Somehow Tony Cheng had an inkling of what Helen was going through, and he was gentle with them. Sita's gratitude was heart wrenching, but Tony was a gentleman. Everybody was a little in love with the princess eventually. But it was Helen who got to race across the meadows on a magnificent horse, with Sita held fast in her arms.

One day, as they got ready to film a love-scene between the two women in a stream, Sita turned to Helen and remarked, "It's very real to you, isn't it." Helen just looked at her. "I know you like women," she added softly. She didn't meet Helen's eyes.

It was a few seconds before Helen could breathe. She didn't actually nod. "What about you?" she challenged. "Yes? No?" Sita shook her head. "I'll just pretend to touch you; don't worry," Helen said.

Tony came over, and telling them what he wanted, clapped for action. Helen tried to fake the touching, and Sita interrupted the scene to tell Helen privately to go ahead. "It doesn't matter," she whispered, a tiny smile twisting her lips. "I'll deal with the goddess."

It took about a week for Lorna to guess who the girl was.

"Shit!" she exclaimed under her breath, and Helen hung her head. "Now you're hooked on her!"

Lorna suffered. They couldn't make love, though they tried. But with great forbearing, Lorna helped Helen masturbate. There were no sexual secrets between them; they both knew that without any sex at all, the stress would be unbearable for both of them. Sometimes Helen would wake up to the bed shaking violently, and Lorna would know, and apologize.

"Are you going to tell her who you are?"

Helen shook her head vehemently. "There's no way. It'll blow my cover sky high."

"So what will you do?"

"I don't know."

The Story

The story of the movie, as Tony had modified it, was as follows:

Helen had been enlisted by the prince to abduct the princess, or to encourage her to come away from the convent, to his kingdom. Helen —or at least Merit—asks why. The prince is unable to give a straight answer. Knowing what he and his friend had tried on her, Merit, why would she encourage an innocent, defenseless girl to put herself at the mercy of an unprincipled ruler of an enemy state?

He had given his word then that he would treat her with all respect. Merit asked why he hadn't treated her, Merit, with respect. He had said that it was different with royalty. Merit had told him fiercely that in her country, everyone was royal. If the prince set foot there, he would be treated no better, and no worse, than his servants. Seething, she had left the palace. When Angareth and she had discussed what to do, Angareth had suggested that they try and find the princess anyway. "If she is to be a ruler, it is just as well that we make friends with her."

Helen gains entrance to the convent, while the others go into the nearby village to wait for her. Helen asks to meet the princess, and is asked to wait in the shrine-room. They tell her she must kneel while she waits. When the princess comes, Helen, in a trance, mistakes her for the goddess—yes, there is a goddess in the movie. Helen cries that she wants to join the convent and be a worshiper.

The confusion is straightened out, and Helen joins the convent. They disapprove of her masculine dress, and assign her robes, and she takes up the life of the nuns, having forgotten all about her mates camped out in the village.

Contrary to the belief of outsiders, the nuns enjoy much freedom. Since Merit loves the princess so dearly, they let the two of them out, with Merit to protect the princess. Under the princess's gentle questioning, the princess discovers, and incidentally reminds Merit of, the original plan. Merit explains that while she does not trust the prince implicitly, she is confident that if Merit accompanied the princess with her little band, that the prince would have to treat her with respect.

One day, the princess reveals that she would like to travel about with Merit. "Until I met you," she said, "there was no one I could trust. But my heart tells me that you are a gentle woman, but strong, and the goddess tells me to go with you!"

The abbess gives them her blessing. When questioned, she shrugs. She believes that women are too repressed in their society, and that the only places where a woman can have the freedom to study and learn is in the convent, or in other countries. It is not everyone, she says, who can inspire love in a guardian such as Merit. As far as the abbess is concerned, Merit is a sign directly from the goddess.

It is while they wander around together that they fall in love. But they do not declare their love; it is clear to everyone except the two of them.

Suddenly the princess decides to meet the prince. There is an attempted seduction scene, but the princess, with her charm and her innocence manages to sidestep the trap, with the help of Merit's group of women fighters. The prince, embarrassed, apologizes. In the interests of his people, he begs the princess to forgive him, and she graciously agrees to do so. The prince asks what the princess will do, and she leaps up on Merit's horse and says that she will ride with Merit. As they camp for the night, the movie ends with Merit and the princess making love in the lamplight.

The End of Filming

That last scene was a difficult one. Tony had filmed it as soon as they had arrived in Spain. His reasoning was that he didn't want the scene hanging over Sita's head. But it had been awkward and wooden, and in the end, they had filmed it from some distance away, where the awkwardness wouldn't show. Tony probably thought that a body double would have to be used.

By the end of the filming, though, it was clear that Sita was much more relaxed about the nudity and her relationship to Helen. Not knowing that Helen's lover was just minutes away, aware of what was going on, they all encouraged Helen's feelings for Sita. Sita, in her own mysterious wisdom, behaved towards Helen like an indulgent aunt. When Tony asked her if she'd do the love scene once again, she sweetly said: of course she would.

This time, Sita's ice melted. The camera was able to get close, and capture the light in their eyes as they looked at each other, and the tenderness of their hands as they touched each other's bodies.

Sita's body was burning with passion, as was Helen's. As Tony yelled cut, cut! his voice exultant, Helen and Sita parted with a sigh. For a second they clung together, and then Helen helped Sita up. Silently she helped her with her robe that one of the assistants handed her. Then there was confusion, with people moving lights around, looking for slippers in the mud, props people collecting spears, and everybody getting into one of the transports.

Her head in a whirl, Helen couldn't remember what she said to the barrage of questions they aimed at her. She remembered that there was a lot of good-natured ribbing, and she had managed to smile the way Sharon would have smiled. For the second time in her life, Helen needed a cigarette. She got out of the van at the hotel, and slipped away for a moment by herself in the darkness of the garden. And before she could think, Sita was there. And Helen knew, like a flash of lightning, what she would say.

"I have come," she said, surprising Helen.

Helen grasped her shoulders in a brief gesture of greeting, and slipped inside the hotel, and ran upstairs to Lorna's room. In Helen's room, the phone rang and rang.

Lorna insisted that Helen couldn't just leave Sita to her problem.

The minute they arrived back in Vancouver Lorna set her plan in motion. She waited at Sita's hotel loitering near the desk. When Sita arrived, Lorna hurried up and asked her if she had a sister in Philadelphia.

Shocked, Sita said indeed, yes, how did she know? "I have a friend who looks a lot like you," Lorna said, smiling, and offered to take Sita there. "Would you like to talk to her?"

"Of course, yes!" exclaimed Sita. "You have a number for her?"

"Sure! I know her real well!" Lorna dialed. "Lalitha? You'll never guess who I found in Vancouver!"

Within seconds, the two sisters were exchanging rapid-fire greetings in their native tongue, and Sita was looking about frantically. Lorna knew she was looking for Sharon. Everything was going to change.

For a while, nothing changed. They all stayed in Vancouver while Tony went through the film footage bit by bit, making sure nothing more was needed. One day later, Tony came out of the viewing room all smiles. Nothing more was needed from the principals. Sita looked everywhere for Sharon, but that elusive celebrity was nowhere to be found. Finally she accepted Lorna's offer of a ticket to Philadelphia.

"You must be rich!" she told Lorna.

"Well," said Lorna, "let's just say that I have a rich friend!"

Sita helped with the children, while Helen packed up her things, and returned to Westfield separately.

All the way back home, the question that occupied Helen's thoughts was: had Helen managed to act differently enough from her ordinary self so that if Sita ever met Helen, that she would not recognize her?

The longer she stayed away from the young woman, the better her chances of not being recognized.

Sita and Lalitha

Back at Work

In the weeks that followed, Sharon was interviewed many times on TV talk shows and on the radio. At least, Helen knew, she had kept her voice consistently different from her usual Helen voice. She just _knew_ that in Philadelphia, the two sisters and Trish were watching the interviews, and Sita was telling her sister that she was in love with the elusive redhead.

Actually, she did nothing of the sort. In fact, Lalitha kept telling Sita about the goddess that was her benefactress, Helen. But the only pictures they had were the little photos from CD inserts.

"Mm, yes," agreed Sita, "she seems nice."

But Sita couldn't stop thinking of Sharon; off the set, so sweet and friendly and pleasant, in-character so passionate and ardent and protective. Was it Merit, the character, that Sita was in love with, or Sharon the movie star? Merit was truly a goddess, a goddess to everyone but the Princess, and a lover to the Princess. The Princess, herself, was a sage. She was a wise child, one of those people whose wisdom grows even as you watch. But the wisdom of Merit was the wisdom of her existence, and her intuition. It was inherent in her, not acquired.

Such thoughts were easy, comfortable, interesting. But the feelings in Sita's heart, her very body, those were disturbing. She looked at everything, now, with different eyes. Suddenly she was aware not only of the sexual tension between others, which had been of academic and professional interest before, but of others as sexual potentialities, individuals who could relate to _her_ sexually. Her innocence was gone.

When Trish had been introduced to her and their eyes had met, Sita had felt her ears burning. When she had awkwardly shaken hands with her nephew, again her ears had burned. What was this? It was disturbing that she should be inflicted with this awkwardness with people. She cursed the movie; it was those filthy sex scenes that had done it. Until then, she had been able to deal with sexuality perfectly well from her reading and her observation. Romance was beautiful. Sex was just ... disgusting, untidy, disturbing, complicated. The Princess had embraced the wisdom of the body. But Sita wanted to return to the convent.

After that first terrible sex scene, Sita and Sharon had had a new beginning. Sharon had said, "Don't worry, they'll work around that scene. I think you're a wonderful actress, and as far as I'm concerned, you _are_ the Princess, and it's going to be just perfect." Sita had been very grateful. She admired Sharon already, having seen her in Chips, where she had played the female lead beautifully, with intelligence, taste, and subtlety, drawing the movie together so incredibly smoothly. Nothing in the actress's own manner gave any clue that such depth was to be found in her. She was warm-hearted and loyal, but shallow.

But Sita had gradually become the Princess, as Merit had encouraged. She could see that Sharon was living her part, and that Merit, and Sharon, both, were slowly falling in love with the Princess. It was brilliant that Sharon could make it happen so gradually. Thank god Tony was doing the shoot in chronological order. With the intensity that Sharon was putting into it, jumping all over the script would not have worked at all.

It was finally all over. Now Sita had to step out of the character she had worn for two weeks. But she could not step out of the knowledge that her body had acquired.

"Trish cooks Indian style very well!" Lalitha said, smiling, at dinner. Trish blushed. "Do you eat a lot of Indian food in London, dear?"

Sita shook her head. She explained that she cooked a few Indian favorites, but they stuck to dull English cooking most of the time. "Occasionally they get a craving for fries, and I make, you know, ..."

"Bhajis!"

"Yes—sometimes a sort of veggie biriyani, you know?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Nothing like this!" Sita smiled at Trish appreciatively. Trish smiled back. Sita looked down at her plate. Trish was clearly attracted to Sita, but Sita could see nowhere such a thing could go. How did people live with unfulfilled longings like that? How common was this woman-woman attraction thing? Sita felt a mild pull in Trish's direction, but nothing she couldn't ignore.

When she dared to look up again, it was at her sister. They exchanged smiles. Lalitha was so happy to have Sita there that she apparently could not eat.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I'll eat later, I'm a little distracted right now!" They exchanged wry smiles. "I can't believe you're sitting there, talking English so beautifully! So tall, so English!"

"Yes, she is, isn't she?" added Trish, admiringly.

The little girl, Lalitha's granddaughter, sat in her high chair, a delightful child, sweet-tempered and sweet-voiced, who looked very much like Sita's father and Trish. _My family,_ Sita thought, and felt the need to wipe her nose.

"Too spicy?" asked Lalitha, concerned, passing over water and tissues.

"No ... I'm just happy to be home!" said Sita, wiping her nose and her eyes.

That night she shared a bed with her sister, and it was the most restful night's sleep she had had in ten years. In spite of the strangeness of the place, the house, the new faces, it was home. Lalitha was her home.

Lalitha was as Sita had remembered her, only more beautiful, her face more tranquil, more intelligent, more wise. The Princess, twenty years older. The Princess, perhaps after she loses Merit in a war. A widow.

Early in the morning, Lalitha rose and made her festive food offering to the goddess. She offered it and gazed at the image, tears of joy pouring down her cheeks. You always win, she told her. I fight with you and leave you, but I always come back! You punish me, and I hate you, but then you reward me. Don't you care that I hate you? Do you just laugh? Why am I talking to a piece of paper?

But the answers appeared in her heart. Her goddess was not one who laughed at the pain of her children. Divine laughter was for other gods. Sarasvati was the goddess of reason, wisdom, music, the Arts, order and service. And it was through her children that she rendered her service. And she would never laugh at her children when they were engaged in her service. And Lalitha had served the goddess often.

She picked herself up, and put away the shrine. Sita still slept. Lalitha was preoccupied with the idea of having Sita and Helen meet. She had to have them all together soon, in one place!

She sighed; Helen had gone back to Lorna, it was clear. Lorna was a good girl. There was love in her heart, she loved the children, and she loved Helen's art. They were a good match. They had equally powerful sex drives, an important factor, and Helen's calm and intelligence would balance Lorna's passion and generosity. They were both generous. That was good; there would be no disharmony because of that.

Lalitha looked at the sleeping face of her sister. If only she had appeared sooner, when Helen had been alone and unattached! What a pair they would have made, so tall, so beautiful! Lalitha shook her head. The goddess would have found a way, if that was to be. One thing Lalitha knew for certain: the goddess had power everywhere. Perhaps the goddess would influence Lorna to stay true, to be the lover Helen needed. Perhaps the goddess would lend Lorna the beauty to keep Helen's eye from straying.

Mastersingers

One Saturday, Helen got a call from someone she had been avoiding. It was Lalitha.

"You know my sister is here, Helen. I'm anxious that she should meet you!"

"Yes, I did! I've been so busy, teaching a summer program ..."

"Yes I heard! Lorna told me about an assignment in Vancouver!"

"Well, after that there was another one in Pittsburgh. Actually, I have a plan that involves you and Trish, and I was going to get you over here when you have some time."

"Certainly. But now my sister's visa is about to expire, and before she goes, I wanted you both to speak, at least on the phone!"

"Oh no! That's too bad; can't she extend her visa?"

"No, it was a one-month special visa; she has to go out of the country and reapply for a new one."

"Oh. Well, anyway, I'm sure we can work on that. Let me ask Rebekah about it."

"Oh, thank you so much! Would you speak to her, just a few words, Helen?"

"Sure!" Helen took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She only needed to use her own voice.

"Hello?"

"Hello! Is this Lalitha's sister?"

"Yes! My name is Sita, and my sister has told me so many wonderful things about you!"

"Oh, you shouldn't believe everything you hear! How did you find Lalitha? I know you went up and spoke to Lorna when she was in Vancouver, but that's all I know!"

"No, it was the other way round; your friend came up to me and asked if I was Lalitha's sister!"

"Oh, yes, of course; I misremembered it. And how did you happen to be in Vancouver, then?"

"Oh," said Sita, stumbling a little, "it's a long story ... I was involved in a film ... nothing very important, you know ..."

"A film! A movie! I see! Well, that's excellent!"

"Oh no, er, Miss Helen ... I'd be grateful if you would forget about the movie, quite honestly."

"Oh," said Helen, "certainly." Obviously Sita did not have fond memories of the making of the movie. "And what have you been doing these last few weeks? Have they been showing you around?"

They talked about this and that, and it ended up being quite a long phone chat. Helen relaxed when she found out that Sita did not seem in the least to associate her with Sharon Vuehl. She found that Sita had a lovely phone presence; she could almost see her face and the kaleidoscope of emotions that she remembered being reflected there, when they were filming the movie. But Sita abruptly ended the call after asking Helen if she could call another time. Helen had said yes, certainly, and had given her Helen's own cell phone number.

One glorious day, Helen received a call from Philadelphia asking if she would conduct an opera: _Die Meistersinger von Nuremburg,_ by Richard Wagner. "Yes!" she said at once. "Who's in it?"

The cast was a who's who of lyric opera, some of the most exciting singer-actors in the world, and a fresh young soprano whom Helen wasn't familiar with as Eva.

Consulting with her colleagues, and having arranged to have her classes covered, Helen took a week off and flew to Philadelphia with Lorna and the children. The maestro had had a heart-attack, and the company, having seen Helen recently on TV, had asked for her specifically.

They arrived around noon on Sunday, and opening up the old house, got supplies and got comfortable. This house was where Helen had lived while in graduate school, and next door was the small instrument factory that Helen had created, where Lalitha and Trish worked during the day. Leaving the children with Lorna, Helen hurried off to the opera house to meet the company and make plans. Just as the rehearsal was over, her phone rang, and she sat down in a corner out of the way, and answered it. It was Sita. (Sita did not yet know that Helen was in Philadelphia, and that the family was camped out in the house in the same compound as the instrument factory.)

"Why, Hello!" she said, "what a nice surprise!"

"I'm sorry about last time; I, um, wanted to talk to you about something without my sister overhearing. They're all out at the workshop, so I can talk now."

"Oh, is something the matter?"

"Well, I ..." her voice kind of faded, and Helen wondered what was the matter. It would be a tragedy, she thought, if perhaps Lalitha had been unforgiving about the movie. "... well, I'm just getting to know my sister again, after many years, you understand."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"And a lot of that time she spent with you ... Remember, I found you on the road, near the bus stand, and I remember saying something to you?"

"On the road? In India?"

"Yes!" She described the incident. Helen had slowly walked away and taken the bus.

Helen's pleasure at hearing Sita's voice slowly ebbed. The deep sadness she always felt at her lost memories of that time came on her. She knew those memories were there, but they couldn't always be found where she had left them. "I have partial amnesia, Sita, I'm sorry; the memories of India are very faint."

Just as Helen found pleasure in Sita's soft British accent and her expressive intonation, so Sita, too, found Helen's soft Midwestern speech musical and strangely attractive. She could feel almost physically Helen's distress at being unable to access those memories, however unpleasant they must be. She stammered an apology for bringing it up. She didn't want Helen to stop talking to her, after all the trouble she had taken to arrange to make the call. "It's just that, ... what my sister has suffered has made her a stranger. No, it has not; it's me. I—I just hoped that you could fill in a few gaps. But of course, you can't, how can you?" She laughed, and it almost seemed like a sob.

"No, it's just the memories of India that are gone. I can tell you what happened when I returned."

"Oh, yes, please!"

For almost half an hour, Helen told her as much as she knew. Lalitha had found her, and with sheer persistence, begun to rehabilitate her.

"I don't know if Lalitha wants you to know this, Sita, but for several years she and I were lovers."

"Oh." There was shock in her voice. "No, she never mentioned that."

"Yes. We were very much in love. But ... you know, I've always been a lusty girl, and I guess I let my eye wander one time too often, and she tired of that. We separated, and ... now I've gone my way, and she's gone hers, ... and perhaps she should tell you the rest of the story."

Helen suddenly realized how much younger Sita was than Lalitha. Their appearance was uncannily similar, and there were eerie resemblances in the way they responded to certain things, how they backed off from some things, and how they were stubbornly persistent with others. But Sita was still young and had the resilience of her youth, while Lalitha had aged prematurely, and had an air of tragic resignation that hurt and grieved and frustrated Helen. Sometimes she wished that Lalitha would fight for her, just as she had been willing to fight for Lalitha. But then she wondered if she would welcome that. Surrounded by so many women, what could she do with one more?

"Do you feel anything for her, now after all these years?"

It was the obvious question, yet it caught Helen unawares.

"It hasn't been that long; three years, perhaps. The love is there, Sita. I shall always love her, you know?"

"Yes."

"But ... I don't think either of us is _in love_ with the other."

"Yes. I know she is."

"Oh god!"

"She has a tiny picture of you, and ... she talks to it."

"Oh no; I don't want that! That's not good. It's the goddess. She used to think I was the goddess."

Sita was beginning to have her own ideas about that. Perhaps her sister was not as addled as she appeared. Listening to Helen's intelligent, measured, articulate speech, Sita was becoming convinced that this woman was more than human. Her voice gave one such incredible calm and confidence! If only she could meet her!

"You shouldn't laugh about the goddess," Sita chided gently.

"Sita, I never would. It's just that it's been so long since I was any kind of goddess. I'm a ... disgusting, ordinary, selfish woman ... look, I have to get going, they're about to close the place down here. Maybe I'll meet you before you go! Call me later!"

"I will! Thank you so much for talking to me!"

"It was a pleasure! I'm sure things will sort themselves out. And what's more, I think we can arrange for you to stay a little longer if we try."

"Oh, thank you so much! I'm praying for that so hard!"

"It won't be the goddess, let me tell you, it'll be plain old blackmail!" They laughed, and they clicked off.

Helen was dropped off at the house on Semple Street by the opera company limousine, and found a nice vegetarian meal ready. "Lalitha said it's a feast day, according to her calendar, so I invited them over for a meal. They're all over in the workshop, making something for Sita! It's to be a surprise."

"Aha. When are they due over?"

"Trish just headed out to get Sita. She was helping me cook all this while. Oh Helen, she's so cute!"

"I know," Helen murmured, "dangerously cute."

Sita walked up and down the hall, bursting with excitement. She heard a car drive up, and there was Trish. Sita opened the door.

Trish checked her out critically. "You look great. Come on, we're eating out tonight!"

Sita got in the little Toyota, and strapped herself in. Presently they were going up the alley behind Semple.

"This is the workshop ... You haven't got food in there, have you?"

"No, this way!"

And there she was, Helen, smiling at the top of the steps, holding a little baby boy, flanked by Lorna and Lalitha, each holding one of the other children! There was a glow about them, a golden light, and Sita saw a special, extra brilliance about the tall blonde woman.

"Surprise!" said the goddess. "Come on in!"

She was tall and handsome, with a rather tired face that might have been smooth and beautiful in her youth. But there was an intelligence and a serenity in her golden eyes, a sort of benevolence. She had tightly-curling blonde hair, braided in a long plait, and a tiny ornament in her nose. She had beautifully naturally arched eyebrows, and a beautiful, smiling mouth that reminded her of someone, she couldn't remember whom.

Sita climbed the steps and offered her hand, but Helen swept her into a warm hug.

"Oh, you look so much like your sister! I just can't believe it!"

Lorna looked at them in amusement. "I spotted her right away! I knew there couldn't be too many people who looked exactly like that!"

"Thank god you did," said Lalitha, fervently.

Neither Helen nor Sita could get enough of each other. When they caught each other staring they laughed. They were seated at the ancient table, digging into the delicious meal. "You have to excuse me," said Helen, swallowing a mouthful of rice that she was eating with her fingers with the greatest of facility, "if you could only see yourself with my eyes, you'd stare too!"

"Likewise," said Sita, smiling. "For different reasons, perhaps!"

"So, Suresh, what do you think of your new aunt?"

Suresh blushed, unaccustomed to being the center of attention. "It's fine," he grinned, "the more aunts, the better!"

Then the children got into the conversation, all of them talking, now, and Suresh breathed a sigh of relief.

For the first few minutes of Helen's reunion with Sita she was very tense. As long as they just spoke to each other on the phone, Helen had been confident that she could keep Sita from connecting her with Sharon. It remained to be seen whether the illusion would hold up face-to-face.

After a few minutes it was clear that Sita had not the least inkling that there was any connection. After all, Helen's work had already been done as far as the illusion was concerned; she had been someone entirely different: younger, prettier, attractive in a conventional way. She had affected a somewhat upper-class accent as Merit, which was a contrast to her usual easygoing accent. Her own accent was hard to classify. She always spoke carefully, pronouncing every syllable—she took pride in that—but it was not an aristocratic, or upper-class accent. Merit had definitely had a sort of finishing-school edge to her voice that commanded attention; and also spoke a lot more briskly. And she had stayed in character, simply because it was easy.

Helen eventually relaxed completely.

She was in tune with Lalitha's mental image of the goddess, and how it related to her sexuality. Now it appeared that Sita thought in the same pattern. She could almost hear the word 'goddess' in many of the things Sita was saying and asking. Why had she decided to teach? Why did she stop singing and start conducting? What had first brought Helen and Lorna together?

That last one had shocked them all, though they did not react out of politeness. But in Sita's mind, apparently, if they had known each other for a while and finally gotten together, then there had to be a reason, and it was a good reason. If it wasn't evil, and it was some kind of convergence, then it was good. And where did such good come from, if not from the Goddess?

The vegetarian meal was strange. It left Helen hungry, but satisfied. There was a burning in her body that begged for meat, and a cheerful stubbornness in her mind which simply laughed at the discomfiture of her body. It had been many years since she had eaten a vegetarian meal. As in the past, Helen was able to think more clearly. She remembered the Fast so many years ago, when they had pledged to each other. To each other?

Helen realized that she was conflating Sita with the memory of the youthful Lalitha of many years ago. Some moments, some scenes were still very clear. The Indian spices were bringing back memories with cruel clarity.

"You're crying, Helen," Lorna said softly.

"I'm remembering some sad, ... wonderful things," Helen said honestly, holding the tissue to her eyes. James began to whimper, and Helen looked up and smiled at him. "I'm fine, darling," she said, taking him into her arms, "they were happy memories!"

"About fasting," Lalitha said, her face calm and relaxed.

"Yes," said Helen, "that was it."

Sita looked at her sister questioningly. Helen could see that it frustrated the younger sister to realize that there were things that Helen and Lalitha had between them that she couldn't know.

"We fasted together one time," Lalitha said, smiling faintly at her sister. "It was good training."

"Any dessert?" Helen asked.

"Oh, yes, I, er ..."

"I'll get it," said Trish, smiling at Lorna. The two girls had become allies, having been the ones who had considered themselves responsible for the breakup of Helen and Lalitha.

It was a classic Indian dessert, its sweetness adjusted for western tastes. Sita waited politely for the others all to be served, and then smiled at Helen. She had beautiful manners; presumably learned from her missionary foster-family. If not goddess-like, the young woman was certainly princess-like. Helen remembered how, even completely nude, she had held herself regally. She had been easy to honor as Princess. In fact, it was she who had made the whole story believable. She was a princess, and it had been real. They ate with great appreciation, and Lorna and Trish gave each other the credit very touchingly.

The talk turned to Lalitha's and Helen's early days at College. Helen found that, try as she might, she couldn't bring herself to steer the conversation away from where it was headed. She squeezed Lorna's hand gently and said, "If this stuff makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop."

Lorna looked straight into her eyes and told Helen with sincerity that she wanted to know. "It's not the same with you and me at all, Helen." She looked round the table. "It really isn't. It's a simple ... attraction. There's nothing spiritual about it."

"Would you fight for her?" asked Trish, seriously.

"No," said Lorna, looking at Helen. "I probably won't have to."

"I remember a snow-fight," said Lalitha, smiling.

In spite of the strange topic, it was an enjoyable conversation. They learned a lot about Sita and about Lalitha's attitudes about various things, some of which were hilarious. Then Helen told them what she remembered about Lalitha, and they laughed, and sometimes they cried, because Helen had a gentle way with words, and knowing Lalitha, they couldn't doubt that what Helen told was true.

Back at the opera house, Helen rehearsed hard. When a scene wouldn't work, she tried different ideas, different motivations, different emphases, until finally one worked. She learned to juggle the enormous cast, each of whom had a specific function and couldn't be ignored. She fought with the chorus about how they should sing, and she won. She was involved with everything, and she imposed her vision on the entire production. She apologized profusely, but she never backed down, and gradually the production took shape. Helen honestly felt that it was a better production than she had immortalized in 1999, better singers, better costumes, and better musicians. The pit orchestra was superb to begin with, and by the time Helen had had them for three days, they were playing fabulously.

In the nights, Sita and the gang came over, and they talked until late.

"So, exactly what do you do? You're the orchestra director, and there's a different director for the actors?"

"Well," laughed Helen, because that's the way it was, ... "it's hard to explain."

The next day, Sita was seated in the back, watching.

Helen was amazing. She had worn black stirrup pants (common clothing at that time) and a black sweater, and she looked ravishing. Sita could tell that she was deliberately seducing the cast, so that they were all in a state of excitement. But she could calm them with a word. She was an entirely different person on stage than she was at home.

Opening night was Thursday. From the first crashing C major chord to the last, it was an absolute triumph. Helen leaped up on stage, wearing her tails, her golden braid flying behind her, and presented her cast, radiating absolute delight in the whole production. After many curtain calls, she yelled out at the audience, "See you tomorrow!" and she turned to the cast and declared, "Ho, they'll be back for more!"

They loved her. She hugged and kissed all the soloists, and praised them to the skies, and pointed out a mistake or two with a smile. She could hear everything, they knew, and she remembered everything.

Backstage, the gang was waiting with flowers just for her. And there were more flowers everywhere, and trustees waiting to congratulate her, TV cameras, reporters. She quickly talked with them all, a brief word or two. "Now I have to go talk to my family!" she said, and it was a dismissal.

Back at home, they all sat round the table and drank champagne. Helen had simply refused to wait around with the opera folks. She had insisted on being taken home, and now Lorna was chiding her for being so stubborn. "It can wait until tomorrow," she said. "I told everyone: don't change a thing." She sipped a little champagne. "Well! What do you think?"

"It was all singing!" said Trish, bemused, smiling. "Every little thing!"

"Yes! That's Wagnerian opera!"

"It's rich, sumptuous, ... oily, almost," Sita said, slowly. "Sinfully excessive."

Helen drooped. "No, not this one. That's the way it usually is. This is as cleaned-up as you'll ever hear. Every instrument crystal clear. It was cinema, cast of thousands, before it ever happened. He was anticipating the golden age of movies!"

They all looked at Helen, amused at her excitement.

"I thought two hours and 45 minutes was a bit excessive, Helen!" said Lorna, indulgently. Helen had to smile; Lorna was so deliciously indulgent! But Helen could see, behind the nominal criticism, that Lorna had appreciated the music. It would have touched Lorna's hedonistic soul. Let's wait and see if she wants to go again tomorrow, Helen thought.

Helen had provided them each with a libretto, but Sita and Suresh were the only ones in their little group who had used them. Sita was even now poring over the booklet, and was looking for a spot she had marked.

"Oh," she said, "I see ..."

"What?"

"I was wondering what caused the riot, and I'm seeing how it's written out, now."

"Yes, the passages where there's cross-talk are written out one line under the other." Sita nodded.

"I liked it," said Suresh, bashfully. "It seemed like it would make more sense if I could learn German!"

Helen was delighted. It was the first hint that Suresh was interested in music at all.

Merit Hits the Big Screen

Later that Fall, Helen was invited to star in _Orfeo et Euridice,_ one of her most celebrated performances, with Natasha Zemanova, in San Francisco. It was sung entirely in French. Helen had a wonderful time, and the papers were full of how wonderful Helen had been, as Euridice. She had conceived Euridice as a detail-oriented girl, a daisy-picker, and evidently it had worked well.

Soon after _Orfeo,_ there was an incredible media blitz about the third movie. It had finally acquired a name: _Merit and the Princess_ , and all the images on the posters had a nearly-nude Sharon striking a heroic pose. There were nearly-nude images from scenes where she had been relatively modestly dressed, and clothed scenes where she had actually been totally nude. All the talk among the college students was about the movie. Helen often went to the little cafeteria to get a cup of tea, and sat down with students who were spreading the most outrageously inaccurate rumors about the movie. Helen couldn't resist challenging the stories, though she was deadly afraid of being recognized. Every time she saw a movie poster, she stared at it, wondering if the pictures of Merit looked like her.

Fortunately, the pictures, all artistically enhanced, looked nothing like her. The woman depicted had full, pneumatic breasts, a voluptuous figure all round, and a full head of straight red hair flying free, not the tidy ponytail Merit had sported. In spite of its X rating, the movie was being marketed as though it was a PG17 movie, and was being distributed to theaters that usually never showed X-rated movies.

Marsha and Helen kept up an intermittent phone conversation about the movie. One day Marsha reported that she had seen a preview of it.

"How is it! Tell me!"

Helen could almost see Marsha's grin. "Kiddo," she said slowly, "it's absolutely sensational!"

"Details! Details!"

"I tell you, it has been given the full treatment. Editing, music, post-production, ... the very best. The editing—oh man," said Marsha, at a loss for words, "these Chinese guys know their stuff!"

"Yeah? What about the action scenes, the sex, the ... oh, come on, girl, do I have to ask you everything?"

"Helen, it's perfect. I just can't say any more. You have to see it. It's only been out a few days. They kept fooling with it for three months! I'll tell you one thing; the music is gorgeous. And one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"You are one hell of an actress."

"You think? Aw! And how about, er, ..."

"Sita."

"Yeah."

"She's awesome. She's pure talent, hon."

"I know!"

"It's different. She does a great job. But you and I know what _you_ were _really_ doing!"

"Shh!"

"Well, sure!"

"Hey, why wasn't I invited?"

"I don't know. Have you been answering your phone lately?"

"Oh. Oops!"

"Helen! You're in trouble if you don't turn it back on right now, you know. They're probably trying to reach you for publicity materials. There's always last minute things that you need to be in touch for."

Helen found that her 'Sharon' phone had indeed been switched off. A few minutes after she switched it on again, there was a call for her from her agent, Wendy.

"Sharon! Good lord, where have you been?"

"On holiday. What's up?"

"There was a preview of the movie, and you missed it, they want to re-negotiate the royalties, they want to discuss some cuts, they want to shoot additional footage, they want promotional photos, and they want to sign you up for a sequel!"

Helen had to laugh, though Wendy wasn't amused.

Suddenly, _Merit_ was in the theaters in the big cities, and the media was going wild. For a couple of days, Helen was afraid to go to work. Students who had gone home and seen it came back to report that it was sensational. Helen had also believed that the princess would steal the movie, but she didn't. Everyone seemed to identify with Merit.

All the newspapers and the media wanted to interview Sharon Vuehl, but Helen had sent her on a trip to Mexico. Helen planned to kill her off there somehow.

Helen impatiently waited until the movie came out near her, and finally it reached a cinema about two hours away. Apparently the movie was too rich for Westfield's blood.

Helen went with Lorna and Rain, and loved every second of the movie. She was in love with the Princess, with Merit, with Angareth, and even the little stowaway, Lilla.

There were amazing scenes where Helen fought a room full of roughnecks with only the Princess's help. There were scenes where there were sword battles between Helen and her friends and armed robbers. There was a tender scene where Helen undresses the unconscious Princess to dress a wound.

One scene in the movie had eerily paralleled conversation between Helen and Lalitha.

Merit is sleeping in the Princess's room some time after she is admitted to the convent. The Princess, who is plagued with insomnia, calls to Merit repeatedly, softly, and begs her to talk with her. Merit struggles to wakefulness and drowsily accommodates her.

"In the convent, they teach us many things, Merit, but not what we want to learn."

"Oh, my Princess," says Merit struggling to focus, "what can you want to learn that they aren't teaching you?"

"About love, about duty, about the world outside!"

Merit smiles and says that love is taught by one's parents, life itself teaches duty, and Merit is learning about the world outside every day. "For the outside of your world is the inside of mine!"

"Then I shall never learn of love," the Princess says, "for I have lost my mother, and I have left my father to come here."

"Princess," replies Merit, earnestly, "the less a nun in a convent knows of love, the better."

"Duty, then. Tell me about duty!"

Merit shakes her head. "I know little of duty, Princess. When I first came here, my duty was to bring you out." The Princess is shocked, and Merit waits smiling, giving her a chance to react. "Why don't you raise the alarm?"

"But you haven't finished. In any case, if you wanted to abduct me, you could have long ago!"

Merit nods and continues. "Of course, my duty has changed now." Merit explains that the task she has set herself is to help the Princess achieve whatever she wants. Once the Princess inherits the throne, she says, it is to the advantage of her people that the Kingdom be ruled by a wise and just ruler, who knows she has a friend in the West.

"I am keeping you from your sleep," the Princess says, feeling guilty. "At least I am helping you with your duty! Sleep, now."

Now, of course, Merit is too awake to sleep. She suggests that a more active lifestyle would reduce the Princess's insomnia.

"What do your people do when they suffer as I do?"

"There are ways, Princess. But I must touch you. May I have your permission?"

"With a mere touch you can put me to sleep? Are you wizards, then?" Sita had a beautiful way of using her hand while she spoke.

Merit then massages the Princess's back, and in minutes she falls asleep in the middle of thanking Merit. The scene ends with Merit, sleepless, pacing their little cell.

In another scene, Merit flees with the Princess, barely escaping with their lives. The Princess, filled with the excitement of the fight and the escape, clings to Merit, careless that her attentions are clearly exciting Merit beyond bearing. Merit is naked from the waist up, and the Princess's robe is in tatters. After losing their pursuers, they find a cave in which to rest. Outside it is raining. The Princess lavishes her praise on Merit as her savior. She dubs Merit her champion, and tenderly kisses her on the cheek. Then Merit loses her temper and lectures her on how she is to conduct herself. If she were traveling with a retinue, she could be more open about who she is. But now they must be cautious.

"Yes," says the Princess, sadly. "We are spies, are we not." The Princess removes her clothes and spreads them out to dry, and then takes Merit's clothes from her. "Make me sleep, Merit!" she says, with instinctive coquettishness, as her sexuality awakens, and she begins to relate to Merit as a potential lover. After Merit massages her back, she says she is cold, and in an erotically charged but innocent conversation, begs Merit to forget about protocol and sleep with her. Merit has a hard time getting her to sleep face down so that she can cover her with her body.

It had been a hard scene to film, because Tony had been insistent on not using any artificial light. In the end they had taped a roaring fire, and setting up a huge monitor on one side of the scene, off-camera, filmed the scene with the light from the monitor screen, and very high-speed film. The scene was poetically beautiful. Tony had got what he wanted. There was a tight close-up of the faces of the two girls that Helen was concerned about. But the graininess of the film, and the extreme youthfulness of Helen's on-screen appearance combined to make Helen unrecognizable.

The character of Merit was an attractive one. Always an intuitive person, she tends to gamble and lose. The two young women _both_ gamble, sometimes with amusing, and sometimes with dangerous consequences. But the Princess's mind files away everything efficiently, while Merit learns slowly. The beauty of their interaction is in the way they lovingly teach each other how to learn from experience. Marsha's writing was never heavy-handed; it was incredibly realistic, as if the people were real. Sita's acting was very natural, and Sharon's acting just a trifle awkward, but it worked well, because the audience knows that Merit struggles to be the representative of her people that she has been appointed to be. One time the Princess challenges her whether her actions are simply her own, or those of the princess she herself claims to be.

"I don't know any longer," says Merit. "If I keep you safe, my sister, at least I cannot be criticized!"

"Is that your duty, then, to avoid being criticized?"

Merit blows her top, but then calms down and apologizes.

There was a great deal of skin in the show, mostly Helen's. She had learned how to move so that the greatest amount of leg and thigh would be revealed, without appearing to deliberately do so. Sita's body was revealed much less, and usually in subdued lighting, so that the audience strained to get a glimpse of Sita's skin, when it was shown. It was a very clever film indeed. However, there was very little actual sex in it: the rape scene, one scene involving one of the other women and a man, and the closing love scene between Helen and the Princess. It wasn't quite the closing scene; the closing titles showed the couple riding towards the sea, and a boat moored in a harbor.

Once the movie had been released, the media was full of actual shots from the film, immensely superior to the pre-release publicity pictures and posters. The photos were mostly of 'Sharon Vuehl', in various states of undress. The few printable shots of the Princess showed her fully clothed. Helen was struck by how photogenic the young woman was. One shot, in particular had been used heavily—showing the Princess greeting Merit in the shrine room. Merit looked every inch the warrior maiden, uncomfortable in civvies, and the Princess had a Madonna look that was a sort of hallmark of her character in the first minutes of being introduced.

Back home, Helen wondered how Sita was taking the pressure of the publicity. Helen didn't have the courage to call and inquire, and was too proud to have Lorna find out for her. A week or so before the release, Sita had contacted the movie company for help with remaining in the US, and been bombarded with requests to cooperate with promotional projects. Apparently they had assumed that she had returned to England, and had been trying to locate her without success. At Trish's suggestion, Sita had contacted Sharon's agent, and signed up with her.

Helen didn't have much time for wallowing in the success of the movie; she was extremely busy singing. She sang in David McIntyre's recording of the B minor Mass, and the Ohio CO's performance of Haydn's _Creation,_ and, a few weeks later, Brahms's _Requiem,_ in honor of Pat Wallace, with the choir of her alma mater. (Pat Wallace was the wife of the President of Helen's undergraduate college, who had given Helen the highly valuable violin with which Helen first achieved fame as a Baroque specialist.)

Helen found the little double in which she lived with Lorna, Rain and Nadia too small, and sold it, and bought a lovely farmhouse, completely remodeled it with lots of help, and they moved in. To celebrate the new house, and to check it out carefully, Gena and Erin, Janet and Elly, Janet's mother Grandma Elly, Helen's father John, Annie and Little John all came down to Westfield to celebrate Thanksgiving. They now had plenty of room for everyone. Everyone inspected the new house, and gave their opinion on it. The verdict was that it was too much of a compromise: too small for a big house and too big for a small house.

"But look, there's four bathrooms! Plenty of space for everyone!" exclaimed Helen.

"But look how small the dining-room is!" It was rather a squeeze for so many people to eat all at once, but by seating the little people, Rain, LJ and the Twins at the Kitchen table, the others could manage at the large table.

The talk was all about the movie. The Twins were totally shocked that Sharon Vuehl, the conservative, goody-goody of the first two movies had, in the very same year, made such a wild, sexy movie.

"There's nothing sick about it," Helen said, defending it, "it's a sweet love story, _I_ thought."

"Mom, then why is it rated X?"

"There's a lot of nudity in it. A _lot_ ," explained Helen. "Nothing I wouldn't trust you with, sweetheart, but the way things are, ..."

"Oh I wouldn't go that far," Annie said. "I think the gratuitous nudity is excessive."

"Annie, it's all female nudity, and Gena is a girl. She's seen lots of naked women!"

Annie shook her head. She maintained that it gave a distorted view of reality and codes of behavior. And it was particularly insidious because the implied values were so close to being conventional family values.

Helen subsided. She had to think things out a little more carefully, because she had thought that the movie's values indeed _were_ conventional family values, broadened to include alternative lifestyles.

Meanwhile, Sharon Vuehl was approached by several dozen magazines to pose for nude photo layouts. They all seemed to have forgotten about Helen. Helen's thoughts turned again to the idea of doing a nude spread. Unlike the occasional movie poster, being in a magazine spread meant being a sex object in a very real way. The pressure on Sharon was intense. They offered thousands of dollars, close to a quarter of what Sharon had been offered for the movie.

Helen Visits Philadelphia

This 'chapter' is just for fun; it has little bearing on the rest of the story, and can be safely skipped.

A week after Thanksgiving, Helen left for Philadelphia on her own. (She was extremely busy at school, but there was an email from a sort of girl friend, and Helen wanted to meet her.)

She rented a car at the airport, and drove straight to Lalitha's home. Her welcome was as warm as ever. Trish had answered the door, and had hugged her and kissed her on the mouth in her usual demonstration of affection. The sisters came out next and greeted Helen more sedately but no less warmly. Helen had brought presents for them all, for no particular reason except that she was fond of them.

"What brings you here?"

"Nothing, just you all! It's close to the holidays, and I was missing you! And there are visitors at home, and the girls won't feel neglected!"

"You should have brought the children!" exclaimed Trish, her light-colored eyes glowing. Helen was beginning to understand her better. She had hungered for love and affection all her life, and only got it from the folks in the porn industry. When she met Lalitha, of course, she gave everything up for her. Being in the middle of this affectionate Indian family had given Trish a direction and a purpose in life, Helen supposed. By the sheerest accident, Lalitha had discovered a gem. Or the goddess had taken pity on Trish, and brought them together. Sometimes Helen found herself almost believing Lalitha's superstition of the enigmatic, interfering deity who was so fond of Lalitha.

"So you're all alone on this trip?" asked Sita, sounding remarkably like the Princess.

Helen laughed. "I'm accustomed to traveling alone! I'll just go over to the house, and get comfortable, that's all."

"Please stay with us," Lalitha asked, eagerly. "Thanks to you, we have lots of space. Please! Don't say no."

She was holding her breath. Helen looked around, and they all looked at her, unanimous in their eager hospitality. Helen wanted to stay, and she knew that a refusal, no matter how tactfully phrased, would be a slap in the face.

While she hesitated, Lalitha told Suresh to bring Helen's bags from the car. "At least for one night, Helen. Humor an old friend!" She looked into Helen's eyes and said, "We have a visitor's room, and I often thought how wonderful it would be if you stayed with us!" It was a delicate way of expressing that Helen needn't feel obliged to renew their past intimacy.

"I had promised a friend to go out with her," Helen said lamely. "I'd love to stay, but don't want to be a nuisance, staying out late ..."

"Nonsense; I'll give you a key. This will be your home, while you're in town."

The little guest room was decorated in an eclectic style. The low bed was comfortable, and had an Indian bedcover. There were pictures of the goddess, and one picture of Helen.

Helen changed and came out to join the family which was seated for tea. They began to talk about the movie. They had disguised Sita, as Helen had figured they should. Instead of her long Princess braid, she wore her hair in a ponytail, now. "Nobody recognizes me," she said, smiling, her little dimples showing her amusement. "I dress a little more American, and that seems to take care of it!"

Helen nodded and expressed her approval.

And what did the family think of the movie?

They all liked it. "Of course it's sex and sex and sex, but it has _so much_ thoughtful, good ideas, you know? It's almost like a parable, or a ballet. A sort of stylized thing." Helen was fascinated by her former lover's expressive way of talking. She had sat with her leg tucked under her, like so many teenagers did, but with her it seemed more natural. Looking over at Sita, Helen saw that she, too, had sat on her legs. Trish watched Helen's face with interest, following her eyes everywhere, and smiling when Helen crossed eyes with her. The little girl had sat on Helen's lap and turned every once in a while to look up at Helen's face. They analyzed the movie in minute detail, with Helen enumerating its strengths. Helen wound up saying that Sita was a phenomenal actress.

"Oh but _Sharon_ ..." Sita said, shaking her head, "... she tried _so_ hard. I would mess up, and mess up, and mess up, but she was _so_ patient. And it was hard for her, because, you know, she isn't a very deep person. Really, she was a beautiful, good-hearted woman. But a lot of the ideas were new to her, I could see. So the director, Mr. Cheng, had to explain in detail: this is what is going on here."

Helen's efforts had evidently been successful beyond her wildest dreams.

"Even _you_ had _so much_ insight into the ideas of the movie!" Sita continued. "Sharon had no clue! She thought it was a simple love story."

Helen smiled. "It seemed as if she was really taken with you!"

Sita blushed. Trish gently chided that Sita might be embarrassed. But Sita said that it wasn't uncommon to have something like that. "It's over by the end of the filming, you know. Hopefully, anyway!" They laughed. So Sita, at any rate, wasn't ready to confess that there was anything between the two of them. Helen lost her desire to be Sharon Vuehl again.

Helen went out to visit a couple of friends, part of the reason she had come to Philly, and returned to the house.

It was dark, now, just barely, and the city was bright with Christmas lights. Helen smiled at the harried owners of businesses anxiously gazing out of their store windows for potential customers, trying to dream up one more enticement to put outside their doors. At other places, happy employees went about decorating their store, unmindful of the philosophical implications of what they were doing. Some people just plain liked the holidays, they liked every minute of it. Helen thought of the money sitting in Sharon's accounts, and wondered how it could be used to the best effect. All round the world millions were starving, and Helen was sitting on a half-million dollars that could be feeding them. Her first responsibility was to the needy in Philadelphia, wasn't it?

Lalitha's little family saw Helen pull up, and were waiting for her at the door. She couldn't help smiling at Trish hanging out of the doorway, slim and petite, with little Baby clinging to her leg, and Lalitha and Sita just behind her, smiling. Was there nothing for them to do but to wait for Helen?

"Let's go shopping," she said, impulsively, "let's go have fun looking at the shoppers!" Helen was an incorrigible people-watcher.

"No, that's a bad idea!" exclaimed Lalitha, "Don't encourage extravagance!"

Helen said quickly that they would do the budget thing. She would give each person just a little money, and they had to buy gifts for everybody with that amount. "Of course Sita is a millionaire, and doesn't need to be subsidized, right?" Helen joked.

"It's all been sent to England," Sita mourned, "I don't know how to get my hands on it."

"Oh, then you get a fund, too. It's fun, just to fight the crowds!"

Reluctantly they followed Helen as she marched around finding things. There were places Helen had discovered that the others hadn't. It was exciting to split up into groups, shop around a little, search for the other group when they got lost, greet them with wild enthusiasm when they met up again, split up a different way ...

Shopping with each of them was a different pleasure. With Suresh it was interesting because he had very little idea of what Trish would want or need. In spite of their love for each other which seemed to endure in spite of the odds, Trish was pretty much a mystery to Suresh in some ways. Helen slipped him a little extra money and gave him some hints. When they shopped together for gifts for Sita, Helen suggested, he could guess what Trish would want for herself. "Aha!" he said, wonderingly, "That's how you do it!"

"That's one way. The other way is to simply listen when she talks!" He nodded, smiling.

In contrast, Trish was an observant and imaginative gift-buyer, and moreover, she was obsessed with the idea of surprising the others. "You've got to help me hide these," she said seriously, "I'm, oh, so glad you came up with this idea! Where can we put the stuff?"

"How about a bag?"

Trish looked at Helen indignantly. "A _bag?_ They'll look inside!"

Trish really got into the spirit of things. When she found a really neat present, she hugged herself and had a little shiver of excitement.

Lalitha and Sita were the least excitable, but the most anxious. They constantly worried about getting done, as if they could never go shopping again. In addition to that, they each had their own worries. Sita was baffled; she didn't have any idea what the others would like, and was pathetically grateful for every little suggestion Helen offered. Lalitha had good ideas, but then she would turn to Helen and ask: "But what would _you_ like? Tell me!" Helen would smile and insist that she'd be happy with almost anything. "I don't want to guess, Helen; tell me."

"A Christmas tree ornament."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure."

"I know something better."

"What?"

"A Saree blouse. I made you one long ago ... if I make you a new one, will you wear?"

Helen could hardly believe it. It was a wonderful thing; it was one of the most lovely experiences she had shared with Lalitha: dressing Indian style. Helen nodded, and Lalitha's eyes lit up.

"The last time ..." she began, but Helen interrupted her.

"Don't talk about the last time."

Lalitha looked at her, hurt. Helen blushed. There was nothing more to be said. They had analyzed it many times. They had to move on. Helen wasn't about to forswear wearing Indian costume because of the unhappy associations. She had decided to wear one, and there was no going back.

"You're going to make me one. Please!"

Lalitha nodded. "Please don't be angry; you're scaring me."

"I'm just ... impatient, that's all. Just impatient. Let's forget it!"

Back at the house, the purchases were hidden away, some in Helen's room. They ate dessert, and Helen and Lalitha played duets for the entertainment of the others. Helen called home and spoke to everyone, and then she prepared for bed. She had bought a book for light reading, and settled down for a nice read in bed.

The unfamiliar sounds kept Helen awake, and the story was absorbing, and it was late when she finally turned out the lights. Across the way in Lalitha's sewing room she could hear her machine whirring. Next to her room, on the other side of the wall, she could hear Trish and Suresh talking softly. There was a cooing quality in her voice when she spoke to him. Helen wondered what they did. She knew that Lalitha had absolutely forbidden them to have more children until he was twenty-one.

Sita, sleeping in Lalitha's room was quiet. How many nights Merit had slept with the Princess in her room! It was pleasant to fantasize about the Princess.

Helen Wears a Saree Again

The feel of the household was very different from anything Helen was accustomed to. When she awoke she found most of them already up, speaking in low voices so as not to disturb Helen.

"You're up, finally!"

"What do you mean _finally?_ It's just six thirty!"

Helen was surprised with a package, beautifully wrapped in simple colored tissue paper. "Open it!"

It was her blouse, a flimsy scrap of fabric to cover her breasts, and one of Lalitha's sarees to wear with it.

"Look what _I_ got!" Sita had gotten one, too.

"Let's eat, and then it's dress-up time!" called Trish, excitedly.

Breakfast was a miraculous feast of Indian food, flavored with all the spices and condiments Helen missed so much. Lalitha had remembered everything Helen liked, and Helen ate, wondering why she had put off this pleasure for so long. Sita too ate like a starving lion, albeit a vegetarian one. And then, as Trish said, it was dress up time. No boys allowed!

Helen's room became the dressing room. It had a nice big mirror, and a nice big table. First they dressed Sita. The whole point was to make a fuss over the dressee, so while one braided her hair, another adjusted the folds of her saree, a third applied make-up—essentially an ornamental dot on the forehead and a touch of lip-gloss. Helen got to braid her soft dark-brown hair with an extension that created a waist-long plait, finished off with a length of gold twine. Trish was in charge, and to Helen's surprise she knew a great deal about Indian dress. Lalitha remarked that Trish knew more than Lalitha herself. "She has made friends with some Indian ladies through the supermarket, and she keeps buying these fashion magazines, can you believe it?"

The finished product was perfection. They made Sita walk a few steps , which she did, and it was poetry in motion. Sita blushed with pleasure as Helen took photograph after photograph of her with her little camera. They had dressed her in a purple and blue saree which contrasted with her pale skin. The object of all the attention couldn't stop blushing, and looked very pretty indeed. Helen had to be careful where her eyes went, because Trish had decided that Sita didn't need a bra, and Helen's eyes naturally traveled to Sita's breasts and the expanse of midriff that was covered only by a thin diagonal band of saree.

"Enough of this," she exclaimed, and pointed to Trish. Trish was more than happy to be the next subject, and somehow Helen found herself the chief dresser. Trish gave very specific orders. She was so tiny that it was particularly difficult to make a new saree stay down on her; they tended to bunch up and stick straight out, so it had to be a clingy cashmere silk saree.

"You knew we would be trying sarees, so why did you have to wear this tiny little panty?" Trish blushed at Helen; she had worn a mere scrap of a string bikini. She asked Helen to hurry, to cover up her revealing underwear. As Helen dressed her, kneeling on the rug, Trish steadied herself with a tiny hand on Helen's shoulder. Only her eyes were large and lustrous, the rest of her was small. Sita did her hair, while Lalitha put on her face. The finished product was beautiful. The way Lalitha looked at her and she looked back, Helen suspected that it was far from over between them. It was subtle, but to the knowing eye it seemed that the embers still glowed. When Lalitha looked at Helen guiltily, Helen knew for certain. (Lalitha was a grandmother at 33, and one tended to forget that she was at the height of her sexuality.)

Helen shot more pictures, and Trish posed with the sureness of long experience. Her incredibly expressive face could portray absolute innocence, which Helen remembered from having seen Trish's pictures on the Web, from back when she had been a porn model.

Lalitha was next, and Trish dressed her while Helen and Sita smiled at each other. It was so clear that Trish delighted in touching Lalitha, and made no secret of it. Lalitha wore a rich brown and blue saree. With the efficiency of long practice Lalitha's saree was on in mere seconds, and Helen was taking a portrait of her by herself seated regally on the edge of the bed. It would be a portrait Helen would treasure. Lalitha looked serene and happy.

Helen's saree was green and blue and gold. Oh how they fussed over her. When she stood in her panty, Helen stole a glance at Sita, to see if there was recognition there. But no, there was only appraisal, and a favorable one at that. Even Sita didn't realize that her eyes were giving away so much.

"You look taller," she said.

"Taller than who?" asked Trish.

"Oh, I meant, taller just in her underwear," she explained, blushing.

Sita was given Helen's hair, but she soon gave up. Lalitha, who was accustomed to doing it took over, and oiled it and coaxed it into the usual thick braid that Helen had always worn. It was already down to the small of her back.

They exclaimed how pretty Helen was in saree. "Western women always look beautiful in Saree," Lalitha said enviously, gazing her fill at Helen. Helen felt as if she must be blushing all over her body; she felt so sensuous. The fabric sliding over her body would drive her crazy with arousal, Helen knew. Then it was time to get Suresh. They paraded out to the living room, and stood before Suresh in a row.

"Oh, man!" he exclaimed, overwhelmed. "You look so cute!"

"Hey!" exclaimed Trish, "Which is the cutest, fella?"

"You, you, of course!" said Suresh. And she was, Helen thought. Trish ran to him and fell on him and her little daughter, kissing them in an excited frenzy. Sita watched, her face wreathed in smiles.

"Okay, a picture of the two sisters," Helen said, and took a portrait of the two girls, so different, yet so alike.

England

Christmas

In Westfield, Helen shared her home with Lorna, Sophie, Evelyn Woodford, (whom they called Rain, as she had encouraged Helen to call her when they had first met), and Dr. Nadia Van Der Wert. Rain was in fact Lady Evelyn Woodford, whose father was an earl, something that she kept hidden from the folks at Westfield College. At this time, Sophie spent most of the time down south, in the Carolinas, keeping up with her tennis.

Rain's family invited Helen to spend Christmas in Woodford, in England, which they had done before, and which they had all thoroughly enjoyed the last time. Helen had been invited to sing in Messiah, and that had gone very well. (Only Nadia and Sophie had declined the invitation, since Sophie's mother would visit, and they all spoke French, and had a great time.)

Christmas Day was a lot of fun, with many presents to be opened, and with the kids rushing around with great excitement. Later in the day, Helen called her friends and family in the US, having carefully waited until it was daytime. There were calls to Philadelphia, Maryland, Ohio, Kansas, and Minnesota.

When Helen called Philadelphia to speak to Lalitha, she was greeted happily, but was told that Sita had headed back to England, to spend the holidays with the Maunders. "The missionary family needed help, Helen," she said, "and she flew back. She's in Sussex, I have the phone number—just a minute, okay?" Helen took the number, and promised to call. Before Helen could ring off, she heard Trish talking to Lalitha, reminding her about something important. "Wait, Helen; do you know who how we can contact Sharon Vuehl?"

"What makes you think I would know?" laughed Helen, trying to sound merely amused. She had de-activated her 'Sharon phone' and left it behind on her trip. Her messages would be piling up.

"I don't know whom else to ask, Helen, that's the only reason. Sita was trying to reach her before she left. She'll probably tell you. She wouldn't tell me, anyway."

"Maybe someone at Galaxy would know," Helen suggested, giving herself an avenue to 'discover' the information.

Helen looked up to see Lorna coming to the parlor where she had gone for a little privacy. She sighed; Lorna wore a smile which said she had plans for Helen. Oh god, Helen thought, just the sight of her makes my mind turn to thoughts of sex. What did she have on under that thin sweater?

"Why're you hiding here? You're avoiding me!" Lorna sat down net to Helen on the sofa with a vaguely reproachful look on her face that didn't fool Helen for a minute.

"I told you I was calling home; Jan, Dad, Olive, Marika, ..."

"You could have let me talk to them! Did you call Lalitha?" (She pronounced it 'Lul-lee-ta' as always, but there was an affectionate curl to the way she said it. Ironically, the two supposed rivals who had caused Helen such sorrow were now very fond of each other.

"Yes, but guess what: Sita is back in England!"

"Oh. Are you going to look her up? Maybe we could all go," Lorna said, a little doubtfully. There really wasn't a lot to do now; Lorna missed her dancing and felt the need for activity. When the weather was good, she went for long early morning walks, and even ran a little, afraid she would put on weight.

"I don't know. There's something wrong; I think I'll just call and wish her a Merry Christmas, and see what she says. What did you want, love?"

"Oh!" Lorna blushed, and a sly smile appeared on her face. "That can wait," she said, rising, "I'll come back!"

"Tell me!"

"No, no—you call, and get that all done, my love!" And she was gone, in a swirl of skirt and a cheery wave, leaving Helen's mind decidedly in the gutter. After a night of love, Helen still lusted for her.

Helen called the number she had entered into her pad.

The phone was answered by a lovely contralto voice. "Hello, Maunders."

"Er, hello, may I speak to Sita, please?"

"Yes, who may I say is calling?"

"Just a friend!"

"Just a minute please," said the voice, slightly annoyed. Helen wondered why she had been so secretive. It was the tone of the woman's voice, she decided.

"Hello?"

"Sita!"

"Oh, Miss Helen! I only just learned you were in England! I thought you were with your parents, or in Minnesota! I was told you visit Minnesota often!"

"No, I'm here! I just called to say Merry Christmas! How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm well! How are you?"

"I'm wonderful!" Helen said, nodding and smiling. She didn't see Lorna watching her from across the house, her eyes echoing the smile on Helen's lips. "I called Lalitha and she gave me the number there. I hope I'm not intruding!"

"Oh, not at all!" Helen waited. If Sita didn't volunteer the cause of her hurried return she would have to dig it out of her. "Did my sister tell you anything?"

"About what?"

"Well ... I'll go pick up the other phone, just a minute, Helen." In a few second she was back.

"It's a lot of different things. The cost of living has shot up sharply, and the Maunders are finding it hard to manage," she said. "They aren't asking for anything, but I want to—you know, like you did—invest some money for them, so they'll have an income from it!" She sounded a little embarrassed.

Helen quickly agreed, and told her that it wasn't difficult, and she would help. Secretly, Helen was considering supplementing whatever Sita was planning. It was interesting that Sita was now the benefactor, having been on the receiving end for a number of years. Clearly, though, Sita had already paid the Maunders back, with work and care, for most of the help they had given her. But that was not all, but that's all Sita would tell her.

"You know, the woman who took the phone just now?"

"The contralto voice, rather annoyed?"

Sita laughed. "Yes, I suppose that's her! Anyway, she's Catherine Maunder, their youngest daughter, and she's got a project that she needs money for, so I'm trying to contact Sharon Vuehl." Helen could hear the blush in Sita's cultured English voice.

"What kind of a project?"

"No, Helen, I won't let you get involved. You already do too much. I want to help Katie all by myself. If I can't then maybe I'll ask you for a contribution. You help my sister so much, I really couldn't ask for more.

"But Sita, you must be making lots of money with this movie of yours!"

"I am, I am. But Helen, ... I ... I'm afraid I might not ever make another movie again, so I have to be careful." She sighed, and Helen heard it clearly over the phone. "I'm getting offers for all sorts of funny movies. They just want me to do nude roles. I'm so angry!"

Helen didn't know what to say. She didn't want Sita to be forced to take roles she didn't feel comfortable with, but, with Sita's other fans, she longed to have another glimpse of that beautiful body of hers.

"Of course!" she agreed, insincerely. But the important thing was that the soul of a philanthropist was being born in Sita, and she had the good sense to realize that with the money from a single movie she couldn't undertake to support her causes. Helen realized that Sita probably also wanted to support Lalitha, so that the latter would not be a burden to Helen.

"Sita," Helen said quietly, "you know I love your sister."

"Yes?"

"I would give her a hundred times more than the little I do, if she would take it. Don't worry about her. You don't need to support her."

"I must Helen. I have to do it. You don't understand."

"Make me understand, then!"

Sita laughed softly, and didn't answer.

Helen opened her mouth to try and reason with her, and noticed a figure watching her from the doorway. Lorna was getting impatient. She gestured to Lorna that she would be done soon. To her chagrin, Lorna thought Helen was calling her, and danced up, asking what was up. Helen put her finger on her lips, signing her to be silent, and turned back to the conversation with Sita.

"Anyway," she said, "I can't help with Sharon Vuehl while I'm here; I don't have my phone numbers," she lied. "What do you want to talk to her about?"

"Oh ... nothing serious, really; just a couple of ideas I had, that's all," Sita said vaguely, and unhappily. Sita's reticence was frustrating Helen no end.

Lorna was gesturing excitedly to Helen, and Helen couldn't figure what she was trying to communicate. "Just a minute, Sita," she said, and muted the phone. "What's up?" she asked Lorna, with a frown.

"I brought your Sharon phone along!" Lorna was excited. "I just knew you'd need it!"

Helen held her head. How could she suddenly 'discover' Sharon's number?

"Go get it," Helen told Lorna, who hurried off to do so. Helen took up the phone again. "Sita?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"Don't you have a contact in England for the movie company?"

"Yes, I've tried them already. They're giving me Sharon's agent's number. That's useless, because we have the same agent, but she doesn't give out Sharon's private number!"

"Did you tell her why you want to talk to Sharon?" This might just work!

"Er, no; I wanted to talk to Sharon privately first, before I told the agent anything."

Helen smiled. It was too easy. Lorna came up with the phone, her eyes aglow. "Sita, here's what you should do. Tell the agent to have Sharon call you about a project."

"Oh. Okay; that might work. Thanks, Helen! Listen, why don't you stop by sometime? The Maunders would love to meet you! Where are your children?"

"They're right here, Sita!"

"Oh, you must bring them!"

Addresses were exchanged, and promises made, and Helen hung up.

Helen took the 'Sharon' phone and called her answering service. There were twenty-odd messages, and Helen began scanning through them at top speed. The 19th one was from her agent saying that Sita was trying to reach her. That was all the excuse Helen needed.

Helen turned to Lorna and took her hand. Lorna looked up at Helen, worried. "I think Sita wants to do something with Sharon," she said quietly. "Probably another movie."

"Great! What's the problem?"

Helen shrugged and looked away. "I'm sort of attracted to her," Helen said, trying to sound not too desperate.

Lorna took her hand away, but Helen took it back. A brief struggle ensued, which ended with Helen kissing Lorna.

"I'm afraid," she said quietly.

Helen got Lorna out of her funk by doing her Sharon voice. Lorna shook her head in amazement. It was a completely different personality: pushy, sharp-tongued, but kind and generous, too. And sexy. And somehow rich, perfect for a spoiled only child of indulgent parents.

"May I speak to Sita, please?"

"She's on another phone, I'm afraid; may I take a message?"

"Tell her it's Sharon Vuehl!"

"Oh! She's been trying to reach you; just a minute, I'll get her!" Catherine was tripping over herself in her excitement.

"Sharon!"

"Hi, sweetie! Happy Holidays! Do you folks celebrate Christmas?"

"Yes! Oh I'm so glad you called! What made you call?"

"There was a message from Wendy, saying that you'd been trying to reach me. Oh, I'd like to see you again, cutie! When you're ready." Lorna pinched her hard, and Helen almost yelped. "What's up?"

Sita hummed and hawed before she got to the point.

"You see, my foster-sister is a social worker. She's trying to keep a women's center open in another part of England. They've had a fire, and some robberies, and lost a lot of funding, so the people she worked for are selling the place. I don't know much about it, but ... she wants to buy it, now."

"Wow. What would she do with it?"

"She wants to run it all by herself. I want to help her, Sharon, and I need to earn some more money."

"Hey, why don't I just give you some cash? I haven't spent hardly any of the money; it's just sitting there, honest. Some bank is making an awful lot of money lending my cash, and I'd much rather you had it, honestly. There's half a million there, maybe more!"

"Half a million! Wow!"

"You must get the same!"

"Oh no, hardly! You were the star, remember?" Helen suddenly realized that Sita's contract must have been a fraction of her own. Oh god, life was so unfair.

"How can I help, girl? You know I'd do anything for you?"

Sita sighed. "I'm getting lots of offers, Sharon, but ... they're all, well, they all contain a lot of sex scenes for me, and, well, . . ."

"You've done that before, love; you have experience now. You can do it if you have to. Get Wendy to negotiate some control over the scenes."

"I can do that?"

"Oh yes," Helen said, nodding. "You're hot now. To get you they'll agree to anything. You made that movie."

Sita blushed. After much talk, Sita managed to say that she wouldn't consider a sex scene with anyone by Sharon. They argued about that at length, because Helen saw that Sita was cutting herself out of a lot of work with that stance. But no, Sita was firm. "I don't feel comfortable with anyone but you, Sharon. Please don't misunderstand me."

"Oh, of course not. Well, what do you have in mind?"

"Well, ... certainly a sequel, and ... there's another offer."

It was Helen's turn to sigh. "Sure," she said, "I've been holding off on the sequel, but I guess it can't be avoided! What's other offer? Something that involves me?"

"Yeah. Look! Magazine wants a Merit & the Princess feature."

Look! was a British magazine that specialized in the borderline between glamour and soft porn. It was everywhere in restaurants and coffee tables of fashionable people. Merit was just a tad too raunchy for Look! to feature actual scenes from the movie, but it was perfect as the subject for a feature. But now Sharon had to appear and participate. How could Sharon turn up safely in England?

"Did they offer you a deal?"

Helen could see Sita blushing. "50 thousand pounds."

"I'll do it—on one condition!"

"What's that? Sharon ... please don't make it harder than it already is, for me!"

"That you'll take my share of the money, too!"

"Why?"

"Because ... I'd like to help your sister, or whoever."

"My foster-sister."

"All right, your foster-sister, then."

"No. I want to be the one who does that. You don't even know her!"

Helen sighed. The girl was too stubborn.

"All right," she caved in. "I'll get in touch with them."

"Oh, wonderful! Thank you so much!"

Helen hung up. It wouldn't have hurt her to say something more personal, but that wasn't Sita's way.

Sita in London

The _Look!_ project was set up very quickly, and Helen had to scramble to find a red wig of sufficiently good quality, shave her eyebrows, do all the things that made her 'Sharon,' and prepare to be Helen again after she was done. Their costumes from Merit had to be borrowed from the studio and flown out to Sita's address, much to her displeasure. "I didn't want to have anything to do with the movie in our house," she told Sharon later.

Telling the Woodfords that she had to go into London for a meeting, she set out in a taxi with her materials in a kitbag. In the taxi she put on a scarf and sunglasses, and got out looking like any tourist. The taxi driver, a friend of the Woodford family, gave her a thumbs-up as she paid him. His smile clearly said that Helen should be jolly well able to go around London unrecognized if she wanted to.

Helen next needed to find a place to change into her wig, but there just was nowhere to go, except a hotel, at which she would be recognized at once, and quickly connected to Sharon Vuehl.

In the end, she used a restroom at a tube station. Putting on her wig in one of the stalls, she took out her false eyebrows, put them carefully away, and put back her glasses and her scarf. Emerging from the restroom, she headed out to the platform for the train that would take her to Sussex.

The door of the Maunder house was opened to her knock by a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl with a suspicious look.

"Hello?"

"I'm looking for Sita?"

"Oh!" Her face relaxed in a not-unfriendly smile. "Please come in; we're expecting you—I think!" Helen thought she might not be so bad after all.

"Sharon!" exclaimed Sita coming to the door. "How good to see you!"

The first thing Helen did was to ask to use a bathroom to freshen up. As soon as she was alone, she applied the temporary color and relaxer to her hair, and put the wig on over it as soon as it was dry. Her makeup took a little longer. She put on several coats of lipstick as she had been taught by Lorna, first a transparent layer, then the deep red lip color, and finally a layer of sealer. It made drinking difficult, but it was important to raise no suspicions of a connection between her and Helen Nordstrom. These first few moments were crucial to the deception. Helen's chest felt tight, but she ignored all the implications of being found out.

Helen went out into the hall and was introduced to everyone. It was hard to keep her Sharon voice and accent, when her instinct was to imitate their British accent and speech-patterns. After a while, Helen just relaxed and went ahead and spoke British anyway, just keeping her voice as 'Sharonesque' as she could.

There was tea and cakes. The Maunders were full of gratitude to their youngest 'daughter' Sita, clearly the pet of the family. But they were careful not to make any mention of the source of Sita's new-found wealth. The family home, though a nice old English house, everywhere showed the signs of extreme thrift. The draperies were clean but worn, as was the furniture. The house needed re-wiring, and new windows and rugs. And Reverend Maunder was clearly in poor health. Sita stood near him, ready to help at any time, leaving Sharon to Katie's care. Maunder was a tall man, now stooped with age. Helen learned that the entire family was involved in social work: their older son was a missionary in Brazil, and their older daughter a nurse in a south London hospital. She stopped by once a week, Sita said, to check on her parents. Katie worked with teenagers in Liverpool, and Helen could see the determination in her face.

Clearly Sita had not told the Maunders what she was planning to do, and her eyes told Helen to keep silent about it. Sita and Helen were never alone together until after tea was over.

Sita was dressed in an Indian-style skirt and a pretty home-sewn blouse. Finally she took Sharon to her room, a child's room, with a child's bed and a bookshelf with her schoolbooks, and a few adult books she had been given, presumably by the Maunders: _Pride and Prejudice,_ _Jane Eyre,_ and a collection of Dickens. On the wall were photographs of the Maunders, and a new one of Lalitha and the family.

"Who's that?" asked Sharon, pointing at the last photograph. Sita said it was her sister, her eyes bright.

"It's a pretty room," Sharon said, almost patronizingly, but not quite.

"Thank you," said Sita.

What did Sita feel for her? Helen slowly looked at Sita's eyes, and what she saw smoldering there was desire that had been kept under control since the summer. Perhaps this project was entirely to raise money for Katie, after all. But the last thing Helen wanted was to have an affair with Sita. A few months ago, yes, she would have welcomed the chance. But the moment had gone.

Sita saw the truth in Sharon's eyes. It had been a passing fancy. If it hadn't been, Sharon would have kept in touch with her. She looked away, embarrassed. "And thanks for doing this for me," she said.

"Oh, Sita, I told you I'd do anything for you!"

Sita looked squarely at her, her eyes full of emotion. God, how different she was from Lalitha, but how much the same! "That was a long time ago," she said. "Maybe you've met new people ... I've met new people ... Merit no longer belongs to the Princess."

"She never did, Sita." Helen was sorely afraid that she sounded like Helen. She was thinking like Helen. What would Sharon say? "Love doesn't always mean belonging, you know."

"You were my first," Sita whispered.

Helen stood there, stunned. It was hardly news to her, but that Sita would use it was evidence of how strongly the girl felt about her relationship to Sharon. Suddenly Sita gave up. She turned away and walked a few steps. "It's no use talking about those things," she said in a low voice. "I'm an actor; I can do it. Thank you for doing this for me, Sharon. Sharon ... Sharon ..." She suddenly faced Helen, her eyes brimming with tears and said with a smile, "I like your name! It's so soft, like a whisper!"

"Oh, Sita, my sweet Sita!" Helen put her arms round the slim Indian girl, and she stood, unresisting, neither responding nor rejecting her.

"You're so kind to a poor lovesick girl! Well ... we have to get ready, don't we!"

Getting dressed for the cold and damp, again, the two women went out, and caught a taxi. Sita let Helen hold her hand in the dark of the cab, and Helen felt like a dog. Sita's hand felt cool and damp. The box with the costumes lay at their feet. Helen's wig itched, and her clit itched, her nipples itched; she was one huge itch. And all she wanted was to hold Sita in her arms and kiss her tenderly. And her lips itched with all the lipstick.

They arrived at a quiet street in a residential part of the City, there were no signs to indicate that these were the studios of the famous magazine. The photographer was a middle-aged Italian man nattily dressed in a nice three-piece suit. There were two women assistants who took the carton of costumes from Helen, and began to set up.

"Oh goodness," said the photographer, Giovanni, "let's get you warmed up! The weather is dismal today, isn't it? Some tea? Coffee?" They said tea, and he suggested a little wine. Helen declined, but Sita nodded. When Helen failed to disguise her sharply indrawn breath, she turned to Helen and smiled.

"Just a little sip!" she said, "It might help me."

They had their drinks, and went out to the dressing-rooms, and Helen was first completely rubbed-down with an artificial tanning dye, and then put in her leather armor, and Sita was put in her robes, for the first few shots. Helen's red lipstick was removed, and replaced with a more natural tan/rose, and her penciled-in eyebrows replaced with something a little more natural, under Giovanni's intense scrutiny. The makeup artist was a glamour artist, more concerned with beauty than dramatic effect, and accordingly had to be guided rather closely. Giovanni wanted Helen to look natural. "You've lost a lot of your body fat," Giovanni commented to Helen. Helen agreed; there was nothing to be said on that score. "You look too masculine." Helen agreed again. She was beginning to get annoyed with the man. He sighed. "At least the Princess looks wonderful," he said.

The first few shots—about thirty of them—were of the Princess fully robed and Helen in full battle regalia against a pitch-black backdrop. The background would be added later. There were shots of them standing, seated side by side, with the Princess seated and Helen standing behind, the princess standing, and Helen on one knee, and so forth.

Then there were scenes of injured Helen being tended by the bedraggled Princess, with Helen's breast supposedly sliced by a sword and bleeding.

In between shots Sita looked into Helen's eyes, and Helen saw pain there.
"What's the matter?"

"It looks so real!"

Helen grinned. "That's entertainment," she said, brightly. Sita shook her head, and the shooting continued. Bend and kiss her ... Good, move your hand please ... here, try to make the hand express that you're concerned ... that's good ... very good ... a little more love ... can you touch her breast ... wonderful ... what's the problem? (Sita had snatched her hand away in anger. She apologized sweetly and did what she was told.)

The next set of shots were on a little set made up like a stream. The shots were angled to point into the water. The princess wore a piece of cloth, while Helen was nude. When Helen stripped, Giovanni's attitude changed. He clearly liked Helen naked, body fat or no.

Giovanni knew all there was to know about making love, and short of oral sex, he had them pose in a veritable _Kama Sutra_ of lesbian lovemaking. Before her eyes Helen saw Sita's resistance crumble, and for all anyone's claim that it was all fake, it was real. And Giovanni knew it was real, and was delighted. Finally they took a series of true glamour shots, with Merit and the Princess draped in sheer fabric, posing in various embraces. It was midnight when they were done.

Helen and Sita were deeply grateful to the two female assistants, who were always respectful and tactful, offsetting their resentment of Giovanni's sly insinuations.

Helen was absolutely famished, and they brought in food, which Giovanni ate heartily, but Sita wouldn't touch her food. She drank more and more wine, and began to feel sick.

Helen and the other girls helped Sita dress, and once they had gotten their checks for fifty thousand pounds each, they left, leaving the studio to send the costumes back.

Sita was sick just before they got a taxi. "I'm sorry!" she gasped, as Helen helped her clean up with tissues. Helen's hair and wig were still slightly damp, and she was feeling uncomfortable. "Will you please take me home?" Sita asked, as if she couldn't expect such a favor.

"Of course, darling, what did you think?"

"I don't know," confessed Sita.

Katie had stayed awake, and when Helen tried to open the door with Sita's key, it was opened from inside.

"Oh wow," said Katie, "Sita, you look positively green. What's she been eating?"

"Wine," Helen said.

"Oh no!" Katie took it in stride. "Bread and butter," she decided, taking charge.

Once Katie had gone to get it, Sita opened her eyes and looked into Sharon's blue ones. Sharon tried to smile, showing love, and not pity.

"I was only pretending," Sita said. She was a bad liar.

It was very hard. At that moment, Helen considered giving up her life as Helen, and living as Sharon forever. Sita deserved nothing less.

Katie came in with the bread and they began to feed Sita.

Afterwards, Katie offered their hospitality for the night. "It's too late to be going around London," she said. "Stay the night, and leave whenever you like! Breakfast is usually around seven-thirty. Oh dear, where shall we put her?"

"The guest room roof is leaking," said Sita, looking upset.

"You could use my room, I'll sleep on the couch," offered Katie, and Helen's heart went out to her. Helen insisted on sleeping on the couch. "I know where everything is, and it needs the minimum of setting up."

After much argument, they agreed to that plan. Helen had half wanted Sita to invite her into her bed, but it was impossible with Katie there. Linen was found, and pillows, and Helen got comfortable on the couch, as the two foster-sisters went upstairs, turning out all but a single light.

About an hour later, Sita crept down the stairs like a thief, and shook Helen's shoulder.

"I'm awake," whispered Helen.

"Oh god," whispered Sita, trembling, "one night ... one single night, would that be so wrong?"

Helen didn't try to dissuade her. It would have been hypocrisy, knowing how they felt about each other, and knowing Sita would have refused to go to her own bed. At least Helen loved her in some way.

Helen made love to her tenderly. Sita's passion was slow to rise, but once it was high, there was no stopping her. At first they embraced still in their nightgowns, but soon the thin garments were on the rug, and they were straining at each other, skin to bare skin.

Sita's first orgasm was beautiful. Helen knew exactly when it was coming, like a great ship approaching a harbor, and Sita laughed silently and cried, kissing Helen over and over again.

Finally she lay spent, as Helen lay heavy on her.

"You have made me a woman," she whispered.

"You're supposed to say that to a man," Helen said, wryly.

"What does it matter?" she said, gently smoothing her hand over Helen's breast. There was something in her touch that was different from all other girls who had touched Helen, a sort of recognition in her hand, as if she was remembering the touch from long ago. "No man can match what you are, Sharon ... the most beautiful, most kind woman in the world."

"The lustiest, you mean!"

Sita laughed. "No, not the lustiest! Maybe the sexiest."

Helen kissed her again, and played with her hair. (Helen had kept her wig on even while sleeping, for just such an eventuality.) "I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said. "Lesbian sex isn't for everyone."

"It's wonderful," Sita said softly. "At last I got sex ... as a gift, not just hoping for a touch here, a touch there ..."

"I know what you mean," Helen agreed.

"Now I have the courage to wait for the right one," Sita said, in her soft whisper, and Helen felt utterly miserable. In another life, she thought, they would be so right for each other! But in this life, she had chosen, and now she only had to endure the jealousy she would feel when Sita chose her mate. Helen thought of Lorna, of Lorna's beauty, of her passion, her soul. But it seemed very far away, on another planet.

"Go to bed," Helen said, rolling off her, and giving her one last caress, "let me lie here, and think about how bad I have been."

"Bad? Why bad?"

Helen realized she had spoken as Helen. It had been a mistake. What would the conservative, pietistic, hypocritical hedonist Sharon say?

"Because ... you were an innocent, and now I've corrupted you."

Sita rolled to sit up and put on her nightie and her robe before she turned to Helen. She shook her head. "I can't believe that was the same person that I ... made love with just now," she said in a low voice. "Corrupting me is the last thing you have to worry about!" and she slipped away, with a parting brush of Helen's cheek.

Helen reached over and pulled the vibrator out of her purse, and slipped it into her hungry cunt. Then she took out the remote control and turned it on. In a few seconds she was coming, and kept on coming for several minutes. It was hard to forget about Sita, but it was possible, she discovered.

Leaving a thank-you note, Helen slipped away before anyone was awake.

It was an adventure getting her hair washed out and her eyebrows fixed before she was seen by the others, but Helen managed it. She explained that the meeting had gone for a little longer than she had expected, so she had spent the night in the City, and that explanation had been accepted without any question.

Sharon in Hollywood

Awards

Between the events of the previous chapter and this one, Nadia passed away. She had been barely eighty, but she had been sick with a bad virus infection the previous Thanksgiving, which had left her weak. Soon after final grades had been handed in, Nadia had been found dead in her sleep. Helen, now filled with pointless remorse, blamed herself, and the girls tried to comfort her, even while each felt that Helen was overreacting. Nadia had said she wanted to be buried in her native Belgium, but they had to reluctantly bury her in Westfield, watched by strangers, because the few friends of Nadia who could have attended did not have the time, were busy with end-of-semester activities.

Then Lorna had snapped, and decided to accept an offer to join the junior company of the Ballet, and had been immediately selected for a solo in a ballet choreographed by a new addition to the company, and completely blown away the critics and everyone. She absolutely _had_ to stay with the Ballet now.

Lorna's departure had a powerful effect on Helen, and she was completely lost. Rain, too, had had a relationship with Lorna, something she had not shared with the others. Suddenly, both Helen and Rain had their emotional worlds completely in disarray. There were other factors that are too complicated to mention here, especially concerning a couple, Frank and Anne Lambert, ballet dancers. Frank had joined the faculty of the College, but had an unhealthy fascination with Helen. To make things worse, so did Anne.

Meanwhile, the complicated arrangements Helen and Rain set up to take care of James and Alison were going wrong, and each blamed the other for being careless with the children.

To Helen's utter dismay, _Merit and the Princess_ was nominated for an Academy Award.

" _What?"_

Marsha crowed with pure delight.

"Yes!!"

"What does it mean?"

"It means that you've been nominated for the ..."

"I know that, Marsha, but ... wait ..."

Rain had heard the hullabaloo and come down to see what was up.

"Who is that?" she asked.

"Mama, who are you talking to?"

"It's just a friend of mine from College," Helen said soothingly, implying somehow that it was silly girl talk that wouldn't interest Rain anyway. Rain liked to pretend that she was not interested in talking about sex, though she was into participating in it. The two of them went away, James having called out to them from his playpen.

"What was that all about?" asked Marsha, though Helen knew that she could piece it together.

"Never mind," said Helen urgently, under her breath. "Do I have to go?"

Marsha's tone of voice left Helen no doubt that she considered it an obvious decision—a no-brainer.

"Helen; once you're up on that stage, and they're cheering you ... what else is there?"

Helen had been awarded a Grammy, but she hadn't been able to attend. This last year, she had been invited to present a Grammy, and nominated for an Emmy, and had not attended either ceremony.

"There's thousands of women wanting to see you—in some fantastic outfit ... you couldn't disappoint them, girl? Huh? Could you?" Marsha's voice took on a whiny, wheedling tone that was acutely annoying. But the phrase 'fantastic outfit' stuck in Helen's mind. Ultimately, Sharon Vuehl had been invented by the exhibitionist in Helen, and she won out over the recluse.

Helen capitulated, and Marsha eagerly promised to help with the clothes and the arrangements. There was plenty of time. The official invitation would come through Wendy any minute. Helen turned her cell phone on and waited all of two seconds before a frantic Wendy was screaming at her.

"Jesus Christ," Wendy yelled, "do you have any idea how long I've been trying to get you?"

Helen grinned, but only grunted. After a safe interval she laconically asked what the flap was all about, and was told by an almost incoherent Wendy that she had to call a certain number the first thing in the morning, or maybe right away "because it's still early out there!"

Wendy had become quite the Hollywood insider, having become the manager of two of the hottest new players in the movies without even trying. Helen had to listen to a long list of do's and don'ts that made absolutely no sense, but Helen played along because she had so little contact with Wendy under ordinary circumstances. When they did talk, Helen made a special effort to invent lots of things she was supposed to have been occupying herself with, and then noted it all down on her computer so that she could refer to it later. The early part of this winter she was supposed to have spent in Florida. She said she had met up with some old school chums and bummed around. "I'm thinking of going back for Mardi Gras," she said vaguely.

"I've never been out of Ontario," Wendy said mournfully. "Man, I'd really like to see California, or Florida ... or the Bahamas ..."

Helen smoothly headed that off at the pass. Wendy wasn't one of her buddies, and Helen didn't feel inclined to encourage her to drop her work and run around having fun in the Bahamas. Wendy was on the job regarding the Oscars, and Helen had learned, in addition, that Helen had been invited to present an award, namely the award for best actor. It was one of the most prestigious awards to give, and Helen was aware of it. She had accepted, much to Wendy's excitement.

Helen couldn't talk about all this with Rain, of course. She could call Sita in London, or Lorna in Philadelphia, or Marsha in Seattle. When she called Philadelphia, Lorna was out. It was nearly 6 in the morning in London, so Helen could only go to bed. Rain was pretending to be asleep. With a sigh Helen lay down, and stayed awake, thinking.

Wendy and Marsha

Then, one afternoon, Helen's 'Sherry' phone rang—the phone she answered as Sharon Vuehl. To her surprise, it was Sita, Lalitha's sister.

"Sherry? Hello?"

Helen took a deep breath and tried to remember how she adjusted her voice to sound different. Her Sherry voice was different from her Merit voice ... it was so complicated.

"Sita! How nice to hear from you! How're you doing?"

"Sherry, are ... er ... would you, er ..." her voice sort of petered out.

"What's the matter, kid?"

"I, ... you know about the Academy Awards, don't you?"

"Sure! Congratulations on being nominated, by the way!"

"Oh!" There was a slight pause, while Sita blushed, Helen imagined. "Sherry, I said I wouldn't go, but now they want me to give an award, and it looks like I have to be there!"

"Great! I'll see you there!"

"Sherry, could I sit with you?"

It was perfect. Helen enthusiastically agreed, finding the role of Sharon Vuehl coming back to her readily. It would be a pleasure to spend the evening with the charming young Indian, and Helen felt excited at the prospect. Within a couple of weeks the awards would be upon them, and Helen began to get anxious about what she would wear, whom she would meet there, and so on.

Helen had stepped up her diet and her exercise to build up her weight and musculature. She knew that it would be easy to gain weight; it was losing it that took effort. For the first time she had to set up an alibi for the evening of the Academy Awards all by herself, without Lorna's help. She decided that she would "accept" a speaking assignment at a fictitious university in Florida. She and Rain and Nicole, between them, arranged to look after the children. Helen cursed Lorna for being away so long.

One Tuesday, Helen met Marsha in a hotel room in Erie, and Marsha gave her the gown she wanted Helen to wear. Helen put it away without looking at it, and began to undress Marsha.

"Helen! Stop; put it on. I want to see how it fits!" It was no use.

Marsha was happy; she and Sylvia were happy together. Somehow Marsha had discovered an insatiable need for a certain kind of philanthropy, and in Sylvia she had found an intelligent and sensible collaborator. But from time to time she felt a need to see Helen again, and give full rein to her lust, or at least to feast her eyes on Helen, fill her ears with the sound of her first love's voice. Sylvia was very definitely her love, now; but she had come to realize that she would always have a certain something in her that longed for Helen.

On her way to Erie, Marsha had thought of Helen and sighed. Though Marsha often thought of Helen's body and her face and her eyes, and the feel of her snuggled against her body at night, it was Helen's tender affectionate nature that made Marsha hurt with longing. The artist in Marsha longed to involve Helen in a number of creative projects; so diverse were Helen's talents, she could give life to an amazing variety of fantastic ideas. But then, at night, it was heaven to give herself over to Helen's tenderness. It was like a lover, a mother and a sister, all rolled into one.

That was the fantasy. The actuality was different. Marsha was stunned at how Helen's appearance had subtly changed. There was a perfection there that was new; she was taller, more muscular, smoother, her eyes more piercing, hungrier. Her smile was more seductive, her mouth more sensuous. There was more of Merit in her, Marsha saw. It was like being a god. It was an amazing feeling: to have invented a heroine out of her mind, and see her come alive, as Pygmalion must have felt.

As soon as they were alone in the hotel room, Helen had stripped off her clothes. She had been wearing very little under her jeans and denim jacket, and now she stood naked, quickly and efficiently undressing Marsha, a half-smile on her face. The blond hair was French-braided neatly down the back, giving her that air of ultra perfection that a French braid inevitably seemed to give.

Helen fucked her with a single-mindedness that was frightening in its intensity. Several times Marsha tried to take control, but Helen was too intent on what she was doing. Then Marsha gave up and let it happen.

Los Angeles

The weekend of the Academy Awards approached, and Helen had to deal with the problem of, firstly, having her classes covered, with which Marsha could not help. Secondly, she had to set up (as before, when filming the movies,) an excuse, a pretended reason for being away for several days, since she could not tell her colleagues that she was on her way to collecting an award on behalf of Sharon Vuehl.

She had to deceive Betsy, her assistant in Westfield, too. Somehow, she had to go incommunicado once she was in her supposed conference destination, and she had made plans for all that to happen. It took all Helen's mental power to keep the deceptions straight until she was actually gone. The day seemed to drag on forever, but eventually she found herself on the plane to Boston, the supposed location of the conference.

Marsha met Helen there, and they began the transformation.

"Are you sure?" Helen had decided to dye her hair, rather than wear a wig. Helen nodded. Her nerve-ends were on fire. Her heart was beating like crazy. She had three days as Sharon Vuehl, and she wanted to really be that icon, not just a blonde in a wig. She wanted to get into all the trouble she possibly could. She tried to explain to Marsha when they had a moment in private.

"Why, darling? Are you unhappy?" Marsha asked. The Helen she was seeing was closer to the Helen of old, not the slut she had been in Erie.

"I've always been two people," Helen said slowly, "there's always been Sharon, waiting to come out."

"If you're not careful, you may just get stuck in the redheaded role. There's way too many people waiting to get their hands on Sharon!"

Helen nodded as she met Marsha's fond gaze. If things went awry, she would turn to Marsha to bail her out. It wasn't fair to Marsha; but there was no other way. Marsha had spent her life putting together her resources for these masquerades, which Helen was taking advantage of. If Helen had gone that route, she couldn't at the same time be the musician she insisted on being.

Once again, Helen's lovely gold hair was cut off at just below shoulder length, and the long process of straightening it began. Helen insisted on having soft, silky hair, as healthy and shiny as it could be, given that it was being assaulted with chemicals. As she waited, bored, while the process took place and her head itched, she couldn't help going over all the arrangements for keeping things going in Westfield, and her head ached. Well, now it was all done, and things would look after themselves. She had told Lorna what was happening, and hinted to Betsy that she might play hooky for a day or two. If there was an emergency, they would contact Lorna, who would know to contact 'Sharon' via phone. Marsha would be left out of the loop. Leaving the children behind had been the hardest part.

"Let's take a look," someone said, and they peeled the foil away. It was disgusting to smell like that for so long. They massaged her while she waited; she was being treated like a celebrity, and it was pleasant. There were tanning beds, pedicures, manicures, facials, eyebrow-shaping. People came in and out. She was fed, and talked-at, and spent time on the phone with a frantic Wendy.

The hair was the best. It was a rich red-brown, very natural-looking, slightly lighter at the ends, and it felt oh-so-soft and silky. Helen loved it.

Somehow they had given her a tan that looked like the kind of thing that would make sense for a redhead: a combination skin dye and sunburn. Then everyone was gone except Marsha.

The look in Marsha's eyes spoke volumes.

There was no talking. Helen found it easy to slip back into what they had been at one time. It could have been agony if either of them had been just a little less happy in their lives apart.

"I'm falling in love with Sharon!" Marsha joked.

Helen smiled her Sharon smile. "Don't get hurt," she said. "We're too old for that."

Marsha's eyes widened just a bit.

Shortly afterwards she was flying to L.A. under an assumed name, but she had papers with her that said that she was Sharon Vuehl from Portland Maine.

It was just getting dark in L.A. when she was picked up by the Limousine and dropped off at the hotel. Suddenly she was surrounded by reporters and screaming fans.

"Hey, what is this," she grumbled. This had never happened in L.A. before. She got back in the Limo, and said "drive; I don't care where."

After some time on the phone, she located the magazine that wanted to do a spread on her.

"This is Sharon Vuehl. Who's this?"

"Sharon Vuehl!" There was confusion at the other end. "Please hold, I'll see if Mr. Carson is here!"

"Who's Mr. Carson?" Helen grinned. This was fun. Marsha has wondered how to 'play' the event without the proverbial retinue. Helen had rejected the retinue idea long ago. As a mysterious character who faded in and out of the scene quickly, a retinue was a liability. So her only 'troops' were the limousine driver, and a small support group hidden away. Even the studio which had made the movie hadn't been contacted, because Sharon didn't have an exclusive contract with them.

Mr. Carson was indeed available, and came on presently. He poured on the charm, and tried to find out what her plans were, and where she was. He suggested disguises of the usual kind, wigs and so forth. Helen was asked to come down to the studios of the magazine.

Skip Carson turned out to be a big man of about forty. Seeing Helen he practically salivated. She was dressed in a tank-top, jeans and a long Maine-style winter-coat, and she looked delicious. She was a dyke, he knew, and the trick was to get her to meet some of their girls. That was the way to deal with the women.

She seemed friendly, though, and he hurried forward to talk to her, while he called on his phone for backup.

"Miss Vuehl, you look fabulous! Come on in!"

"My stuff is in the car," she said. "I've gotta find a place to stay, and I don't know my way around town!"

"Yes, yes," he said, wondering what the deal was. Surely a big star like her must have her contacts! "Happens all the time. Come, let's get you a drink."

"I'm ready for a cup of coffee," she agreed. She was gorgeous, all legs and big blue eyes in a pretty face.

The horde of assistants clustered round her and got her the exact kind of coffee she wanted. The girls arrived in minutes, and Carson left Helen to them. They were experts, and Skip knew they were good.

The girls sent out for food. Sharon had complained that the plane food was lousy. "I travel Business Class," she explained. Soon she was tucking into pizza and more beer.

She turned a friendly face to the chief of the women who were watching her. "Tell me your names again," she asked.

Andrea Mendoza

They were a friendly bunch. There was one who was deferred to by the rest, and Helen found out that she was one of the most respected photographers in the nation. Things had changed since Helen had been shooting spreads in Florida, and now women photographers were as highly respected in glamour photography as men. This woman's name was already familiar: Andrea Mendoza. Personally Helen didn't like her work, which Helen had seen in Westfield at the home of Liz, the Art professor. It was crude, though Helen wasn't going to say so. But Helen had sized her up, and found that she was the right kind of person; not likely to try to capitalize on the fact that Sharon Vuehl was staying with her. And she seemed affluent. And she was independent; she was here as a personal favor to Skip Carson.

Before Helen could actively maneuver the situation, Andrea offered the hospitality of her home with a smile. With appropriate hesitation, Helen accepted. She explained that if there had been more time she would have thought of something different, but the scene at the airport had caught her off-guard. Andrea chuckled and dismissed the inconvenience. They were alone, now, and she said she was delighted for the opportunity. She had loved Sharon's work, and had wondered where she had been all this while.

"I'll tell you sometime," Sharon promised. The bags were duly transferred to Andrea's Jaguar, and the two women headed out to Andrea's home in Santa Monica.

Helen didn't resent Andrea's motherly way of putting her arm round her. She was clearly bisexual, but seemed a woman who had objectified sex to the point where she was no longer tempted by mere proximity. It would have been so wonderful to be in the same position, Helen thought; to be surrounded by so many girls on a daily basis that she didn't get hot at the mere sight of a pretty one. Helen sighed, and had to explain to the sweetly solicitous Andrea. Andrea laughed. She had a pretty laugh, not a hearty one, as Helen would have expected. She was still very attractive for a woman in her late forties.

Andrea's home was a mansion. "As you can see," she said, "there's plenty of room! Here ..." she led the way down a long hallway to the last room, "this should be perfect for you," she said, and there was something sweetly sad about her. It was a neutral room, neither feminine nor masculine, an entire small suite, really, with an attached bath, a collection of books of all kinds in a small book-case, a stereo system, a small computer, a TV, a refrigerator, and a window looking out over the sea. Andrea showed how Helen could go down to the kitchen from a little stairway at the end of the hall. When Helen expressed an interest in the lovely old house, she took Helen all round it, and smiled at how Helen marveled at it.

"It's not really very old," she admitted, "compared to the old houses out East!"

Helen quickly agreed, but said immediately that it wasn't the mere age of the house that she liked, but how pretty it was. Andrea concurred that it was its beauty that had made her buy it.

"Where is everybody?" Helen asked offhandedly.

Andrea laughed again. "We get up early and we stay up late," she said.

Helen was left alone to clean up and get installed. Helen left her clothes in the bag except for the few that needed to be hung up. She smiled as she wondered whether to show Andrea her Oscar clothes. She sighed. If Andrea was only as good a photographer as she seemed to be a sweet woman! Helen was thinking pleasantly about possibly a roll in the hay with her. She smelled wonderful, and that was a big factor with Helen.

The refrigerator had a large freezer, and was full of ice-cream and other sweet things. Whomever the room had been kept for certainly liked his or her sweets. The books, though, were very varied for so small a collection, from Victorian novelists to James Bond to Joan Vinge to F. Scott Fitzgerald to Richard Leakey. There was also a small collection of recordings, equally varied. Helen was excited to see two of her own recordings there!

It was now around 9 p.m. and Helen was still not sleepy. Dressing in a simple, youthful dress, she headed for the stairs. She heard a youthful voice talking to Andrea.

"Jen's room? Wow." Helen stopped to eavesdrop. She was wearing cork sandals which were silent. "What's she like?"

"Go talk to her!"

"Are you nuts, Ang?" Giggles. "Go get her down!"

"She's tired, love."

"What's she doing here? Oh, it's the Oscars! Oh Ang ... can she get us tickets? Do you have tickets?"

"Yes, Ron and I have tickets. Listen, if you promise to call ..."

Helen was intrigued by the voice. She decided to make an appearance. The simple A-line dress she was wearing would show a lot of leg as she came down the stairs. Thank god her legs were good, even if her face was wrinkled. Marsha had waxed them, and Helen felt naked without the fine body fur that she had never lost up until now. But her skin felt sexy when she touched it.

"... oh, here she is now! Hello, Shari!"

Stephanie Robbins

The young girl with Andrea could only be her daughter. She was looking over her shoulder, a slim girl, barely twenty, Helen guessed, with rimless glasses and short, thick blonde hair. Helen saw her draw in her breath sharply, and felt the power of her own beauty. It felt wonderful. It was amazing how different she felt as Sharon than as Helen.

Helen came down the stairs sedately, appearing completely unconcerned about all the skin she was showing. One hand on the banister, she smiled at the twosome who stood under the arch away to the side, and walked over to them.

"Shari, this is my daughter Stephanie Robbins! Steph, this is Sharon Vuehl; Merit, remember?"

"Of course, Mom!" Steph was as enchanting as her voice had promised. The blonde bangs hid a good forehead and fine features very like her mother's. She must have her father's nose, Helen thought, because instead of the cute little nose of her mother, Steph had a long narrow one that suited her perfectly. Helen held out her hand, and Steph took it and shook it firmly, but then put her arms round Helen and hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. Helen managed to hide her startlement. "You look just beautiful!" Steph said sincerely. Helen saw that she had pretty eyes of a nondescript color, sort of grey-brown, but she had the most perfect rosy lips. She wore light-colored jeans and a matching denim shirt and tiny canvas shoes on her tiny feet. Her hands were perfectly manicured, with the nails cut short. She wore no jewelry of any kind.

Andrea stepped in to fill in the conversational gaps as they moved to the kitchen. Once Helen had got over the powerful attraction she was feeling for both mother and daughter, she was able to concentrate on putting the young woman at ease, and being Sharon at the same time. It only needed talking a little like Lorna and a little like Rachel Krebs, who both talked rapidly when excited. Soon they were making fun of how fast Sharon talked. Helen made some "I'd like to thank the Academy" jokes and had Steph in stitches. Steph, in turn, was no mean comic, but Andrea was the best. She could 'do' practically anybody, and Helen laughed heartily.

In a lull in the laughter, Helen brought up the matter of mobility. "I've gotta get a car," she said. "But that'll have to wait until morning, huh?"

In mere minutes, Steph had her set up with a car which they would bring to the house early the next morning. Steph was a genius on the phone.

"For tonight, if you need to go out, we'll take you," Andrea promised.

The first person she had to see was Sita, who called from the plane around ten o'clock. She was arriving in a few minutes, and would be taken straight to the hotel. She wanted Sharon to meet her there. "I have to see you!" she said, but immediately followed it up with something to the effect that if it was inconvenient, they could meet the following day.

Helen warned her that getting to the hotel might not be as trivial as she thought. She described how she had been mobbed. She didn't say, though, that the news of her hotel reservation had been deliberately leaked. It had been Marsha's idea to alert the city to Sharon's arrival that way. Sharon's calls were being shunted to Wendy's office, which had been set up in a rented space for the week. Wendy was turning out to be a wonderful asset. She had blossomed as a person who could persuade people over the phone, and now she was busy lining up stuff for Sharon—a nice contrast from having to say no to everybody for eleven months.

But Sita appeared not to be concerned. "I've never been mobbed, Sharon," she said. "I think I've figured out how to avoid it!"

"I'd love to get a glimpse of her!" Steph confessed with a smile.

"Why don't you invite her over?" Andrea asked, smiling.

Sita in Hollywood

Presently, Sita was picked up at the hotel, and shortly afterwards, brought to the Robbins home. Andrea and Steph fussed over Sita, almost unable to control themselves. Helen was just a little jealous, but she had expected to be. Sita wore a simple skirt and blouse, and looked simply delicious. She looked absolutely Indian, and sounded perfectly British. Helen had met dozens of Indian girls with British accents, but none as English as Sita. Sita's was the economical speech of the well-educated professional, learned from her family, and not from youthful companions in school. She spoke like an adult, but with her own charming twists that were thoroughly endearing.

While Helen stewed over the fact that their hosts couldn't disguise their fascination with the pretty Indian girl, it was soon clear to everyone that if not for her beautiful manners, Sita would have ignored them all for Sharon. To the casual eye, however, this would not have been plain, since Sita took care to attend to everyone. She answered every question fully, or if she wanted to hold back, did so with great tact.

After a while, Andrea decided to leave the 'young people' to themselves. (She had placed Sharon to be around 20, though Helen was of course nearly her own age.) Left to themselves, the girls decided to go out.

"I don't drink," Sita said gravely. "Not usually, anyway," she said, glancing at Helen, who only smiled,

"You don't have to," said Steph, firmly. "I don't believe in that crap."

Sita preferred to sit and watch while Sharon and Steph danced. A touch of makeup had turned Sharon into an anonymous redhead. L.A., it turned out, had scores of Sharon Vuehl wannabe's, and she became just one more.

Being with two attractive women simply tired Helen out. In the course of the evening, Sita had asked if she could stay the night with Helen, and a smiling Steph had said yes, of course. Sita had looked up into the eyes of her friend, asking her silently if she really wanted this. Steph felt privileged to be allowed to witness the silent communication.

"Kid," said Helen, kindly, "you know how I feel about you!"

"I could always go back to the hotel," Sita said simply. She had come a long way. There was no talk of love.

"No," said Helen, "I don't want you to."

The three girls walked, holding hands, out to the spot where they were parked. No one bothered them. Sita had only drunk cola; both Helen and Steph had drunk lightly. From time to time, Steph turned to Helen and kissed her on the lips. She knew Helen was spoken for, but they had become so close, it didn't seem wrong. Sita was humming a tune softly to herself, holding Helen's hand tight.

They got in the car, with Sita at the back, and drove home cautiously through the back streets. "I think I'm legal," Steph said, "but I don't trust myself on the highway." Helen nodded. "Three of my friends were killed in drunk driving accidents." Her passengers expressed sympathy in soft murmurs.

Andrea was up waiting for them when they arrived. The four of them stood in a circle and an odd awkwardness seemed to settle on them. "Good night," said Steph, softly, and leaned to Sita and softly kissed her on the lips, making her blush. Then she turned to Helen and did the same. Helen could feel the heat of Steph's face and the softness of her sexy lips. Then she turned around and ran off up the stairs without a word.

Helen and Sita looked at Andrea who looked a little red in spite of her smile. "She's fine," she said quietly. "She just likes you both."

Helen made Sita comfortable on a smooth, empty desktop. She was naked, and beautiful. Her pale brown skin was soft and smooth, with just a tinge of olive and pink and cream. Helen placed her hand on Sita's belly, and felt the trembling of her body. "Do you like that?" she asked, and Sita said yes. "Here," said Sharon, "suck on my finger," and placed a finger in Sita's mouth. Sita began to softly suck on the finger. Helen stroked Sita's belly, and then moved her had up to Sita's breast. She gasped and went on sucking, and her legs moved apart of their own accord. Then she pulled them back together, awkwardly protecting her vagina.

Helen lightly teased the engorged labia, and Sita gasped and began to suck hard. Her sucking was beginning to turn Helen on. Helen gently took her finger out of Sita's mouth, and Sita dropped her head back with a sigh. Helen still felt her soft tongue on her finger.

Then Helen put her other hand in Sita's mouth, and after it was moistened, slowly and delicately slipped it into the folds of Sita's labia. Reflexively, Sita grabbed Helen's hand. Sita's hand was so tiny, her fingers so slim, it felt strange. As Helen worked her way inside, Sita's vaginal muscles parted reluctantly, and Helen was experiencing the soft, moist warmth of Sita's vagina, and her whole body thrilled with the sensation that was nature's gift to her children.

"Kiss me," Sita whispered.

"Afterwards," said Sharon, looking at her seriously. "I want to do this right."

"How can you be so cold?" Sita asked softly.

"Cold?" Sharon asked. "If I got any hotter, I'd burn!" Her finger slowly pushed in and out, and Sita began to move her pelvis. It was the most beautiful thing Helen had ever seen. She watched it fascinated. "That's right, doll ..." she said hoarsely, "fuck my finger!"

Sita grasped Sharon's breast unasked. The feel of her fingers through the soft fabric of her dress was unbearably sensuous. The table was too high for Sita to touch her more intimately.

"Everybody wants you," Sita said, beginning to pant. "Steph wants you, I can tell."

"Stop," Sharon said, and inserted two fingers, making Sita gasp. They began to move again, and now Sita began to suck on her own fingers, her lust almost unbearable. Sharon watched her though narrowed eyes, as they resumed the movement that would result in Sita's orgasm.

But it was Sharon who did. When she was least expecting it, Sharon felt the dam inside her burst. Sharon continued to try to focus on what she was doing, feeling as if all her muscles had just given up. Soon Sita's motion became increasingly erratic, and with a despairing cry, she clutched Sharon's arms tight. She opened her eyes and looked right into Sharon's eyes, as she finally understood what lay before her; what this was all about.

Helen undressed, turned the lights out, and carried Sita to the bed. The doors were locked, and they were in a world of their own.

In bed, Sita shyly took the lead. She was no stranger to sex, it was true, but there was something special about sleeping together a whole night. It was Sita's first night, and she wasn't sure if Sharon would quite understand what that meant. All the tenderness that filled Sita's heart could only find expression thus far in little dribbles, the occasional kiss, the occasional caress of a child. But tonight, she had Sharon for the whole night. They weren't in love, Sita understood. It took two to fall in love. But she had felt many times the incredible tenderness that there was in Sharon, a tenderness that matched her own.

Helen marveled at how much feeling there was in the usually self-contained girl. It was slow and controlled, and in spite of their determination to not fall in love, they found a lot to express to each other. What difference did it make whether they were or were not in love, if they could have this every night? Every care fled away, every hurt was healed, and they melted together, without a thought of tomorrow. Early on, there was some passion, as they felt their bodies react to what they were feeling. Then it was gone, leaving that infinite tenderness.

Sita slipped quietly out of bed, and Helen heard her padding about the room. Helen had never slept a whole night with anyone while she was pretending to be Sharon. What if she cried out something that was obviously 'Helen-related?' Lorna had told her on several occasions that at times she cried out in her sleep. It was usually a dream; one time Helen had called her dog, Martha; other times she had called to Leila, several times to Lorna, and to Lalitha. (What was she up to?) It was the last name that worried Helen most.

Sita slipped back into bed wearing an over-sized cotton undershirt. She lay quietly next to Helen, trying to slip under the sheets without waking her. Helen raised the sheet and pulled her gently over, close to her.

"You're awake!" she said, and Helen could hear the smile in her voice.

"Yes," Helen said, and she was amazed at the love in her own voice. "I was thinking about you!"

There was a long sigh from her companion. Helen realized that in matters of the heart, Sita was instinctively infinitely wiser than Helen was. Too late Helen realized that there was no happy conclusion to that conversational ambit. But she also realized that again Sita was ahead of her.

"Don't talk," Sita said softly, half rising to bend over Helen and kiss her gently on the lips. The feel of her warm body through the knitted cotton was almost painfully sensuous. "Go to sleep!" Her thin fingers ran softly through Sharon's hair, a luxurious sensation. "Tomorrow is a big day for you. For us," she amended.

Helen wanted to have no secrets from her. She had an instinct for people, and her instinct told her that Sita meant nothing but the best for Sharon. But reason told her that the secret would be a burden to the girl. Helen had to laugh inside. Here she was, wanting to make these three days an absolute orgy of love and sex, but she was lying in bed quietly with the most sedate companion she could have found in all of California! The last thing she remembered as she fell asleep was the sweet smell of Lalitha's kid sister in her lungs.

In spite of the jet-lag effect, Helen (Sharon) and Sita slept until nearly seven. They woke more or less at the same time, and discovered each other with equal pleasure. In the soft clear light of a soon-to-be brilliant morning, Sita looked even more enchanting than she had the previous night. She had the most lustrous brown eyes ever, a little lighter than Lalitha's, and the same expression of delight that Lalitha had worn in the early days of their love. The eyes searched Helen's face, like children did, sometimes, just before they tried to dig your eyes out. But Sita cupped Sharon's face in her hands and softly kissed her, her eyes shining. All this Sharon had missed, when she had skipped out on Sita in the early hours of the morning. If anything, Sita was even more amorous in the morning than she had been in the night. Her passion rose as she lay on top of Sharon, and kissed her, tenderly at first, then more passionately, until she lost control, and drove them both over the edge.

Twenty minutes later they lay panting with exertion, with Sharon on top, trying not to crush Sita too much. Feeling Sharon trying to raise her weight off her, Sita pulled her down. "I'm not a baby," she said breathlessly, "you won't hurt me. Lie down!" Sharon tactfully slid a little lower before she rested her full weight on Sita's slim body.

"I thought I could control myself!" Sita exclaimed softly. Her hands were everywhere, taking possession of Sharon, making all of her body Sita's property. They had not exchanged words of love or belonging, but it was happening. Yet, in a way, Sita was far more sophisticated about the politics of love in the West than Lalitha had been when a similar event had occurred. On that occasion, both Helen and Lalitha had been certain that what they had would be forever. This time, though, it was all play. Sita was playing at staking out her claim to Sharon's body, and Sharon was letting her pretend. And there was a bittersweet taste to the game that made it wonderful.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"It's Stephanie," Helen murmured. Sita nodded, her eyes solemn. She clambered out of bed, while Helen pulled the sheet over her breasts. The room smelled like two women had been making love.

It was indeed Stephanie, who peeked in when Sita opened the door a crack. Sita let her in immediately with a big smile. Stephanie was still in her pajamas, but already wore her glasses.

"Did you sleep well? The T-shirt fits you; you look cute!" she said to Sita, putting her arms round her and giving her a big hug and kiss. Stephanie was a very warm-hearted girl, Sita decided.

Helen was sitting up in bed, the bed sheet wrapped round her. The morning sun hit a wall right outside the window, and was reflected in, lighting Helen—or rather Sharon—just perfectly off the white sheet. Both the younger women stood awkwardly, as if in the presence of some divinity, not quite understanding what they were feeling. Helen smiled vaguely, lost in thought. Then she came into the present, and Steph felt bold enough to sit on the edge of the bed. Sita stood shyly, tugging the shirt down to cover her thighs.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Steph asked Sita in a reverent voice, indicating Sharon.

"Oh, yes!" Sita said sincerely, crossing her arms across her breasts, causing her nightwear to ride higher inadvertently. With a soft, impatient sound, she said she would go put something on.

"Why? You look perfectly decent," exclaimed Steph smiling at her. Sharon agreed with her, but Sita disappeared into the bathroom with her clothes.

Stephanie looked at Helen (Sharon) with a bemused smile for a long time, making her uncomfortable. "I have never seen two people more perfectly suited to each other," she said. "I apologize for last night."

Helen was stunned. It was completely unexpected.

"We're only friends," Helen said softly. "I'm fond of her, but ... Actually, I'm _very_ fond of her, but ..."

Steph stared at her disbelieving. Finally she had to accept it. "You should see the light in your eyes when you look at her," she said, very quietly. Then Sita returned. She looked lovely in her simple clothes, her hair combed and tied back again, her face clean.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, innocently.

Steph looked at Helen in consternation.

"Steph was speculating about the two of us," Sharon said, smiling. Steph looked at Helen reproachfully.

"Sharon is ... a good friend," Sita said, and there was a sadness in her smile that seemed to nip at Helen's heart.

Finally Stephanie stood up and shook them out of their glum mood. "It's going to be a lovely day," she said. "You shouldn't let me ruin it for you!"

Both Sharon and Sita insisted that she hadn't. She said that breakfast was waiting, and if there was anything else they liked, Andrea or she would fix it for them.

Helen was wondering if Sita might want to spend the morning with them, making it awkward for Sharon to do some of the things she wanted to do. But Sita asked Stephanie whether she would drop her at her hotel, and Stephanie said she would be happy to. Suddenly Sharon was free to do whatever she wanted.

What she wanted was to get into the porn industry.

Breakfast was a simple meal: there were fruits and cakes and things like that, and Sharon ate a lot of it. Then Steph and Sita left together. Andrea said she had managed to move her appointments to next week. "I'm completely at your disposal!" she said, smiling warmly at Helen, and eying her up and down approvingly.

"Andrea," Helen said, "I've promised to do a nude spread for Elegance." Andrea nodded. She looked very interested, but not so interested that Helen felt intimidated. She would love to shoot Sharon Vuehl, Helen knew, but she would value Sharon's friendship even more than the value of the photo assignment. As a photographer Andrea had nothing to prove. "I want to choose just the right person to do it. I figure you would be a good person to ask."

Andrea grinned. "You have flattered me more than you can imagine!"

Helen shrugged. "I'm taking the risk of offending you by choosing someone else!"

"I'm flattered that you're taking that risk" Andrea replied candidly. She led Helen to a different corner of the house, where her study was. Off her study was a large circular room, its walls covered with pictures of nude women. Helen gasped. There was one from her shoot in London with Sita and the Italian fellow, one of the better ones. There were shelves full of books filled with photographs; it was a porn-lovers paradise. There were all kinds of photos, from glamour to hardcore, from fetish to some very questionable things indeed. Andrea let Helen browse the photos, looking gravely defiant.

Helen gave a whistle of admiration. She asked if it was all Andrea's work. Andrea smiled, and her girlish laugh rang out again. "I thought you might make that mistake!" she said, when she stopped laughing. "It's a collection of all the photographers that Skip uses, and a number of others; just the very best. It's from the magazine, the Internet, everywhere." Helen nodded. She had been delighted to see her own work in one corner of one shelf. "It's in sections; my stuff is over here," she said, waving her arms to define a block of photos that took up about a quarter of the room. That section, too, contained all styles, and Helen was interested to note that more than half of it was hardcore; that is, it was either actual sex, or representation of actual sex. Andrea's genius was the representation of the act of sex, and the male and female organs in detail. "This part," she indicated, "is my commercial work. But even my artistic work, what I do for competitions and stuff ... is like that; very graphic, very raw." She studied Helen's face and grinned. "It's not for everybody! If I were you, I wouldn't want to be shot by me, unless I needed the money real bad!"

Helen laughed. Andrea was refreshingly honest, as honest as her daughter. It was unbelievable that such a lovely, gracious, civilized woman plied such a peculiar, almost vulgar trade. Helen wondered how Steph must manage the trauma of having Andrea do her work. They talked for a while about the business, and Helen (Sharon) expressed an interest in observing it. She said she was particularly interested in the process of shooting hardcore photos of amateurs. Andrea quizzed Helen in detail, until Helen revealed her reasons. Helen admitted that she was quite a pervert, too; she told Andrea what kind of things she liked, and found to her comfort that Andrea was completely non-judgmental about it. And Andrea stated that she was firmly opposed to certain very specific practices, and Helen was sincerely pleased to find that they coincided precisely with the very things that hurt and disgusted Helen: cruelty, force, and swindling and deception of photographic subjects.

It was a while before Helen was ready to talk about the business at hand. With a smile Andrea encouraged Helen to go through the photos. "Just tell me the ones you like."

Then Helen seriously began to study the photographs. After a while, she stopped being impressed by the beauty of the subject, and began to focus on the other aspects of the work. There was a stepladder to access the higher levels. Andrea watched with considerable interest, and not a little amusement at the single-mindedness of the actress. Sharon would crouch over one section for a long time, frowning to herself, and then slowly move on to another section, then come back and stare some more.

Finally she straightened up and stretched, and walked round the entire room once more, this time clearly comparing particular pieces. Then she turned to Andrea, and indicated a section of the wall. It was not the last section she had pored over, but one on the opposite side of the room, and it caught Andrea by surprise.

"That one?"

"These ... right here," Sharon said, "whose are they?"

Andrea laughed, and seeing that Sharon was getting slightly impatient, she sobered down, and carefully picked a selection of photographs and led the way out to the study, asking Sharon to follow her. She got Sharon comfortable and settled down next to her on the couch, and spread the photos on the coffee table before them. She turned to Sharon and smiled, and there was something odd about it. She seemed both pleased and uneasy, and definitely intrigued.

"You asked about this collection," she said, indicating the Freya special. Sharon nodded solemnly. She wondered what Andrea would say about it. She was almost more interested in that question than in the question that was relevant to the next decision she had to make. Ironically, the photographer Helen was interested in was an artist in the opposite direction; the photos were completely and totally untouched. They were miracles of composition and technique, where the mood of the subject and the background harmonized perfectly. He was also a master of the erotic. He understood sex perfectly, and how it related to desire and to love, and the photographs tugged at your heart, and made you laugh, and made you want to enter the world of the subject and be recognized. The pull of the photo paper was almost palpable.

Helen looked again at her Freya pictures and saw them as if for the first time. After twenty years, she appreciated the genius of that former self. What she had achieved was to explain, to communicate her desire for those women, and to force the viewer to feel that desire.

"As far as I know," said Andrea, "those were taken by a schoolgirl. Well, she was a college student at the time. Have you heard of Helen Nordstrom?"

Sharon's heart skipped a beat. So it was all out. "Uh-huh," she said, and it felt as if anyone could have told that she was dissembling. "Yeah, Helen; I know 'er. Why?"

Andrea gestured to the magazine. "That's her work. Incredibly erotic and forward-looking. Or retro. It's really erotic soft-core. It was thought that the ultimate soft-core people were all men. But this woman blew that theory to pieces. This kind of lighting is her invention. All this ..." Andrea indicated the composite shots "... this is all computer-enhanced. Guys used computer enhancing for years. But this is a new generation of tricks. It took them four years to develop software so that other people could do what she did. Now it's commonplace." Sharon, or Helen, felt the pride rush through her like a drug, and Helen knew she was flushed. Floundering around for something to say, she lamely exclaimed: "And the other photos, those are by her, too, right?"

"Those are by Steph," Andrea said. Helen was stunned.

"These ... all this detail, these ..."

"Yes, uh huh. She's my child, but—I'm not just saying this because of that. She's going to be very, very good." Helen felt an irrational exultation, but also the beginnings of a suspicion that things wouldn't work out. Andrea might decide that it wasn't the best idea for Steph to shoot Sharon. The quiet closing of a car door indicated that Stephanie was finally back.

"It's funny you should have singled out Helen's work and Steph's work, but ... Steph learned a lot from Helen. See all this detail?" Helen nodded. "It's computer enhanced."

Helen gasped. She looked closer, but saw nothing to support what Andrea was saying.

Andrea grinned. "You could ask her. Her equipment is years beyond what Helen must have used." Sharon nodded slowly. "Can you imagine what Helen could do if she had Stephanie's equipment to work with?"

Stephanie came through the door, lost in her thoughts, unaware that her mother and the visitor were staring at her.

"Don't ask her just yet," Helen requested quietly, before Stephanie was close enough to hear. Andrea shook her head, signifying that she wasn't going to do anything without Helen's signal.

She turned to her daughter and noticed her thoughtful expression. "What's the matter?" she asked gently. It wasn't yet clear whether Stephanie was an only child. But Andrea certainly doted on her.

"Nothing, nothing," said Stephanie quickly. It wasn't hard for Sharon to guess what had probably happened; Stephanie had probably broached the possibility of photographing Sita, and had been turned down flat.

Thinking of the girl as an accomplished photographer was strange. She was so innocent, so honest, so gentle, Sharon wondered how it was possible. Helen had been a remarkably innocent girl when she had debuted as a commercial photographer, yet she had a mental toughness that she had desperately needed. Perhaps, wondered Helen, Stephanie was not as innocent a girl as she seemed.

Sharon became aware that her three precious days were evaporating. She had one precious experience to show for it: a heavenly night with Sita. She had shut that experience away to savor later. If she began to relive it, she would be helpless to do anything else. If she let herself feel the emotions she had held in check the previous night she couldn't bear the thought of another day without Sita in her arms. Only the determination to experience sex at its rawest kept Sharon going.

She announced that she wanted to watch a porn shoot.

That very morning, Sharon, disguised in a brunette wig, dressed rather conservatively, was driven out to a motel in a little town south of LA. Helen had not believed that such things happened in motels. But Deb, the girl who was taking her, at Andrea's request, assured her that it did.

"They go where the girls are," she grinned. "They go scouting the previous night, and tell 'em where to come. And they turn up, and take their clothes right off! It's nothing. There's alcohol, the girls get maybe twenty bucks, sometimes a bit more if they're real pretty. Some come with their boyfriends, but usually the guy is a pro." She carried on in this vein, and Sharon got heartily sick.

Helen had worn a rather unflattering dress. She was introduced to the photographer himself, a rather charismatic man who took one quick look at Sharon (now calling herself Christine) and then dismissed her. "Chris here wants to help with the make-up," Deb had said, and the man had nodded absently. There was one other woman, younger than Helen, though she looked a lot older, the real brains behind the operation. Two girls were there already, and Deb got to work. Helen soon realized that she was eminently qualified to be the makeup artist for a nude shoot. Working only as carefully as Deb, not a bit more, she made-up the second girl. Deb explained about the 'waterline' problem, and Helen nodded. This shoot had a professional male model, a tall handsome fellow who stood near the photographer, eyeing the girls with poorly concealed interest. The girls were nervous and talked to Helen and Deb. Helen found herself to be skilled at reassuring her own girl, Lauren. Lauren looked into Helen's eyes and suddenly smiled. "Wish me luck!" she said.

The shoot began. While the photographer shot, and talked to the girl, the woman videotaped it all. There was all kinds of negotiation at the outset, and a promise of more negotiation at the end. Helen was stunned at how trusting the girls were. There was 'romantic' music playing, and the girls were encouraged to 'dance,' which meant to undress to the music.

Turn you head a little...that way; great. Look at the camera. The man reached out to nudge her head a little. Great. Just put your hands on your button, like you're gonna take it off. Slowly! Great. Take it off, sweetheart ... great. Great ... [snap, snap, snap] Switch cameras. Turns his eyes on Deb and asks her to change the film. Deb had warned Helen that this would happen, and Helen had assured her that she knew how to do it.

The girl was now on her back, naked, her legs spread apart, and the photographer wanted her sprayed down. The motel room was warm, but the girl said no. She was threatened with the deal being called off. Her pretty blue eyes turned to Helen, and Helen felt a pang of sympathy for her. She wasn't a bad girl; quite a sweet girl, actually, and Helen conveyed her support through her eyes. "I'll get warm water," she said, and turned back to the bathroom. It had already been warm water to begin with, but it gave the girl an excuse for allowing the spraying. Helen sprayed her while the photographer cursed everyone for the delay. Even spraying Lauren was turning Helen on.

They got Lauren to play with herself, masturbate, and display her vagina by pulling it apart to allow shots as far down it as possible. Under the circumstances, it was a miracle that Lauren was able to have even the most minute orgasm.

It took all of thirty-five minutes, and Lauren was given twenty five dollars, cash, for which she had to sign a receipt. Then the other girl got started. Helen helped Lauren dress, and saw her out.

"Thanks for everything!" Lauren said, and Helen rolled her eyes and smiled. Impulsively, Lauren gave Helen a quick hug and kiss, and hurried off. She had come in all alone, and Helen wondered at the foolhardiness of the kid to do such a thing. Outside there were six teenagers waiting, four girls and two boys, smoking nervously. Helen promised to send someone out.

Helen soon settled into the routine. The photographer liked her, and she managed to get some concessions for a few of the other 'models.' Two of the girls were persuaded to perform a 'lesbian' scene together. They were total strangers, and neither of them lesbians of any sort, but they did it for an extra ten dollars. They were all done by four, and it was a depressed Helen that rode back into town with Deb.

"I know what you're thinking," said Deb.

"No, not at all! It seems ..."

"It's a bunch of shit, and I don't know why I do it." There was a smile on Deb's face as she speeded down the highway, but it wasn't a happy smile. "I'm just addicted," she said, in a low voice. "I can't give it up. I'm a sorry excuse for a woman." She drove a little longer in silence. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this," she said, and the sadness in her voice burned in Helen's heart. Helen questioned her closely, and found out a lot about her. Apparently she was sexually dysfunctional, and the only sexual satisfaction she got was by being kind to the girls on these photo shoots, and whatever limited intimacy she could get from doing their make-up, and watching them. She swore she never hurt them, or stalked them, or 'anything like that.'

She knew who she was talking to. Andrea trusted her, and knew her story. She had worked for Andrea, but Andrea had stopped using her when she had fallen in love with Stephanie. "I'd never harm her; that's not the way I am." Helen felt fascinated and repulsed by Deb at the same time. Her self-pity was annoying, but Helen felt touched by her situation.

When she dropped Helen off she said she would leave right away. Helen, still full of pity for her, sighed. What could she do for the miserable woman?

"Would you like to come in and talk for a bit?"

"Oh, no, no," she said, "I'll just leave!"

"Wait here," Helen said, "I want to give you a little present!"

Deb looked nervous. She said she'd park on the street, and wait outside the gates. Helen looked at her uncertainly for a few long seconds, and decided to trust her. She hurried into the house, and met Andrea. She told her that she wanted to give Deb a little money for helping her out. Andrea nodded at once. Helen hadn't taken much cash with her. Now she got out a few twenties from the purse in her room, and hurried out. True to her word, Deb was waiting out on the sidewalk. She gave Helen a dazzling smile as she came over.

Deb was dressed in a faded and threadbare business suit, and Helen wondered why she didn't take care of herself. She seemed an attractive girl, certainly very intelligent. Helen pressed the money into her hand. It wasn't very much, just $80. But Helen had brought only a thousand dollars with her in cash, of which some $800 was left. She asked for Deb's phone number and promised to call her. "I'll try to get you a job on my next movie," she promised. When Deb kissed her, she knew she had made a friend. Helen watched her drive away with a strange sadness.

"Well?" asked Andrea, impatiently. "I hope it was satisfactorily disgusting!"

"Oh lord, yes," conceded Helen. "He gave just one girl $100, the others just got about $25."

"Whoo!" said Helen, flopping into a chair. "I'm tired!" She was also hungry, but it felt odd to demand food from Andrea. She looked about the room, wondering what to do next. Her brain was on the fritz, and she needed time to allow it to settle down. For a while, all the pent-up feelings raged through her, while Helen concentrated on not letting it all show on her face.

Sleaze

In spite of all the sleaze, Helen had to admit that she was enjoying it. There was something seductive about the very irresponsibility of the last few hours. She needed time to absorb it all.

"Would you like a snack now, Sharon? Perhaps you have plans for the evening ... just tell me what you need."

What evening was this? Thursday. Suddenly alarmed, Helen called Wendy.

Wendy was furious. "You didn't miss anything, but—Shari, you need to keep in touch! There's piles of stuff I need to ask you about. Listen, the biggest thing is the magazine pictorial with _Elegance_. I think you absolutely have to do that. Then, Tony Cheng wants to talk to you. Piedmont want to talk to you. Lots of people just want to do open-ended projects with you. Somehow the rumor had gone out that you wrote _Merit,_ and someone wants to talk to you about a script. I'm going crazy with Sita! There's a dozen proposals for her, but she won't even look at them, and frankly she needs the money. She's been spending it like crazy, and I was hoping you're talk to her! Shall I just e-mail ..."

"I've met the _Elegance_ people already, Wendy."

"Oh, great; I'll check that off." The relief in her voice made Helen grin. "Shari, this Piedmont project sounds like something you would like. There's other stuff; there's a party tonight, and they really really want you there. Tomorrow there's two parties, and a reunion of the _Merit_ cast. There's a Japanese magazine that wants to do a feature, and my ..."

"A party tonight? Who's giving it?"

"Dick Gordon. He's been calling twice a day. You should go, Sharon."

"Who is he?"

Wendy was stunned at Sharon's ignorance, but then she was stunned by practically anything Sharon said. "You don't know? Didn't you read about last year's party? He's Craig Gordon's son; Craig Gordon ..."

"I'll think about it," Helen promised. "I'll call you back!"

"Listen," Wendy said, desperately, "where can I meet you? I want to see you just for a few minutes. There's so much I need to explain, I can't do it over the phone! Tell me where you are, and I'll come. Where are you?" Wendy had only met Sharon a couple of times, and being so close to her employer but unable to meet her, frustrated her, Sharon knew.

"I'll see you before the awards," Sharon promised.

"Oh no, that will be too late!" Wendy cried, but Helen rang off. What could she possibly want? Sharon shook her head impatiently.

"Well?"

Sharon shrugged. "Parties," she said.

Andrea nodded. "There's parties every night up until the Oscars, then there's Oscar Night parties. Some are pretty wild," Andrea said, a twinkle in her eye, "by invitation only!"

Sharon looked at her knowingly, but she could only guess what it was supposed to mean. So they had sex, she thought. Big deal; she knew how much sex some people had in college. Some girls just lived in the men's dorms, and vice versa. There were cases of girls who had sex all day long with their girlfriends, except, of course, they went to all their classes, all neatly turned out. Then they went to all the athletic events and for practice—especially choir practice; some of these were members of the choir whom Helen knew personally—then in the evening they had sex with some boy, which didn't take long, and then it was back to their girlfriends. There was perhaps a total of six hours a day of distraction from their chosen avocation of sex.

"Do you know Craig Gordon?"

Andrea's ears pricked up. "Dick Gordon, you mean?"

"Oh, yes, Dick Gordon, sorry! Know him?"

"Yeah, he throws a great party! Are you invited? Of course, you would be!" Andrea smiled and shook her head. "You don't have any idea how big you are in this town," Andrea said. "And you make me forget!"

Sharon smiled. "How's that?"

"Because you're ... so not a star!"

"You're sweet to say that," Sharon said, smiling. She suddenly made up her mind. "I want Stephanie to do the shoot."

Andrea stopped breathing and Sharon's eyes grew wide with alarm, but Andrea let out a sigh and nodded. For the first time Helen became aware of how much stock they placed on this privilege. Helen felt gratitude for Andrea's hospitality and trust, but they were behaving as if Sharon was doing them an enormous favor by just staying with them. It was all too complicated, especially when she was so hungry.

"You said something about a snack?"

Andrea looked stricken for the second time. "Oh goodness," she stammered, "I forgot; you haven't eaten hardly anything all day! Come on!" She turned to lead the way to the kitchen, then she said, "No wait, I'll bring something out, you poor thing; don't bother to get up."

Helen ignored her and followed her right into the enormous kitchen, ignoring Andrea's protestations. Feeling bold, Helen put her arm round Andrea and stroked her, and in a minute Andrea was her calm self. She had some sandwiches made in seconds, and Helen knew she was find by how she began to scold Helen for not asking for food.

Helen laughed, and began to stuff herself silly. This was such a contrast from being the one who had to keep everyone fed and on schedule. She had looked after Rain for a little more than a week and was already heartily sick of it. She missed being the one who was being fussed over. She missed Cindy and Lalitha and Penny, and most of all Lorna. Rain had done all that was needed when it was needed, but she wasn't the fussy type. Helen remembered that her mother hadn't been so, either. She and Helen had loved each other dearly, but she had run her house in an efficient, businesslike way, and Helen had been expected to do certain things, and she had done them. Nobody had fussed over Helen except the dog Martha.

For a moment she was just Helen again. Sniffing loudly, she said simply, "Thank you for fussing over me!"

Andrea gave her a strange look, and Helen looked down at her food. With a sigh she was Sharon once more. She wasn't sure she cared about the charade any more.

Andrea took a seat close by and nibbled on some olives. Gently she asked Sharon about her life, apologizing for prying. Sharon gave offhand answers, improvising as she went along, not really trying to be consistent. She had most of it practiced from repeating it endlessly for Wendy's benefit. She lived mostly in Florida, moving around all the time, camping out sometimes, sometimes staying with friends. No, she didn't have any close friends except maybe if you counted Wendy, her manager, and Sita. Andrea pressed, and Sharon admitted she had a girlfriend. She didn't say much about her, but hinted that she was too young to be made public. She hinted that she believed she was about to lose her, and unbidden the tears came.

Andrea was wonderful. She just sat close, and put her arm round Helen, and Helen cried softly for a while. When Helen was herself again—or rather, when she was Sharon again—Andrea confided that she didn't know what she would do if she didn't have Stephanie.

"I assumed you were married," Sharon said, softly, her voice still sounding a little drenched.

"Oh, I am. If you're here tonight, you'll meet Steve, my husband. Last night he wanted to see you, but he fell asleep before you got back!"

"I'm sorry," Sharon apologized, "I think I'll wait and meet him tonight, then."

"That would be nice!" smiled Andrea. Then her face grew solemn again and her eyes were elsewhere, as she thought about her child. "I never thought a baby would change me so much," she admitted. Helen stopped herself only just in time from saying that she had a child, too. "She's so much like him: the nose, the eyes! I spoil her rotten; I bought her her first camera when she was eight. It cost two grand then. But she's brilliant. Now she works with a million dollars of equipment, but she pays for it herself. And she graduated early from school, and she's going to Princeton in the Fall. She's perfect." Her voice began to tremble, and Helen looked up from the jar of mayonnaise. Andrea's face was twisted in pain. "I'm proud of her, but ... I never thought she's go into the business. I wanted her to be a legitimate photographer." Andrea calmed herself with an effort. She smiled briefly, but it was too hard. The smile fled, and she looked at the table with unseeing eyes.

"Then, one day, she showed me the most beautiful pictures. They were nude studies of one of my assistants." Andrea's voice became rough as she recalled the scene. She drank some water and began to cough, and cleared her passages with some difficulty. She apologized profusely for her coughing fit. Helen put two and two together and guessed that the assistant must have been Deb. "I told her they were wonderful, but I didn't want her to do nudes until she was eighteen." Andrea smiled and shrugged. "She didn't listen!" she said, and giggled. "No more pictures of the sea and trees and bugs and buildings and flowers. She loved flowers! Now it's vaginas and breasts ... I just want her to be happy, Sharon. I want her to find a wonderful man like her father, and have a wonderful child like herself. Maybe she'll find someone at Princeton, but I don't know ... I don't trust those hothouse flowers out there." Helen nodded agreement. Thank god Gena was a more down-to-earth girl. The thought of Gena distracted Helen for a while. Then it struck Helen.

Andrea was afraid that Sharon and Stephanie would fall for each other. A brief affair was fine, but Andrea was afraid of Sharon. She respected and admired Sharon, and Helen knew she liked Sharon very much. Her eyes told her so; even the long story she was telling told her so. But to fall in love with a woman, no matter how wonderful, meant that Stephanie would never have children. And Sharon was furious at herself for agreeing with Andrea.

Practically, too, Sharon couldn't have a relationship. There just wasn't enough of her for that, Helen thought wearily. And to have poor Stephanie fall for her and then disappear ... Helen cursed silently to herself.

"Do you think," Sharon asked slowly, "that maybe if we have Steph doing the shoot, that she might ... grow a crush on me, or something?"

"Yes," smiled Andrea. "I didn't want to object, but I guess I was too obvious!"

"I understand," said Sharon. "I'd feel the same if she was my daughter!"

Relief was plain on Andrea's face. "You'll change your mind?"

Sharon smiled. Suddenly she was too tired to pick out another photographer. To have Andrea do one of her raw, documentary-style spreads of her sounded like it could be fun in a weird kind of way. "Andrea, would you consider taking the job?"

Andrea looked at her intently for a long time. She had a lot of charisma, Sharon realized; it was just that with Sharon she had held it in check. But there was a lot of humility in the woman, which Sharon had to admire. "You're very understanding," Andrea said. "Nothing I had heard or seen about you has prepared me for what a neat person you are."

"I'm on my best behavior these days, Andrea!"

Andrea smiled. "It'll be an honor and a pleasure to photograph you. Just say the word!"

Sharon needed a few moments of privacy. From around noon her libido had been aroused until it had been at fever-pitch when she left the sleazy motel where they afternoon shoot had been. Now images of Lauren, Jasmine, Sita and Stephanie kept driving Helen crazy, and she had to wind down. She excused herself, promising to be downstairs in, oh, ten minutes, and hurried off to her room. Andrea stared after her, clearly trying to convince herself to stay something, but Sharon was gone before she could.

Andrea's estimate of Sharon Vuehl had undergone a number of changes. She had been initially unsettled by simply getting to meet her so unexpectedly. After months of being a mystery, here she was, suddenly, and as pushy and abrasive as most young actresses. But in a few minutes, the abrasiveness seemed to have disappeared, and she seemed intent on gathering information. She wasn't simply arrogant about her beauty, which was certainly considerable. She certainly was confident about it, though. And she hadn't set out to charm them, nor impress them in any way. Oh sure, she kept up the 'I'm a big star' rhetoric, but Andrea could tell that it was more a joke than a reality. Sharon was acting the celebrity, and it confused Andrea. And Andrea was fascinated, and soon Andrea realized that she wanted her.

It had been long since that she had given up promiscuity. She had gradually drawn away from her lover of twenty years, and drawn closer to her husband Steve. Steve had a few special friends about whom Andrea knew, but Steve was rather old-fashioned, and it was possible that Steve had no actual physical relationship with them. But Steve had assumed that it would be impossible to do the kind of work Andrea did without casual affairs; it was what had fascinated him about her at the outset: that she was attractive to other men and women, and that she never told him the details.

Andrea's lover had found someone else, though she still called, about once every couple of months, and talked sex to Andrea. It left Andrea a quivering pile of jelly, and Andrea yearned to hear that voice. But she refused to see the woman any more. Andrea yearned for the touch of a woman's body, though, but she had to do without it. Having Stephanie was some consolation. Andrea loved her to death, and it seemed that only Stephanie's tender hugs and kisses kept her sane, some days. It waxed and waned, that need to hold something soft and warm, but Andrea stubbornly fought it, for some reason that wasn't clear even to her. Perhaps it was to set a good example to Stephanie.

Even as Andrea felt her desire stirring inside her, she knew she wouldn't act on it. But gradually she began relating to Sharon more and more. There was something very decent about her, almost motherly, almost aristocratic. Watching Sharon interact with Stephanie made Andrea feel still more drawn to the redhead. She could almost feel Stephanie's growing admiration for the visitor.

All this had suddenly been altered when they brought the beautiful young Indian woman, Sita, home. Andrea felt like an oracle. She could almost see the tortured road that Sharon and Sita would tread until they finally found each other. Sita was in love with Sharon; there was absolutely no doubt of it. But she bravely kept that realization clamped down, and meekly let Sharon do what she wanted with her. That was not the way to win a woman like that. You had to stand up to her. You could never gain her respect by being her puppy dog.

But again, Helen had made Andrea love her without trying. In spite of her callous behavior towards Sita, she was a sensitive person. Sometimes it felt as if she was much older than her twenty-some years. Those eyes seemed to have seen much. There was the kindness of having known hardship. Andrea decided that in spite of appearances Sharon Vuehl had suffered much. She was not a New England princess, but a girl who had experienced hardship and sorrow, and whose brash exterior hid a gentle soul.

But she was wild and impetuous. She had excellent taste. She was very intelligent; she had picked up everything Andrea had told her about computer methods in seconds. God, what a pair she and Steph would make! Or ... what if Andrea forged a bond with her _herself?_ Steph would be driven to distraction by the wild woman, but Andrea ... Andrea could handle her. You only had to be persistent, and tell her all the facts, and she would give in. Andrea felt a certain power over her, and with it, a rising love for her. She felt awed at the thought that in a little under a day she had fallen in love with a nominee for one of the highest awards of the Academy. And Andrea knew that Sharon Vuehl was a brilliant actor. She could make you believe things that seemed far fetched, so that you ended up thinking that there was no alternative. Andrea's world was upside-down. If Steph did a nude study of her—if Sharon was Steph's subject, neither could avoid falling in love with the other. Because if Sharon had an ambiguous relationship with the lovely Sita, it meant only one thing: Sharon's heart was searching for a girl like Stephanie. Culturally, Sharon and Stephanie fit like hand and glove.

Andrea could hardly bear it. She had no female confidante any more. She had to talk to her alter ego, Jenny. Genevieve Dubois.

"Hullo!"

Andrea started at the soft voice behind her. "I tried the back stairs!" said Sharon gaily. Her high color told Andrea what she had been doing, and Andrea tried not to smile. (She wondered how Steph handled herself when shooting. Perhaps she took after the women in Steve's family. Andrea only knew that she was a glorious exception to the common rule that women weren't stimulated by images, but by sounds. Andrea was stimulated by everything.)

"You look lovely!" Andrea said. She always told her subjects that, but in this case, she had never been more sincere in her life. "Come, sit down with me, and give me an idea of what you want to do."

Sharon took her suggestion literally. She sat down very close to Andrea and leaned back, closing her eyes.

She explained that she wanted the feature to show her in many moods, from soft and romantic to fierce and angry and ready to fight, to happy and carefree, to passionate. Andrea sighed. This was not stuff that she was comfortable with. It was more Steph's style. But Sharon had chosen her, and she couldn't wriggle out of it. "And I'm not afraid to do hardcore."

Well. That Andrea could oblige her with. Before Andrea could get a word out, Sharon was tugging her towards the stairs. "Let's go raid your closet," she said.

To no one's surprise, Andrea's closet had little to inspire them. They got into Andrea's two-seater and tooled down to the studio through a back-entrance, and found the costumes department. The place was so deserted of employees, it was hard to find even the security people. Tourists, though, were everywhere, and Sharon and Andrea had to move stealthily.

While Sharon looked though the costumes and commented on them, Andrea shot a few rolls of film of her. With only slight hesitation, Sharon stripped down to her underwear and posed with some of the more far-fetched costumes. The first thing she wanted was to stage a fight. Could Andrea find a stuntman?

Andrea began to catch Sharon's excitement. This was going to be different from anything Andrea had ever done. She got on the phone and began to call. At this unusual time, there weren't a lot of people who would come to help. She thought of Deb, and called. Deb said she'd be over at once. Two stuntmen were willing to come when they heard who it was. Finally, she could think of no one else whom she could call. Andrea called home and left a message telling Steve and Steph where she was.

Sharon Makes a Porno

Sharon preferred that every sequence told a story. Andrea found herself shooting a fight between a nude Sharon and a stuntman. Sharon really knew how to fight, and Andrea had to use high-speed film to catch flying kicks and leaps. Next it was fencing, and the amazing girl knew how to fence. While Andrea took 'stills'— a joke considering the speed of the action — another cameraman recorded it on digital video. (At the outset Sharon had declared that she would own all the media. She would buy it all off _Elegance_ if she was dissatisfied. Andrea made everyone agree to that demand with her amazing power of persuasion.) Only the incredible concentration she needed to employ kept Andrea from lying down and having an orgasm. Sharon was incredibly beautiful to begin with, but when she moved, she was grace itself. She was totally unconcerned about her nudity; she was even less aware of it than a porn star.

Next, Sharon was riding around on a back lot on a motorbike, again naked as a jaybird. The cameras were on tripods, and they had to catch her as she roared past. Back and forth she rode, and then she began to masturbate as she rode. "Don't, Sharon, stop it!" cried Andrea, but Sharon only grinned. Rising slightly, she showed everyone her entire fist inside as she rode past, but she soon settled for several fingers, and then displayed an orgasm on the moving bike. She quickly brought it to a stop while she finished it, crying "Wow, what a rush!" as she grabbed her breasts and squeezed. Suddenly Andrea noticed, far away, a slim figure in denims and glasses, and a satchel full of equipment, staring at the naked figure on the bicycle in disbelief. Everyone was quiet as Steph walked slowly up to the redhead on the bike, who was just catching her breath after what seemed to be a goodly sexual experience. The kid seemed to be remonstrating with the older woman. As she argued, it seemed that Sharon dismissed each try with a shake of the head and a gesture and a grin. Sharon turned around finally and yelled to them with a broad grin, "She's arguing with me! Get her out of here!"

Andrea yelled back, "You'd better listen to her!"

In a single smooth motion, Sharon scooped the teenager off her feet and sat her in front, and rode slowly back. It was when they had come up to the small group near the cameras that they saw that the star was not entirely amused. Sharon was looking at Andrea intently.

Red-faced, Steph climbed down the bike looking like thunder, and came to stand not too close to her mother.

Andrea was too upset to speak. She had taken the photos out of her conditioned reflex to shoot when there was a good shot. But now she was beginning to realize the possible consequences of the scenario. Mother and daughter looked at Helen, the one horrified, the other furious.

Sharon climbed smoothly off the bike, and asked for a paper towel. As she carefully cleaned off the leather seat, she said she'd like to get some of the hardcore done right away.

Andrea glanced at Steph, and saw her blanch. Andrea also caught a flicker in Sharon's eyes which was gone in an instant. It had been a deliberate attempt to annoy Steph, and get her to leave. Steph definitely knew it, which Andrea deduced by the deliberate way Steph calmed herself. Steph stepped back and watched to see what would happen.

"I prefer fake hardcore," Andrea said. "I like to get clearer shots, so there'll be penetration, but not actual sex. Nobody's going to be moving when I shoot." Of course she had managed perfectly well with all the action that had been going on before Steph got there, but Andrea was getting tired. All this moving around was disconcerting her.

Sharon shook her head. "It has to be the real thing," she insisted. "It has to be so real, any gal who sees the pictures will get preggers!" She laughed at her own joke, and some of the men joined her.

"What difference does it make? If you can act, you can make it seem real, and that's all that matters, Sharon!" But Sharon was stubborn, and she made Andrea lose her temper. Normally Andrea would not have cared one way or the other. But with Steph being there, and with all she felt for Sharon, something snapped inside, and she powered down her camera in a clear indication that she was through. Sharon was a star, and that was all very well, but without some authority, a photographer couldn't work. Sharon didn't quite realize the politics of the situation, and so was too late in backing down.

"You're expected at the Gordons' party," Steph said, apropos of nothing.

"There's plenty of time, if someone will get the stud out here and the camera rolling," Sharon said, obnoxiously.

Steph strode forward. "I'm taking charge," she said quietly, and looked around. Andrea took a deep breath and walked away. "She'll be back," Steph murmured, for Helen's ears only. Helen smiled inwardly, but knew that Andrea might watch from inside, but she wouldn't be back.

"Who else is going to be in this shot?" Steph asked, calmly. A tall good-looking fellow came forward. He grinned at Sharon and thanked her for cleaning off his bike. Helen grinned back. She liked him, and that was the big thing. He had that one-sided smile that was sort of cute.

Sharon smiled up into his face—he was a few inches taller, and she was barefoot—and asked if he'd had any experience fucking. She spoke loudly; it was pure theater. Watching from inside, Andrea could barely hear the dialog, but she did, and wept for Steph. Sharon showed no mercy to anyone. Why was she doing this?

"Sure," said the fellow, "but have you had any men?"

Andrea looked at Steph, and saw to her amazement that Steph was shooting. She was gesturing for the others to get under cover, the lights were focused on the dirt road, the bike, and the two arguing near it. Steph's big camera was silently recording everything. She didn't say a word, just circled round, keeping away from the lights.

"No," said Sharon, grinning broadly. "This is all new to me!" The crowd laughed nervously. Then she reached inside the man's waistband, and kneaded his genitals, and Steph caught his expression carefully.

Sharon encouraged him to lie on the bike, assuring him she'd keep it steady. After her recent demonstration, they were inclined to believe that she could, too. She undressed him, holding his eyes with her own, and hung over him, to let him caress her. By now the watchers were engrossed in the grace and beauty of the dance of love. Some porn stars had an idea of how to do this, but most didn't. Sharon Vuehl did. There was a powerful feeling that it was a privilege to watch this act, that it was not a daily occurrence. And her gentleness with him was something special.

First she went down on him, tenderly sucking his erection. Then she pressed her breast to his penis, closing her eyes in pleasure, and the camera caught his expression again as he sighed.

She traded places with him. Instead of the usual clumsy choreography, it was done with grace. She stretched out on the bike, and he entered her, and the dance began. The camera lovingly caught Sharon's beautiful breasts as she arched her back in her growing ecstasy, and then she looked straight at him and asked, "Please come on my breasts."

True to his promise, he pulled himself out, and straddling her flat stomach, ejaculated on her breasts. Sharon held his penis with one hand, and with the other, smoothed the semen sensuously over her breasts, as her chest heaved with her receding passion. It had been far more real than was usual for such a shoot.

Sharon's lips parted, and the guy could not help but kiss her. Sharon responded, and they kissed long and passionately.

Finally he pulled away, red-faced. Sharon began to get up. She began to suspect that she had made it too real. She liked the guy, and he had done well. She had had only a dozen or so experiences with men, and this had definitely been one of the best. As he hurried away, pulling up his zipper, Helen wondered how she would get her breasts clean. Already the semen was drying on her skin, making a gluey mess. Then he was running back with a bundle of wet tissues, and tenderly cleaning her off.

Sharon began to blush. "Let me do it," she cried, but he wouldn't let go. It was a tender scene, and Sharon saw Steph shooting like crazy.

"Are you done?" Sharon asked the young man with a twisted smile.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Here you go; I think I got most of it."

"Thanks" said Sharon, and walked towards the building, wiping her crotch with the tissues. Andrea breathed out at last. She'd seen lots of sex, but this was different. Sharon may have just ruined the fellow's sex-life forever. Who could compete with that?

A little later, inside, Sharon sat in an alcove, quietly talking to Steph. Andrea approached cautiously, uncertain how she would be received. Sharon was talking.

"... soft and romantic, and then I'd like to quietly masturbate until I appear to fall asleep."

"Perfect," said Steph, clearly excited. Then she turned to see Andrea. Before Andrea could speak, she put her arms round her mother and said softly, her body humming with excitement, "Thanks for letting me do this, Mom!"

With any other child, Andrea would have suspected that it was a crafty attempt to prevent her from taking back the assignment. With Steph, there was an even chance that the gratitude was sincere.

"I think it's going to be too hard for you, darling. Let me do it, please."

"All right," she said quietly. "I'll help with the makeup and dressing."

"No, darling, I'd like you to go home. Please."

There was a long pause. They three of them were alone together, and Sharon was dressed now in her jeans and shirt. With her wide shoulders and big legs, she looked more like a handsome young man than ever, and something tugged at Andrea's mind, but didn't make it into the forefront of her consciousness. The way Stephanie had positioned herself near Sharon made Andrea's heart ache. With a mother's sure instinct, she knew that Stephanie wanted to stay for a thousand reasons, all of them important to her. Sharon had one arm across beneath her breasts, and she gnawed the fingers of her other hand thoughtfully—or rather, she was lipping them in a childish pantomime of anxiety. Stephanie stood, every muscle tense, every nerve focused on her mother.

"I handled myself well, mother; you were watching." She was breathing slowly, keeping her voice calm. The last thing she wanted was to have a tantrum in front of Sharon. "I'd really, really like to be treated like an adult, for a change."

There was an uneasy silence for a long time. Andrea would have liked to spare Sharon this crisis if she could, but being the down-to-earth person she was, she knew that Sharon had to have realized how she was the source of the problem.

Sharon cleared her throat. "Steph, Andrea: I know that, er, looking at it one way, really, I shouldn't, ... I should really ..."

"It's all right, Sharon," said Andrea and Steph together, who then looked at each other, startled, and back at Sharon, who seemed not amused, but relieved.

"I was trying to say, I shouldn't interfere, but ... I asked Andrea to do the shoot for a reason." She looked at the youngster, woman-to-woman. "If you go home, I promise to give you a full explanation, whether your mother approves or not." Helen looked at Andrea expressionlessly. "I think she deserves that."

Steph was taken aback. She looked at her mother in alarm. Andrea looked as inscrutable as Helen, though she wore a slight smile that didn't reach her eyes, and really meant nothing except that she wanted to be polite.

"I appreciate how carefully you're going, Sharon, considering how little you know of us, and how little we know of you. I'm not going to take offense."

"All right," said Steph in a small voice, "I guess I'll go."

She walked slowly away, carrying her equipment, the picture of defeat, and Andrea watched her daughter, and Sharon watched Andrea. She could just imagine Gena, or Elly departing like that. Or rather she couldn't; they would have left only after a long-drawn-out fight. Sharon was smiling when Andrea turned round. Andrea looked away. She had expected Sharon to be very sorry. There were aspects to Sharon Vuehl that Andrea thought she could never understand.

Suddenly, her troops began to disperse, all except Deb. Apparently Oscar fever had gotten everyone, and there were parties that needed to be attended. Deb, alone, had nowhere to go.

All the lights were on, all the costumes were taken out and on hangers in the wardrobe room, and the three of them looked at each other.

"I have a few ideas," said Sharon.

As Stephanie drove home, she found traffic halted by a big demonstration in front of a hotel. When she finally got near the crowd, she saw what it was all about. The crowd was immense, and it was all women, and the high-pitched yells were almost unbearable. They were yelling: "Merit, come on out!" Several women thrust leaflets into the car through her open window. At the next traffic light, Steph held the leaflet to the light, and caught the phrase: 'What has Sharon Vuehl ever done for women's rights?'

The whole leaflet was a diatribe against supposed Hollywood actresses who had supposedly made money from lesbian themes, but supposedly never supported women's causes, or lesbian causes.

The other leaflet was more balanced. It reproached Sharon for standing aloof from women's causes, but called on her to become involved. And there was a long litany of causes that she could support.

Steph vaguely realized that the rally was not hostile to Sharon as such, but rather a demonstration against actresses who exploited lesbian themes to make a buck. But in the mood Steph was in, it seemed unfair and unreasonable that Sharon should be the focus of the bitterness that was being thrown about. On impulse, Steph pulled over into a parking spot and got out, locking the car, with the million-dollars of camera equipment inside. Making her way a few yards closer, she entered the fringes of the crowd, some two city blocks long. There were a crowd of young women of diverse descriptions all standing round, talking animatedly.

"What's going on?" Steph asked, mildly.

"Well, Sharon 'Merit' Vuehl is staying in the Regency, and we're asking her to come out."

"Why?" asked Steph, getting bolder.

"Why? Because she pretends to be a dyke, makes billions of dollars, and meanwhile there's scores of women getting battered and bullied and discriminated against each day, and of course Sharon the big-time movie star doesn't give a shit. And who goes to see the movie? Poor stupid asshole lesbians, who give their hard-earned cash so she can become rich!" The girl was a hard-faced brunette in jeans, about Steph's height, and Steph immediately took a dislike to her.

"Do you know for a fact that she doesn't support your causes?"

The girls looked at her in shock for a few seconds.

"Do you know that she _does?_ What are you, some kind of Sharon specialist? We're just asking her to come out and talk to us, ok?"

"Well, is she really in there?"

"It's just a demonstration, idjit," said another one, "Jeeze, you're stupid! Why don't you run off and tell your Sharon that we'll shove her fucking movie up her ass?"

"Leave her alone, Mandy," said yet another one, feeling sorry for Steph.

But Steph had started crying, and the girls began to laugh. One of them came closer and gruffly told Steph not to cry. She led Steph away and began to explain the politics of the situation to Stephanie. She explained how vulnerable women were, generally, and how easy to exploit. "Women like Sharon are vultures, just waiting to rip off any unsuspecting minority."

"No, she isn't!" wept Steph, her heart breaking. These girls could never understand how neat Sharon was.

The girl who was talking to her gave her a twisted smile. "A fan, huh!" She patted Steph on the back. "I consider it my personal duty to set you straight about these celebrities. There are two kinds. There's the vulture, and there's the good ones. And if Sharon was one of the good ones, we'd know about it! She'd come out and talk, at the very least."

Steph grabbed her arm and shook it, looking intently into the girl's face, her own face wet with her tears. "She's one of the good ones! I'm trying to tell you! And she isn't in there!" It was too late, after that; Steph realized she'd compromised herself.

The girl with her looked at Steph with narrowed eyes. "You know her, don't you!"

"Yes!" whispered Steph urgently.

"Can you take me to her?"

"Okay ... if you promise not to ... wait, where are you going?"

"Wait right there, don't move! Hey guys ..."

Steph panicked, and ran like the wind. She got into her car just as the leaders caught up with her. She went through a red light, and was speeding down the highway back to the studios, bawling her head off. She was firmly convinced that a million cars were after her, but of course they weren't. Then, to her horror, she noticed that her gas tank was empty. Her heart in her mouth, she eased off the accelerator. She dared not take a back road at night, for fear of running out of gas in a dangerous neighborhood. The car began to falter just as she took the exit for the _Elegance_ studio, and half a block from the gate, the engine died.

Choking back a sob, Steph carefully locked the car again. There was no one chasing her, thank goodness. As she hurried down the sidewalk, she saw her mother's roadster turning out of the gate. Frantically she ran into the street in front of it, and the car swerved to avoid her, and Sharon and her mother jumped out of it and ran towards her. And Steph fell into Sharon's arms. A sudden burst of traffic was tearing round them, the drivers cursing them in a dozen languages. Sharon picked her up easily, and ran for the sidewalk, while Andrea got the car out of the traffic.

Steph was only out for a few seconds. When she came to, she found Sharon's cheek pressed against hers, and her arms holding her tight, and Sharon was muttering to herself.

"Poor sweet girl, something has scared the daylights out of her! What can it be? Steph? Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine," said Steph. It all seemed stupid, now that Sharon's strong arms held her fast. A desperate hope began to burn in her heart, but being who she was, she knew that it was a long, long shot. She looked into Sharon's eyes, and studied her face. And she knew that life for her had changed forever. And she wondered how many lives Sharon had changed this way.

"Where's your car?" demanded Sharon, just as her mother hurried up, asking the same question.

Stephanie

An hour later, they were all safe at home.

Steph and Sharon had decided to handle the gas problem; Andrea had been sent home, to find out what she could about the rally. Steph and Sharon had walked until they found a gas station, bought a gas can, and Sharon had stood chatting to Steph while she filled the can. Steph didn't feel at all scared with Sharon; it was as if Sharon was a force of nature that could handle anything. It was the first time Steph had spent so much time alone with another person in a non-photo-related situation, and she found the experience fascinating. At first, Sharon told her stories of times she had been in a bind, fought her way out of messes, boasting about her fighting ability like any boy. Then she became more quiet, and told her about what Sharon and Andrea had discussed.

"There's something about you and me together," Sharon said quietly, and Steph's heart soared out into space. "If we're not careful, it'll turn into love, and ..."

"Why shouldn't it turn into love?" asked Steph equally softly and reasonably.

Sharon sighed. "I didn't mean love, really, I meant falling in love. I mis-spoke myself."

"I know what you meant. I always know what you mean. My god, I feel as if I know what you're _thinking_ sometimes!" Steph hugged herself in the intensity of her feelings. She could feel the warmth of Sharon's emotions, why couldn't Sharon feel her thoughts? How could Sharon be so calm about such an important thing as love? "Why can't we fall in love, Sharon?" A short bitter laugh escaped her. "I don't have very far to go, really."

"We can't, Steph." Her voice was so low, Steph could hardly hear it. Helen had decided with difficulty to make an almost clean breast of it to Stephanie. "You know why Sharon disappears into thin air every once in a while?"

Steph looked at her, puzzled. "No ... I assumed you were lying low, like most people in Hollywood."

Sharon shook her head. "Can you keep a secret for me, Steph?" Stephanie nodded. "Well—I lead two lives. Sometimes I'm this crazy movie star ... the rest of the time, I'm married and have three children, and I live in a small town in a small state ... a small, colorless person. But I love my family dearly. To me they're not colorless, they're wonderful, shining people. And they'd never understand that I'm this split personality who has to cavort around naked to express herself. It's a mess, isn't it?"

Steph was silent a long time. Helen patiently waited. The fate of Sharon Vuehl hung in the balance.

"So that's why you're so callous with Sita." Helen was stunned by Stephanie's intuitive leap. "I knew there had to be a reason," Steph continued in a low voice, almost a mutter. "I was such a fool!"

What could Helen say?

"I guess I've sacrificed a lot of people to my ... what is it? Egomania, I suppose." Helen felt ashamed of feeling so defensive, but that was precisely what she felt: defensive. "If you'll find it easier to forgive me, I will say sincerely that I love Sita very much."

"Will you tell her that you love me very much?" Steph asked, and Helen was struck by how little bitterness leaked into the question.

"Gladly, and I'd mean it."

Steph stopped walking and turned to Helen. "Would you put your arms round me, and tell me that? The way other people do? I want to feel normal, Sharon, with someone I can dream about!" She put the gasoline can carefully down on the sidewalk, and stood in front of Helen, a forlorn, vulnerable figure.

To Stephanie, Helen seemed to loom, large and comforting, yet soft and sensitive. She tried to imagine her with a man, and failed. She was too independent, too strong, too intelligent to be the wife of someone. Steph recalled the man whom she had made love to. Steph had been sensitive to the nuances of that act. Sharon had taken him. While pretending to pleasure him, she had used him. It had not been a romance between equals. For a sensitive man, it would be hard. But for Steph, it would be perfect. She would willingly let Sharon take pleasure of her, and it would be the greatest joy of all.

"Give me time," murmured Sharon, picking up the gasoline can, while Steph stood by dumbly. "I have to think ... this is happening too fast."

For the first time Steph felt the equal of Sharon. It was the first time she had felt the equal of any adult, and it was a wonderful feeling. Of course she knew that as a photographer she was the equal of anyone. But this was a human problem, and she, Steph, had thought out what she felt, and Sharon was yet working out the angles. Presently she would come to the realization that if Steph meant anything at all to her, she meant enough to say the words. Because Steph would demand nothing. Nothing.

"I don't want anything from you except your love," Steph said quietly, following Sharon to the car. They had gassed it up, gone back to fill the tank with the highest grade available, courtesy of Sharon. The attendant behind the armored glass window had seen the credit card and his eyes had popped. He had called Sharon back and insisted that she autograph a piece of paper for him, and Steph had basked in the reflected glory of it all. They had held hands all the way home, and Steph had kissed Sharon's hand just before they got out.

Wendy had been furious that Sharon had missed the party. But Sharon changed the subject to the business of the demonstration. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"What would you do?"

"I would talk to them, Wendy. You can't just ignore them!"

"Sharon, they're just a bunch of ignorant dykes, not worth wasting your time over."

"Well, after I'm done talking to them, they'll be pretty well-informed dykes. Find out who they are, and connect me to them."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course!"

It took Wendy just fifteen minutes to figure the thing out. The demonstration had broken up without a fight shortly after Steph had run away, but there were enough people around to find out who the contacts were.

"Hello, WWW."

"Can I speak to Heather Perkins, please?"

"Sure, just a minute." There was some shouting at the other end. "Who's calling, please?"

"This is Sharon Vuehl."

There was silence for a while, and another voice came on the phone.

"Hello, Heather here."

"Ms. Perkins, your people were picketing the hotel at which I was staying."

"Is this Sharon Vuehl?"

"It certainly is."

"How do I know it's you? Can you give me your number?"

"The hotel knew where to forward my calls, and your people did not really try to find me."

"Oh yes, we did. Your manager refused to contact you!"

"I apologize. As a matter of fact, I believe you. What can I do for you?"

Heather Perkins told Sharon very succinctly what she had done, and what she could do to make reparation. Sharon immediately apologized for her omissions, but told her that she had contributed to the three biggest charities on her list, and when she revealed the amount, Heather was silent for a moment.

Then, "Miss Vuehl, you and I both know that compared to your income, this is an insignificant amount!"

Sharon laughed, and Heather inexplicably found herself joining in. "I can't win, can I!"

"Of course you can! Double your contribution, and we'll call it a deal."

"May I quote you on Sunday?"

"I'll leave it to you to decide," Heather said, calling Sharon's bluff. "Thanks for your time!"

"I take it you'll be telling your people what I told you."

"If you like."

"That's what I would like."

"All right, then, Ma'am; I will tell them what you have told me." Sharon hung up. She had put Heather Perkins in an awkward position, and she wondered what she would do.

Grief

A Midnight Phone Call

Very late that night, Sharon's phone rang, waking her up from a restless sleep.

"Yes?"

"Helen?"

Helen felt a vague sense of alarm. "This is Sharon," she corrected. The voice sounded tantalizingly familiar, but there was a note in it that confused her.

"I meant Sharon, yes; it's me, Lorna!"

"Oh . . . Yes, darling; how are you? Jeeze ... what time is it over there?"

"Helen, this is important. Is ... are ... are you alone?"

"Yeah ... why?" Helen was too sleepy to keep her eyes open.

"I have very sad news, darling ... oh god ... you're so far away!"

"Oh my god," said Helen, instantly wide awake. "The children! Rain! Who is it? Tell me! Was it fire?"

"It's your father. A stroke, apparently. Helen, ... he's gone."

Helen felt as if the life went out of her. It was impossible! He was not yet eighty. Helen thanked Lorna, and assured her that she would be all right. Yes she was alone, but, she assured Lorna again, she would be all right. She'd call tomorrow.

She pulled on a robe, and stumbled out of the room. Her heart drove her to find a particular room in that house, the room in which a certain person slept. Helen would humble herself and beg for comfort, but she knew that she would find it there.

Feeling like a stalker, Helen listened at doors she was unsure of, and finally found a door out of which music floated. She tapped gently, several times, cursing the music. Finally the music stopped, and she tapped again.

"Who is it?" asked Steph's distinctive voice, muffled by the thick door. Helen couldn't answer. A wave of grief rolled over her, and she held the bunched-up robe-front to her face, and tears poured out. Suddenly the door opened, and there stood Steph in her pajamas. She had forgotten her glasses, and she stared at Helen. Helen was making no noise, and Steph said, "Why, what are you doing, up so late?"

When she had turned the lights back on and put on her glasses, she realized that Helen was crying, and her entire demeanor changed. Helen stood just inside the door and wept silently. Steph put her arms round Helen just as Helen had done for her earlier. In her soft cotton robe, she felt quite different; more feminine, more vulnerable. Patiently she waited for Helen to subside. Presently her patience was rewarded.

"What's making you sad, Sharon?"

The need to tell Stephanie the truth and feel her sympathy warred with the need for secrecy, but her good sense won.

"Someone I love very much has died," Helen said.

"Who? Not your husband? Is it your husband?"

Helen shook her head. "One of my—closest friends." Suddenly the tears flowed again, and Stephanie stared aghast at how grief twisted the beautiful face of her beloved Sharon. Yet here she was, in Stephanie's very room, crying her heart out! Deep sorrow and sympathy for her warred with a wretched desire to keep Sharon there at all cost. "He's gone," wept Sharon, "I'm all alone!"

"All alone? But ... you have a husband, children ..." What could she mean?

"You don't understand," Helen said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice, "so many people have died ..." How was she to explain that death frightened her almost to the point of paralysis? That she was afraid to go to bed for fear of waking up with someone else dead?

She was seated on Steph's bed, her legs half drawn under her, and the right front panel of her nightdress bunched in her hand, leaving one breast and one thigh revealed. Steph couldn't help staring, and Helen smoothed her garment down, and wiped her face with her fingers, making a dreadful mess. Steph was so aroused, the merest movement of her pajamas hurt. "I don't want to be alone!" Helen whimpered.

"How did you find out"

"My phone," Helen said.

"Let's go back, in case there's more news," Steph said. "Would you like me to come with you?"

"Yes, please," Helen whispered.

Helen waited with a kind of hopeless patience while Steph shut down all her countless gadgets and turned out the lights. Then Steph took Helen's hand sweetly, and led her to her room.

Without turning on the lights, Helen slipped into bed, and made room for her companion, who made sure she knew where the phone was, and then slipped in with Helen.

Like magic they found their hands running over each other's bodies in the dark. Helen gently removed Steph's nightclothes, and for the first time, someone real made love to Steph. It had happened countless times in her imagination, but this was the real thing.

Helen tired of sex quickly, and luckily, Steph tired soon. She wasn't an athletic girl, and she was soon exhausted. But when Helen kissed her, she responded, and so they kissed for a long time.

It was Steph who first said, "I love you, Sharon. I have never loved anyone before." They were lying side by side, chastely, now, Helen's right hand in Stephanie's left. The taste of Stephanie's mouth was still on Helen's lips. Her life, without Dad, stretched out before her like a dark stormy sea, a wasteland, waiting to devour her, or a dark lonely house in which she had to live. And Stephanie was like a little child, trustingly placing her hand in Helen's hand, which was paralyzed with fear.

Helen raised Steph's hand to her lips and kissed it, and turned her head to Steph. And her eyes were lustrous with tears, and all Steph's own preoccupations seemed to flee away, because of her love for the woman who lay with her.

"I feel like a great big baby, Steph," Helen said in a little voice that trembled. "I feel abandoned."

Steph felt her heart burn for this woman who had recently been all strength and confidence. "Of course you would," she said gently, stroking Helen's hand. She was trembling, and Steph felt so sorry. "He's been there all this time ..."

"Yes, yes!" said Helen, and her tears flowed again, and little sobs that she couldn't hold back. "Oh Dad!" she sobbed, forcing herself to be quiet in the quiet house. Steph put her arms around Helen immediately, and tears of sympathy appeared on her face, and soon became a river. And the woman she knew as Sharon held her tight and cried inconsolably, the effort to be quiet becoming more difficult every moment.

"I'll go get Mom," Steph offered, her desire to be Sharon's comforter warring with her desire to get all the help possible.

"No," said Helen, stifling her sobs with a supreme effort. "I'll be good." She rolled back and found some tissues to blow her nose in. Steph watched as Helen blew her nose, trying to be quiet. It was a solid old house, and Helen wouldn't disturb anyone with her quiet crying. "You comfort me just fine," she said, and her speech sounded different from her clipped New England style. She had reverted to the speech of her early childhood, Steph thought. "What more can your mom do?"

"I don't know; she's good at comforting people. She's just Mom, I guess!"

"You said you were in love with me."

"Yes."

"That means you're a woman, Steph. You can't run off to fetch your mother when your woman is crying." Helen spoke severely, her eyes reproaching Steph, and Steph's heart swelled with pride. The gentle shake of her head, the way she kept her hands ... it was all just right. She was a consummate actress, Steph knew in the back of her mind, but if she was acting now it would be utter hypocrisy, out of keeping with the rest of her character as Steph knew it.

"I'm sorry!" Steph said, wiping her tears which were getting a little sticky. "Thanks for treating me like an equal." They drew closer. Their relative sizes made it awkward for Steph to play the masculine role and for Helen to play the role of the emotional female. With great insight, Steph discarded the cliché. There was something right about being together, loving each other, and solving problems together. Sharon treated her with the same intelligence and respect that her parents did, which she didn't get sometimes with her friends.

"You're a wonderful, special girl," Sharon said, and Steph could hear the sincerity in her voice, though it put them back in the role of a woman and her little friend. But you couldn't expect a grieving woman to be very consistent. It told Steph that her companion was being honest. "I wish I could be myself with you," she whispered, "this ... masquerade is too hard for me now. Oh Steph," she said, holding Steph's hand to her cheek, "I want to be my real self to you. No!" Steph felt the sudden tension in Sharon's whole body. "No, that would be worse! Oh Steph, I don't know what I want!"

Steph slipped down, and tugged at Helen to lie down and relax, and Helen obediently slid down, and they cuddled.

Steph asked Helen about her father and mother, and after a while Helen began to relax, and the shock of her bereavement gradually faded to a dull roar.

"I'm so sorry I have to hurt you!" Helen said, at long last.

"Why do you have to hurt me?"

"Because I have to go away and leave you!"

"Don't talk about that," said Steph, quickly.

"That's all there is, Stephanie," said Helen, quietly insistent, "having the ones you love taken away. Gone, gone." Stephanie thrilled to hear her full name on Helen's lips. Then in a small voice, she said, "Every moment I love you more."

"Will you ever love me more than ... him?" Steph couldn't believe she had asked that question. It had just slipped out. Steph studied her face, inches from her own. It was such a magical moment, she hated the childishness that had prompted her to spoil it.

Helen watched Stephanie's eyes, and could sense the emotions that were so eloquently reflected in her expressive face. Stephanie's youthful spirit was like a tonic to Helen's jaded heart. The girl was barely sixteen, less than half Helen's age, the very youngest of all her current sex partners. Yet she would willingly trade most of them for the innocence of Stephanie.

She felt like the mermaid in Hans Christian Anderson's tender fairytale. Instead of legs, what she wanted was to become sixteen again, and become this child's lover, and be her life's companion. It would be a hard life, as it always was for two girls in love in this sometimes cruel society, but perhaps they could find happiness. Helen thought of Lisa and Marika, and longed for some of their happiness.

Stephanie was gently rubbing her finger in soft circles round Helen's nipple. It was an innocent, romantic touch, and somehow Helen wasn't aroused. She studied the severe planes of Stephanie's rather ascetic face, and tried to imagine that fairy-tale. Magically sixteen again, Helen would cleverly invade Stephanie's life. She'd flirt with her until she was noticed, and make her love her.

"Suppose I was sixteen ..."

"Yeah."

"... and I was just in school, not an actress yet."

"Okay."

"And you come in to the ice-cream store where I work, and I like you at once."

"Yeah."

"How can I make you like me?"

Steph's finger stopped, and lifted off Helen's breast.

"If it was you, I'd love you, Sharon."

"But you don't know it's me! It's just this dumb girl at the ice-cream place!"

A slow smile spread over Steph's face. "Well—you could give me an extra scoop; that'd get my attention!"

"Have you ever gone out with a girl?"

Steph shook her head. "It's always at least three of us."

"If I asked you out, would you go with me?"

Stephanie sighed. "I dream of things like that," she said, sadly, and Helen's heart ached for her.

"How did you find out that you liked girls?"

"Well ... I saw Deb—you know Deb?" Helen nodded. "Well ... I was spying on her, sort of." She paused briefly, and added, "That's so bad!"

"How old were you, and how old was she?"

"Oh ... it was just a couple of years ago ... I was maybe thirteen, she was, like twenty-two?"

"Well ... it's natural, I guess," Helen said comfortingly.

"I made her pose for me. Nude. She was very pretty. And, I kind of knew."

Helen sighed. She felt herself changing into the person she had been in school, innocent, yearning for feminine company and not understanding why. "I'd talk to you all I could, then I'd make you show me your equipment. Then I'd offer to be your model, and I'd take my clothes off for you!"

Steph laughed. She had her mother's lovely giggle. It seemed as if something in the air simply clicked. Helen gave up her little fantasy, but she simply knew that something about it lived on in their minds. And Stephanie's imagination was fired, and she would look on girls in a whole new way. Everyone deserved romance, and the first step was to imagine it.

They did a lot more that we need not describe, but Stephanie saw, later that night, the body of the woman she was comforting so sweetly.

Like me, thought Steph, she hardly has any breasts at all! But she's ravishing. It wasn't just love that made her beautiful. Those awesome blue eyes destroyed Stephanie. But there was passion inside her that heated that body to white heat. And the knowledge that she cared for Steph, enough to create a whole fantasy for her; that made her more beautiful still. Steph could see that she thrived on seeing the effect of her beauty on her young admirer. Steph was learning more about her sex in this one encounter than she had learned in all her short life up until then.

Now, fully aroused again, Helen taught her young friend even more secrets of lovemaking. After a long time, they fell asleep in each other's arms, but not before putting their clothes back on and turning the lights out.

There was a knock on the door, and Andrea's voice called, "Stephanie?"

"Quick!" gasped Helen. "Just sit on the bed and talk to me ... I'll get the door."

When Andrea came in looking worried, she found Stephanie seated on the edge of the empty bed, its recent occupant having just opened the door.

"You weren't in your room, Steph," she said, looking relieved that Steph seemed to be engaged in innocent conversation.

"We were talking," said Steph, her face inscrutable. Helen hurried back into bed, and indicated for Andrea to sit. Even to Andrea, Helen seemed somehow younger, a more plausible companion for Steph. "Sharon had a bad call last night," Steph said, earnestly.

"No, I didn't," said Helen, smiling. "It's all over and done with. I'm fine!"

"What call?"

"Nothing!" said Helen, and Steph shrugged and bowed her head. It was all too much for her.

"Shall I bring breakfast up for you, Sharon? You too, sweetheart? You look pale."

"May I do it, Andrea?" asked Steph softly.

"Sure," said her mother gently. "It's all ready. There's a tray on the sideboard."

Steph walked away, and it seemed to Andrea that there was something different about her walk; an awareness of her body. She looked at Helen almost accusingly, but Helen smiled brightly back, insulated from Andrea's suspicion by something that Andrea didn't know.

Andrea didn't really know a lot about Steph's sexual development. On one hand she seemed precocious, and her nude photographs showed maturity and a strong aesthetic sense that flowed from that maturity. On the other hand, there had been an innocence in her that Andrea loved and cherished. It was that innocence that seemed to have gone, and it seemed likely that the agency of that loss sat in the bed in front of her.

"She loves you, Sharon, and I know you love her in your own way." Helen nodded. "You mustn't hurt her, dear; she's only a child."

Helen bowed her head. She had invaded the home of these kind people, and hurt their child. Her instinct was to hide behind her tears, but she had none anymore; there was just so much a person could cry, and having cried so much, it was easier to keep her control. Confessing to having sex with Steph wouldn't solve anything. It had been neither right nor wrong; Helen had needed it, and Steph had been ripe for it. If there were wrongs to be put right, it had to be between Helen and Stephanie.

"I would like to be her friend, Andrea," she said softly. "She's intelligent, talented, warm. Soon, everyone who meets her will want to be her friend. Would you let me be one of the first? I respect her, and you know I'm not out to exploit her or take advantage of her." Somehow Helen was embarrassed by her own words, and she blushed. "If you insist, when I leave your home, I'll never bother her again ... but ... it will be very hard." They heard Steph coming down the hall. Andrea was startled at the pleasure she saw in Sharon's face at the sound.

"That's the last thing I want," she said softly and urgently, "That you'll abandon her completely." Helen shook her head quickly. Steph was just coming in the door. "Don't ... play with her heart," said Andrea, while Steph was still out of earshot.

Helen reached for a tissue and blew her nose loudly. Then she turned to Steph and smiled with a forced brightness.

"What are you two muttering about?" asked Steph, suspiciously. Coming round, she laid the tray carefully over Helen's lap, and kissed her chastely on the cheek, and turned around to her mother, her eyebrows raised in inquiry. There was a gentle possessiveness in that kiss that bothered Andrea slightly, but also filled her with an insane pride. Her face broke into a smile in spite of all her efforts to moderate it. What a triumph it would be if Steph succeeded in catching Sharon Vuehl! Princeton be damned, Sharon was a level-headed, confident girl, and Andrea knew that she had a good character in spite of her lifestyle and her profession.

Andrea would talk her into destroying the more in-your-face parts of the photo spread; it wouldn't do for the future companion of their daughter to be that kind of model. Andrea's soul yearned for respectability, but a glamour model wasn't really too bad. In any case, she was an actress. And a damned good one.

"You mother was talking about how much she loves you," Helen said diplomatically, and was rewarded with the sight of Steph tenderly kissing her mother, who kissed her back.

Steph had put her own breakfast in Sharon's tray, and now they began to eat, and in little things they did, they began to give away their new-found relationship. It was impossible to deceive a photographer. Andrea had known that sooner or later Steph would fall for their glamorous guest. But, more fascinatingly, Andrea could see that Sharon was just as fond of Steph. The look in Sharon's eyes showed a deep caring, however veiled.

Sharon ate ravenously. Andrea marveled at her amazing metabolism. The energy she had displayed the previous day was evidently fueled by this phenomenal appetite. But suddenly, she noticed Steph slowly eating, and held back with an amusing blush. There was something endearingly childlike about the redhead that made her seem a compatible companion for her innocent daughter. The two prettily squabbled about who should eat what, and Andrea had to smile at the bashful glances they threw at her.

Then Andrea suddenly remembered.

"Steve is still home," she informed Sharon. "If you'd like to meet him, you should get dressed quick."

Steph's face grew red. She quickly clambered out of Helen's bed and headed off to her room in silent haste. Helen, too got out of bed, exchanging an indulgent smile with Andrea. "Just jeans and a T shirt, maybe?"

"Oh, yes, or just a wrap; it doesn't matter!"

Helen instantly became the professional. She selected her clothes quickly and efficiently, and dressed with the economy of motion of the theater actress she must have been at one time, Andrea surmised. Helen disappeared into the bath and came out in seconds, her hair neatly back in a band, her face clean, and a touch of makeup on her lips. She smiled at Andrea, and Andrea saw a new feeling in that smile. The cautiousness that she had seen there two days ago was gone, and there was an endearing desire to please instead. She was making this effort for her, Andrea. Meeting her husband was an honor she was according Andrea. And it was because of Stephanie. Andrea couldn't make up her mind whether to be flattered or crushed. Sharon stood, uncertainly, waiting for Andrea to take the lead. "Is this okay?"

Helen had been careful to make an effort to dress well, but not too attractively. She had known jealous women, and it was always better to not appear too attractive when you met their husbands.

But to Andrea's biased eyes, Sharon looked a vision of beauty. Her perfection was only marred by her bloodshot eyes, and she wondered. What could have happened to make Sharon cry enough to make her eyes so bloodshot? "You look fine," she said, and couldn't keep the admiration out of her voice. Sharon leaned forward, and they kissed; somehow it seemed right just then.

They all converged on the top of the stairs, and met Steve Robbins coming out of their room. He was a tall, handsome man, standing almost 6'6" in his boots, sandy-haired, with blue-grey eyes like his daughter, a perfect straight nose, a cleft chin, medium-brown, curly hair and sideburns. He was big and rangy without being massive, just like her father had been when he was young. Helen bit back the wave of grief that swept over her with a severe effort of will. Helen and Steve looked at each other a long moment, he uncertain as to the cause of her fascinated gaze.

"Hello!" said Steve Robbins, at last, "Very pleased to meet you at last!"

Helen stepped forward to take his proffered hand and said, brightly, that she was as pleased to meet him. "Everyone's been wonderful to me," Helen raced on, "I don't know how to thank you all!"

Steve leaned against the rail, and said that it wasn't every day that they had such a distinguished visitor.

"Oh!" said Helen, dismissing it all, "Just one movie ... there's far more accomplished people everywhere around here!"

"One movie?" Steph exclaimed. "At least three! There's ..."

"Oh, yes, I forgot!" said Sharon, embarrassed. "Still, only three!"

"Have you had breakfast yet?"

"No! I mean yes," said Sharon, blushing and flustered. Steph looked at her strangely, also coloring, Andrea didn't look too comfortable, either. Steve just laughed. Sharon clarified, getting redder by the moment, "I mean, I did eat, but if there's any more, I could use some."

Helen was swept down to the dining room, and a heaping plate put in front of her, as the pleasant voices of her hosts sounded all around her. When she looked up, only she was eating; the others all watched her with interest.

"Aren't you folks going to eat?"

"No, I'm sort of done," said Steph.

"We've already eaten," said Andrea and Steve.

"Keep me company!" said Helen, smiling at Steph. Stephanie had a tiny dimple that Helen noticed just then. She hurried off to get some breakfast.

Steve Robbins was smiling at her curiously, and it seemed to Helen that an explanation was called for. "You must think I'm really silly when I made a fool of myself just now!" she said, putting her fork down, and avoiding their eyes. "The fact is ..." Helen looked up finally at Steve, right into his eyes. "... you look very much like—someone I know!"

Steve's eyebrow went up. That was uniquely him, Helen thought; her Dad didn't use his eyebrows like that. "Who, a friend? Anyone from these parts?"

"No," said Helen, and her smile died. "My Dad."

There was a gasp behind her, and Helen turned to see Steph clutching the tray she was holding, a horrified expression on her face. Steph slowly put the tray down and put her arm round Helen, her face full of concern. Blushing, Helen gently disengaged from the younger girl, murmuring that she was fine, and guiding her into the seat next to her.

"What's the matter, pumpkin?" asked Steve.

"Nothing!" said his daughter, eyes wide. "You off work today, Dad?"

"No," said he, "I'd better get going. I guess I'll see you later today!" he said to Helen, and kissing Andrea, he disappeared.

Andrea sat down slowly. She looked up at Helen and asked: "Is that true? Does he really look like your father?" Helen's heart felt a sudden chill. The last thing she wanted was to make Andrea think she was interested in her husband.

"Andrea," said Steph urgently, "leave her alone, okay? She wouldn't lie!"

Andrea remained calm. "Calm yourself, darling," she advised her daughter. "There are some things you don't understand. You can stay and listen, if you like, but don't interrupt."

Helen felt the tears begin again. She thought of going to her room and fetching her purse, but that would leave the Robbins women arguing in her absence. It was better to send Stephanie to fetch it.

She turned to Stephanie. "Would you get me something?"

"Sure," said Stephanie, eyes widening in alarm. "What?"

"My purse."

She was gone like lightning, imagining it was some medicine or something like that.

"Don't mention it," warned Helen, "but I lost my father recently, and ..." she sniffed away her tears and smiled. "Yes, your Steve is a very handsome man, but ... I'm spoken for, Andrea!" Andrea's face showed the strain of the emotional turmoil she was going through, and Helen felt painfully responsible for it. At least, Sharon Vuehl could take the blame for this mess, she thought, god knew that Helen Nordstrom couldn't take any more. She had the genius of finding the most wonderful, innocent people to hurt.

Steph arrived with her purse, and while handing it over, caressed Helen's hand. Helen found the little album in which she kept her photos, and held it to her breast. She looked at Andrea and said, a pleading note in her voice, "Please don't tell anyone what I'm showing you!"

Andrea shrugged. She wasn't in the business of gossip.

Helen found a picture of herself standing with her father, and gave it to Steph to pass it to her mother. But Steph held onto it, and gazed at it in rapture. Quickly taking in the tall gentleman, her eyes went to the slim blonde girl in the picture, dressed in a simple gingham dress with lace collar, folded white socks and plain brown shoes. It was unmistakably Sharon Vuehl, with the same kindly eyes that seemed to pierce through to your very soul, but here she was happy, almost a personification of sunshine. But the eyes were green, and the hair the tow-color that usually darkened at a much earlier age than the girl seemed to be.

"Let me see, Steph," demanded Andrea, and Steph reluctantly passed it over. When she saw the picture of John Nordstrom, her face relaxed, and her grey-brown eyes looked at Helen with compassion. "This has to be you!" she said, and Helen nodded, smiling. It was possible that it would all come out now. But her heart didn't seem to be able to care as much as it should have. She was pathetically willing to do and say anything that would make these people trust and love her. She was vaguely aware that her own insatiable need for trust and acceptance would ultimately destroy what little trust and acceptance she had. "You look almost as frail as Steph!" Helen nodded, her smile beginning to freeze on her face. She turned to her food, and moodily ate a forkful. "You've definitely changed," Andrea said, objectively. "More muscular, darker, taller, almost a different type altogether!"

What could she say? "It happened when I was about twenty," she said. "The muscles were last summer, between Limelight and Merit."

They laughed. Women were changing their appearance all the time. The moment passed. "Do you have more pictures?" Steph asked, and Helen promised to show her a few later.

Wendy's demands could no longer be ignored. Helen decided to have Andrea drop her off at the hotel, where she could meet the long list of people who insisted on seeing her. Steph asked if she could come, and to her surprise, Andrea indicated that she didn't mind.

Helen took Andrea aside and expressed dismay. Did she want the press to go to town with rumors about the two of them?

"Just keep her hidden," Andrea said quietly. "You'll be gone in a couple of days, and neither of us will see you again, Sharon. I know how she feels!"

Her smile was so sad Helen could hardly bear it.

"It's not going to be that way!" she said, wondering how else it could be.

Andrea shook her head, and Helen knew she had mulled it over and come to the right conclusions. Sharon Vuehl led a double existence somewhere, and once she returned to that, she would reappear only when absolutely necessary. But Helen didn't dare to make her say so in so many words.

"You both want to be there?"

"You won't know I'm there; I'll just disappear. Honest; I know how to do that. If it gets messy—or you need to talk privately, we'll go away. I know the Regency, and I can make myself comfortable there. And I can keep an eye on junior. We could work on the photos, if we bring our equipment along."

Helen was persuaded, and they set out for the Regency with all Steph's mobile computer equipment stashed in the car. Driving straight into the basement car-park, they took a private elevator all the way to the penthouse suite that Sharon was paying for, and were met there by a smiling employee with the keys. The floor was crowded; Helen was not the only celebrity staying there, evidently. But they slipped into the suite without attracting attention, and Steph got set up in an inner room, while Andrea settled down with her book just out of sight in a balcony. Wendy showed up a few minutes later, and after giving Helen a big hug and kiss, proceeded to give Helen a surprisingly concise summary of the situation.

There were appointments every few minutes, and Helen dealt with them efficiently and forcefully, but tactfully. Many of them were things she wasn't interested in, but which Wendy simply couldn't simply turn down.

There were some interesting projects, which she was forthright about being interested in. She insisted in having a hand in the script writing, which did not suit a couple of the producers. All the producers of this morning session were young fellows, and a few women, all around twenty. Some of them were happy to do anything Sharon wanted, but they wanted her to finance the projects too.

"What makes you think I have that kind of money?" Helen asked. Nobody was supposed to know that she was a shadow producer of Merit. They answered vaguely, and Helen breathed easy. As Sharon, of course, she controlled a few million, before she had given away some half of that to charities. With a mere two million she was in no position to produce much of anything.

It was interesting that some of the most important actors and actresses were ready to work with her. Later in the morning Sharon met with the emissaries of some of the better-known producers, and at first she listened attentively. But Wendy began to notice serious discrepancies in what Sharon seemed to be saying. She said she was interested in doing projects with a strong male character, and then a few minutes later she contradicted herself. Wendy called time out, and on the pretext of taking a break for refreshments, took Sharon to the private area of the spacious suite where Stephanie was deeply immersed in her work. On the way Sharon stumbled and Wendy caught her just in time.

"I'm thirsty for a good sweet drink," Sharon said, looking like death warmed over, and Wendy hurried to find something suitable. After guzzling an entire bottle, Sharon revived. They spent a few minutes talking to the Robbinses, and then it was back to the grind.

"I just can't keep all the facts straight," Sharon said, holding her head.

Wendy tactfully indicated that she wasn't keeping her own opinions straight either. Sharon was indignant and demanded an explanation. Andrea corroborated Wendy's story, and Sharon was surprised. "Alert me if I do something like that again," Sharon said, looking a little odd.

Within minutes she was doing it again.

"I'm very tired," Sharon said, holding her head. "But we must get through this. I don't know what's happening to me."

Blood Sugar and a Funeral

Helen had started out bravely, but soon found herself distracted with thoughts of Tom and Little John and Elly, and the need to be back at the farm, helping to get things settled, comforting the two women, Grelly and Annie. As Sharon, of course, she couldn't do a thing; an announcement about a bereavement would precipitate the general failure of her identity as Sharon. How could she become Helen for a day, head out to Kansas, and get back in time for the Awards? She simply couldn't do it by herself.

Meanwhile she was silently grieving. Her mask was bright and confident, but inside she was a mass of seething guilt and helpless longing. Helen, after all, had something legitimate to grieve about, and she had family she wanted to be close to, lovers, friends. As Sharon, she had nothing, only Sita, Wendy, and the Robbinses. If she was trapped in the Sharon identity, it would be a pleasant one as long as nothing went wrong, but if it did ... She saw nothing irrational about this peculiar fear of being trapped in the Sharon persona.

All this, of course, drew on her energy, most of all the need to be a convincing Sharon. And it was taking its toll. In addition, she felt stomach cramps; she was on the way to a severe case of indigestion.

Agonizingly slowly, with the greatest concentration, Sharon managed to deal with the remaining people. There were a number of other people she had to see in the afternoon, starting around two, but for the moment, she was clear. "I'm coming down with some kind of stomach flu," she told them, "I'll bounce back by Sunday, I'm sure!"

"You're looking great!" they all said, "You've never looked better!" At that point, more than ever before, Sharon realized that she was a movie star. The flattery was oppressive.

Helen sent Wendy out to lunch, having told her that she looked great. She laughed, and promised to be back by one.

Helen hurried to the bathroom, and emptied her aching bowels. Realizing that things were not right, Steph was waiting for her when she staggered out. "God," she said softly, "you look terrible!' She took a deep breath to call out to her mother, but Helen motioned for silence.

Helen shook her head. They sat on the bed together, and Steph asked Helen pitifully, what help she could give.

"Nothing ... just stay by me," Helen said. "Nobody must know about Dad!"

"Why?"

"Because ... I'll be found out."

Steph hugged Helen tight, and Helen felt some of the pain ease. Helen discussed with Steph what she wanted to eat: bland food, boiled vegetables, and such, and then she told her that she needed to contact a girlfriend.

"All right ... what's the problem?" She looked puzzled.

"She's—my girlfriend in my other life, Steph. I don't want you to listen and get hurt!"

Steph looked betrayed. "You never told me!" She spat the words out in as furious a tone as Steph was capable of, but she kept her voice at almost a whisper. Helen's pride in her was immense.

"You know I haven't told you so many things, Steph. There's a whole life you know nothing about!"

"But a _girl!_ How come you said nothing about a girl?"

"You know what I am, Steph; I don't hide that."

Steph tried to control her breathing with difficulty. She was on the brink of tears, but she kept them back.

"You have to be honest with me," she said firmly. "Without trust ... I can't love you!"

Helen didn't realize until then how much she wanted Steph. It wasn't the sex, but the admiration and the friendship and the tenderness.

"I _am_ being honest. I'm telling you that I can't tell you. I'm not telling you lies."

"Then what do I have?" asked Steph, at the end of her tether.

"Someone who wants your help," Helen said, shamelessly co-opting the teenager. "A girl who is sick, whose Dad is dead, who wants to go see her brother and sister ... and get back in time for the awards ... I dare not miss the awards, or ..."

"They'll wonder why," Steph finished for her softly. "All right, ... I guess I'll help you." She moved away from Helen and folded her arms across her breasts in a gesture of distancing herself. "If you play me for a fool, I'll never forgive myself," she muttered. "Go ahead, call; I'll watch for Andrea."

Helen dialed Marsha.

"How's it going?" asked Marsha, all jolly.

"My Dad passed away yesterday, girl. Lorna called me."

"Oh god ... what a shock."

"I can't stand it, Marsha; I've made some good friends here, and if not for them, I would have died! I can't stand it anymore!" It ended in a whimper, and Steph looked at her in alarm from the door.

"Tell me how I can help, Sweetheart," said Marsha. "What do you need to do?"

"I need to get out to Kansas for tomorrow, and get back in time for the Awards."

"Can do. I'll fly you, if you come out to the house. Or I can pick you up. Where are you staying?"

Helen was surprised. "Are you in town?"

"Yup! I'm home."

"I'm staying with a family name of Robbins. Steve Robbins and Andrea Mendoza."

"Oh yeah; I used to know Andie. Great girl. Okay, so I'll pick you up whenever you're ready."

It was almost six when Helen got away. Steph was very unhappy, but she reluctantly resigned herself to Helen's departure. Andrea was equally unhappy, but Helen said that she had to visit a sick friend. She was mollified when Helen said that she was leaving all her clothes behind. "I'll have them cleaned and pressed," Andrea offered. Helen said firmly that she shouldn't.

Not unexpectedly, Sylvia was with Marsha in L.A., and came along. They drove out to a small airfield, where Helen and the other women exchanged embraces. Sylvia was in tears to meet Helen after so long. Helen cried because her memories of Sylvia were so incomplete. When she held her in her arms, the sensation was so familiar that it seemed as if a memory was just beyond her grasp, just out of reach. The pale white skin, the jet-black hair, all stirred memories that refused to come forward. But Sylvia thought that Helen cried because of her father, and Helen was too tired to explain.

[Note: Shortly after Helen had lived with Sylvia for a year, she had gone back to finish her senior year at college, met Lalitha, followed her to India, lived there for 10 years, returned to the US and had a tumor removed, and suffered a huge loss of memory, including memory of her life with Sylvia.]

Marsha and Helen talked quietly as they flew. The exuberant projects that they delighted in seemed unimportant in the face of death. A phone call to Grelly (Grandma Elly, Janet's mother) had revealed that the funeral was indeed being held in the farmhouse. Half an hour from landing, they called in, and a car was sent out to the city for them.

The farm was almost unrecognizable when they arrived. A huge tent had been set up on the meadow, and there were close to fifty people in the house. The first person Helen noticed was Lorna. Then there was Janet, Annie, Little John, Gena, all teary-eyed, Erin looking very upset, Allie and James with Rain, looking solemn. But most significantly, there were a score of cousins from Wisconsin, cousin Dana's folk: some half-dozen older folk, including a sister of John Nordstrom. Then there were the younger ones, all of whom wanted to meet Helen and shake her hand.

Helen had put on a blonde wig made out of her own hair, one of several that Marsha had kept over the years. She was dressed in a dull blue-grey that didn't suit her at all, yet she seemed perfect to Lorna who stood with Gena and Rain and the children as far away from the casket as they could get, yet be in the same room. The children saw her at the same time, and Allie excitedly waved and beckoned to her, and James called out. Helen smiled to see them, and a few long strides brought her right to them, and Lorna was surprised to be hugged by her first of all, before even the children. Then Helen picked up James in her arms, and knelt to receive the love of the younger children.

It was soon clear to Helen that Erin was still in shock, while the two youngest were more affected by the somber mood of the adults than from their own knowledge of the situation. It was with Erin held close to her that she made her way to greet Little John, who stood talking to a friend, his face carefully expressionless. (Little John was the child of John Nordstrom and Annie, his former wife, who was Helen's classmate in high school.) Without words she embraced him, and he kissed her, his eyes shining with the beginnings of tears. The feelings that she had been suppressing in the plane began to leak through her defenses.

According to the custom of the family, John Nordstrom's body lay in the living room, in a refrigerated casket. The family went about the business of feeding the assembled crowd with great determination. Food was kept in the large garage—sandwiches for the most part, and coffee and hot chocolate—and served from there. Helen became dimly aware of the way the casket was structuring the life in the space that once was where they spent so much joyful time. Annie was there, and in her kiss, and in the way she clung to Helen, she felt the reality of her loss. Then Annie began to cry, as if her heart would break. There were a few members of Annie's family, Helen guessed, and they stared at Helen and Annie, solemn-faced. Annie had long since cut most of her connections from them, declaring them to be miserable idiots with whom she had absolutely nothing in common. But they seemed to have come to support her.

It was hard not to say Annie, don't cry. Time after time she caught herself trying to say that, until at last she began to cry herself.

"I lost him twice!" Annie whispered to her, weeping. Helen felt a stab of anger, then. Annie had given him away, and with difficulty, Helen tried to say that to her friend. Why she had to, she couldn't say, for certainly it didn't matter now. Annie's clutch on her tightened at the words, and her crying became more agonized.

"That's what I thought!" she said, still in her near-whisper—this was not for the ears of everyone. Helen guided her to a corner, Erin tagging along looking blank, but determined not to lose sight of Helen. "That's what I thought," she repeated, and buried her face in Helen's breast.

All Helen wanted to do was to stay and comfort Annie, and to talk to her. Who knew John Nordstrom better than they two? Helen knew how he had loved Annie, and how he had been crushed when she left him. But she also had an inkling of what drove Annie away, and she knew that there was no one in the world who loved Annie more, and whom Annie loved more, than she and Little John.

"Don't accuse me now, Helen," Annie pleaded, "you're all I have, girl!"

"I'm not, I'm not!" said Helen, and the words seemed to quiet her.

Annie let out a long shuddering breath and said "Thank god you're here! I've looked for you since I got here. They said you were off somewhere in Europe. I called you ..."

"I'm sorry, darling! Anyway, I'm here now."

"Have you seen—her? Elly?"

Helen pulled Erin back against her, and studied Annie's face. Helen shook her head. Annie said, "You should see her. She's out in the tent. All the life has gone out of her." Carefully wiping her face, beautiful even without any makeup at all, Annie guided Helen outside, and into the large heated tent, on the way saying a few words to Janet, who was taking charge of supper. Janet smiled at Helen, and from years of familiarity Helen knew that Janet would wait to talk to her until Helen was done with everyone else.

Out of the blue, the thought that Janet might die came into Helen's head, and Helen felt a wave of nausea. Annie looked at her strangely, and Helen gave her a shaky smile of reassurance that she was far from feeling.

The large heated tent contained a sea of familiar faces: Little Elly, Tommy, old Elly, looking frail and tired, Cindy, Olive Gibson, Jeffrey, and Barb and her mother Carol, Becky from Philadelphia, and little Evie from Illinois. Then there were the Johnsons (Helen's mother's folk, whom she had kept away from her husband, for some odd reason, some eight of them. Marika and Lisa hadn't yet come; they had been informed only that morning.

Annie led Helen to old Elly who was seated near the radiator, and on her way, Helen touched everyone who turned a sympathetic face to her. Elly looked withered, and she couldn't suppress a look of reproach at Helen for just a second, after which she put her arms round Helen's neck and wept not with sorrow but with joy.

"You're finally here!" she cried, "I'm so happy! How did you hear about it?" Helen explained that Lorna had managed to get through. Elly babbled on about how they had tried to find her, and Helen listened with half an ear as she studied the lined face that she loved so much. It was ironic that, in spite of how little time they spent together, Elly was close to being a mother to Helen, and Helen, not her own child, was a greater favorite of the old lady than any of her own children, including Janet and Tomasina. Grelly made Helen sit near her and said she'd let Helen go after a while.

Helen asked about the funeral arrangements, and Grelly obliged. At night, so Grelly told Helen, they all sat and told stories, some about John, some about other family members who had died before. Most everyone slept in the tent, and only Grelly, Little John and Annie and Tommy slept in the house. Little Elly had shuddered and refused, and Grelly had asked Janet to sleep in the tent, to see that things were ok.

Why was the body here?

"When Kate got here—Kate is John's youngest sister," Grelly explained, "—I asked her how things were done in their family, and this is how it's done."

"But you're in charge. You call the shots!"

Grelly smiled indulgently. "No, darling; your father has been kept away from his family too long." She stroked Helen's hand like a lover. "I've known him—how long? Twenty years; as long as Annie. And Sylvia took him away from them; the least I can do is let them do this."

"But ... it's disgusting!" Helen whispered to her. "Right in the middle of the house!"

Grelly stopped her stroking, and turned to study Helen's face, her eyes full of sadness.

"What is it with you and Annie?" Helen dropped her eyes. The words weren't severe, just sad and reproachful. "If you love someone, nothing is disgusting, darling. It's just a poor piece of flesh that once was your sweetheart ... how can it be disgusting? Soon, yes; but it's only been a day or two! It's there for you, you know."

"For me!" Helen was shocked and repulsed. She could only shake her head. "It's sordid," she exclaimed.

"No one offered to show you the body?"

"Elly! Why are you forcing me?" Helen was trying not to panic.

"Once he's buried," said the old lady quietly and lovingly, "you will never see him again. "Then it's crying over a gravestone. Have you visited Sylvia's gave?"

"No."

They sat in silence for a while. Tommy and Elly appeared and hugged Helen and chatted for a while. Then people began to line up to talk to Helen and give her their sympathy. Old Elly Krebs watched her adopted daughter—that's how she thought of Helen—greet everyone with the incredible grace that was her gift. It was beautiful because Helen's warmth was not put on; she loved every one of these people. Little Erin sat close to Helen, and she comforted the youngster as if she were her own, while she greeted the guests. It was fascinating to watch her meet her cousins, most of whom she had never seen before. They approached her with awe, but went away feeling that they had made her their own. She charmed even the cantankerous Kate Erickson, who pulled up a chair and told her an interminable saga of the family's history, to which Helen listened attentively. But it was soon over; the townsfolk had visited on Friday, and probably would come round for the burial.

Finally, Elly had her namesake all to herself.

"I haven't looked at the body either," she lied, hanging her head. Lies came easily when you were seventy.

"I'll come with you," said Helen quietly. Elly knew that Helen had more fortitude than the other young ones. None of them had dared go near the casket. There were no tears; it was as if John Nordstrom was away traveling, and there had been some crisis, perhaps a fire. Only Elly and Annie and the Nordstrom family wept. "Erin, darling ... will you stay with Tommy?"

"I want to come with you," said she.

"We're going to look at Grandpa John!" warned Helen.

"I want to see too," said Erin, shuddering.

It was time. The ritual viewing of the body had been postponed until Helen arrived. At Elly's request, there had been no embalming. Using a procedure relatively unusual for those parts, the body had been cleaned only with water, both inside and out, and was preserved only by refrigeration.

Helen, Erin and Grelly walked slowly out of the tent and into the house, followed by everyone else, and the lid of the casket opened and taken away. There was a cloud of frosty vapor circulating round the grey face of what had once been John Nordstrom. Dressed in his Sunday best, he looked handsome but very, very old. He seemed to have a slight pot belly. His face was relaxed, but faintly worried. Helen's eyes drifted away, to observe the others near her: Erin, staring with fascination, Grelly, calm but still grieving, Annie, also calm, but clearly more devastated than she ought to have been, Tommy, Little John, and Kate.

Helen turned back to her father's body. Cautiously she reached out a hand to touch the cold flesh. It felt odd, more moist than she had expected. But the lifelessness of it filled her, and she understood. Each death she had experienced seemed to have prepared her for this one. Her father was gone, without a word to her, leaving her to the mercy of these others. How could they ever take his place? He was not watching from out there. He was gone, and she was without a father.

She began to cry like a little girl, sobbing pitifully. They let her cry, though they loved her, because crying was normal. She was only the first to cry; everyone cried. And Erin cried because Helen was crying. She put her little arms round Helen and comforted her as best as she could.

After a while, Helen and that first circle of bereaved moved away, and the other children came round, taking courage from Helen's example, filling their eyes with the sight of the remains of their beloved grandpa. It was a hard lesson in mortality, one that might have been saved them in other circumstances, but it was not the way with the Nordstrom clan. Death was not an ugly surprise that was sprung on adults, but an ever present neighbor throughout one's life. If you knew of the frailty of your existence, they thought, you'd live more carefully.

Gena watched her mother grieve. Some day it would be her turn, she realized, being an intelligent girl. She had lost two parents already, but that had been a dream, her early life with that angel mother, all light and love and scolding and arguing. But Gena loved Helen in an entirely different way; indeed, Gena was a different person, in a different existence. Being a mother was much harder for Helen in some ways. It wasn't that she didn't love the children—she adored them—but that her own passions were so strong and demanding that it was an effort to tear herself away to return to the children. But that was Helen, and Gena understood it in her wisdom, and so did Erin. The younger ones were too little to figure it out, but Helen tried much harder with them.

The crying and weeping quietened down presently, and the undertakers closed the casket up, and took it away. It would now be refrigerated until noon the next day, when the burial would take place. Helen had never heard of a noon burial, but that was how it was going to be.

Helen looked around, wondering if she ought to be playing the host. There were so many here because of Helen, and ostensibly strangers to each other. But everyone seemed to have been taken care of. Marsha and Sylvia were talking to Janet, Gretchen was talking to the Twins, looking far more relaxed than she had been for a long time, Annie and Grandma Elly were talking to the Nordstroms, and Rain and Lorna were in the garage with Helen, feeding the children.

Helen had cried her heart out, and now felt the intense hunger that was becoming gradually more familiar to her. At least now she no longer had the burden of pretending to be someone else.

"What about Lalitha?"

Nobody had remembered the Indian family. Becky, when asked, said guiltily that it hadn't crossed her mind, and offered to get them over on the first plane. Helen shook her head. She'd call them, though, she said, just in case they wanted to come.

Cindy looked at Helen with narrowed eyes. "Why, aren't you feeling well? It's just the stress, dear," she said. "You must be tired with all this traveling."

"Yeah," said Helen, "that's probably it!"

"Take a nap now; later everyone gathers for reminiscing, you won't want to miss that."

"I heard about that," said Helen, barely able to concentrate on the conversation. Janet appeared with Marsha and Sylvia, and seeing Helen, came over. Helen was having trouble with her eyes, and was feeling light-headed.

"You poor thing!" said Janet in that gentle voice that was Elly and yet not Elly. Helen looked at her, her heart full. Janet had stood back while everyone else had talked to Helen, and Helen wanted so much to talk to Janet, and feel some of the great calm that was Janet's god-given gift. But she couldn't see Janet clearly. She rubbed her eyes impatiently, but the blurring persisted.

"Sit near me!" she ordered the three of them. She introduced them to Lorna and Rain, making them blush. She put down her empty plate and said she was thirsty, and was given a mug of fruit juice. Still feeling thirsty, she drank a whole glass of water. "What I really need is a steak," grumbled Helen, and they laughed.

"Jeeze," exclaimed Cindy in her little-girl voice, "you're worse than a football-player!"

Talk turned to the future of the farm, what Grelly (that is, Grandma Elly) and Little John would do, whether Helen was happy in Westfield, the future of the house in Illinois, and so on. Marsha looked solemnly at Lorna, who was trying to be invisible, and at Rain, and told them impressively how grateful she was to them for looking after Helen.

"She's not the easiest person to get along with," she said, dimpling as she suppressed a grin, "but you're doing the world a service, you know."

"Yes," said Lorna, blushing, as Rain nudged her to respond, "she's mean sometimes! But she's okay," she added, embarrassed, but proud to be considered Helen's caretaker.

"She works far too hard," said Rain, unexpectedly.

"Yes," said Janet, quickly, "you should retire early, and move to the farm. You could establish a private school, and have lots of kids around all the time!"

They all joined in, making fun of Helen. Helen only smiled and squinted at them, pleased to be surrounded by this particular group of women whom she loved so dearly.

"You're squinting, Helen," observed Sylvia, who had been quietly smiling all this time. Her voice, abrupt and clear as always, sounded loud in the quiet garage. "Have you had your eyes checked?"

Helen's smile turned into a look of worry. "It's just been the last few days," she said. "Actually, about a week; I can't see very well." She looked at Sylvia, recalling that she was medically trained. "Only at certain times, too! Most of the time I'm okay."

"Oh, Sylvia, it's just the strain," said Marsha. "It'll go away."

Sylvia shook her head, pulling up Helen's chin and looking into her eyes. "No harm in checking ... what else do you feel?"

"Just tired ... hungry all the time ... thirsty, a little light-headed sometimes ..."

Sylvia's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

"I'll be right back," said Helen, getting up very slowly to go to the bathroom. The two drinks had done their work. She looked at Lorna, and she came over to give Helen an arm.

"Jeeze, hon, you're in a bad way, aren't you?" she said, concerned.

"I'm going to get my bag," Sylvia said to Marsha quietly. She grabbed a Dixie cup and hurried after Helen and Lorna, and they saw Lorna look alarmed as Sylvia pressed the cup into her hand.

It was a sober pair that entered the bathroom and shut the door.

"It's just a guess," said Lorna comfortingly to Helen, "she just wants to check, that's all."

"She's got me all worried," said Helen, cursing.

Lorna helped her into the seat, and with some trouble, got a sample of urine in the cup. Seconds later, there was a knock on the door, and Lorna let Sylvia in. Sylvia had a serious-looking black leather bag with her, smaller than a doctor's bag, larger than a toilet kit bag. She set the bag on the vanity top, took out a tablet and plopped it into the urine, and ignored it. She pulled out a pair of little gadgets and an alcohol swab.

Lorna watched apprehensively and a little jealously as Sylvia took Helen's hand. "It doesn't hurt at all," she said, grinning.

"Liar," said Helen, smiling, "I bet it hurts!"

"Okay, hurts like hell!" amended Sylvia. "Brace yourself—just a little bite ..."

Suddenly a drop of blood bloomed on Helen's finger, and Lorna started. She had seen Helen bleeding dozens of times; Helen was a great ninny about her period, and Lorna ended up helping her with hot water bottles and tampons and such things. Helen just loved to be fussed over, Lorna knew, and she liked to fuss over Helen; but this was different.

Sylvia transferred the drop of blood to the other gadget, and graciously handed a new swab and a band-aid to Lorna with a smile. Lorna had met six women so far who had been Helen's former lovers, and she liked every one of them, and they invariably treated Lorna with the utmost kindness. Lorna cleaned off the little prick as Helen looked at her, plainly worried. As Sylvia stared at the gadget intently, Lorna bent to kiss Helen.

The sad occasion was teaching everyone a lesson in love. Everywhere, friends were treating each other with greater tenderness. The Twins, and Gena and Evie were standing in a circle, holding hands and talking, and Little John watched them hungrily, as Annie and Grelly watched him. In the garage, Marsha, Janet, Rain and Cindy handed out sandwiches and drinks to a steady stream of children and adults who were hungry despite the unappetizing events in the house. The undertakers had removed the body and the table on which it had rested, and helped to get the house back into some semblance of normalcy. In the bathroom, as Lorna lovingly helped Helen clean up the suspiciously sticky urine that had stained her thighs, Sylvia whistled.

"It's the highest I've ever seen," she said, "four hundred and ten. Of course, you've just eaten, Helen; even normally it spikes pretty high in anybody after food, especially when you drink something sweet."

"So what does it mean?" asked Lorna.

"Diabetes—type two diabetes," said Sylvia. "It's not the end of the world; I have it too. We have to wait for the urine test." She turned and let out an exclamation. The sample had been turned a bright green by the tablet.

Helen was put on medication immediately, and in very short order the symptoms went away.

That night, their little family all slept together on the floor of one of the bedrooms: Gena, Erin, Allie, James, Rain, Lorna and Helen. It was past midnight when the reminiscing was done. Helen had learned so much about her father's branch of the family that she had felt guilty about not pursuing it before. Marika and Lisa had arrived late, and Helen had spent some time with the Johnsons before coming up to bed. With the older generation no longer alive to interfere, the Johnsons and the Nordstroms had begun to get to know each other.

"Help me with my hair?" Helen asked Lorna in the morning.

"I'll help you!" said Gena, her eyes full of excitement.

Helen smiled at Gena, woman-to-woman. "You know how it is!" she said softly.

"Aww, mom! It's not fair!" She was so pretty, it was hard to refuse her. She was blossoming into a lovely young woman. Now that she was past puberty, she looked more like her birth mother, and less like Helen; her vivaciousness was more reminiscent of her biological mother, so full of bright-eyed eagerness. Her face was fuller, oval, larger in proportion to her body than Helen's or Tommy's; her legs were long and beautiful, but she was short, overall, and her curves more womanly than Helen's ever had been, nor would ever be. Her arms were shorter, more finely-boned still than Helen's had been. She was a babe in the making, all cute and cuddly.

But Helen needed Lorna because of the wig. Helen gently asked Gena to help Rain with the kids. "Afterwards I'd like to just sit and chat, darling, if you have the time. I ... I miss you, sweetheart; there's so much to ask you about, your advice."

"My advice?"

Helen looked at her solemnly. "I'm running out of family, darling; very soon ..."

Lorna exclaimed in reproach. "Don't lay that kind of stuff on her, Helen; it's unkind, especially at a funeral."

Gena looked at them both wide-eyed. "Please don't fight!" she begged. "It's okay, Lorna, you go help her with her hair; I'll be here when you get back!" Gena bent to kiss Helen, and then kissed Lorna, and Helen was touched.

Helen pulled on a wrap, and went out to the bathroom with Lorna, as Rain marched the others in. The bathroom was full, but Elly had said they could use the 'inside bathroom,' the one in the master bedroom.

The inside bedroom was empty, and they went into the bathroom.

"Why did you say that stuff to Gena?" Lorna demanded, scoldingly.

Helen sighed. "There's education, property, homes and real-estate, relatives ... and Dad's gone, darling; she's my eldest. Who else can advise me?"

Lorna was silent. She would never have the privileges of a true spouse to Helen, though her soul longed for that sometimes. She felt a vague anger. Helen was probably mad at her for running off with those two. Now that she was with Helen, hanging around with mere children seemed silly. (She was thinking of her friends from the ballet, both a couple of years younger than Lorna.) She felt like a mother to Gena and Erin, though they were almost her age.

"I could advise you," she said quietly, taking off the wig carefully. Impulsively she kissed the small of Helen's back. Helen didn't realize it was a kiss; she stepped into the shower, looking gloriously the naked amazon, somehow tanned all over, lithe and muscular. Helen smiled gently at Lorna, her eyes full of appreciation.

"I'd get your advice beforehand, love ... but I want Gena to feel that she had a say about real-estate; family property. She's old enough to be consulted, and I should."

Lorna nodded at once and dropped her eyes. It was a matter of common decency to do what Helen was doing. An adopted child must feel so vulnerable in such matters. So did a same-sex spouse, she thought. She hated walking on eggshells, but if that was the price she had to pay to be Helen's lover, so be it. She wanted none of Helen's money. She only wanted the right to love her and help her, and do the things that Helen ought to do but could never spare the time for: look after the kids properly, look after Rain properly, look after her own health. She had to find out all about the latter, because Helen sure as hell would not. Blinking back her tears of frustration, she proceeded to rinse out the wig carefully.

"I'm going to make things right with you, love," Helen said softly and unexpectedly into the silence. "That's the first thing I was going to ask her."

Overnight Lisa and Marika had arrived, and while Helen showered with Lorna, Amy arrived with her fiance, and Scott Shepard arrived with Leila, and their tiny one-year-old daughter Christine. When Helen came downstairs, all of these were gathered round the breakfast table, and there was a joyous reunion. Everyone had been introduced around, including Lorna and Rain who were introduced as Helen's 'friends,' with no other qualification.

"I'm horny as hell, Lorna ... shut the door and help me out, please!" Helen's voice was low and urgent.

"Now?"

[Lorna was accustomed to Helen's capricious libido, but she thought this was pushing the envelope.]

"Please! Why not?"

"Amy wants you downstairs. She just learned about your diabetes from Janet!"

"Oh, shit." Helen hugged herself tight, and picked herself up. She closed her eyes and pressed the heel of her palm against her sex in a helpless gesture of frustration, and Lorna turned away, acutely discomfited by Helen's need.

Amy marched up to Helen as soon as she saw her come down the stairs, grinned at her, grabbed her by the arm, and marched her to the back of the house. Helen who had expected to see a long face on her was grateful for Amy's cheerfulness. Amy pushed Helen into a chair in the workshop, and drew up a bench for herself.

"Tell me about the blurred vision and stuff!"

"It's diabetes, Amy, I know."

Amy's grin didn't fade. "Tell me anyway! You know how I love it when you're sick; I get to play doctor!"

"Amy, be serious. I'm not thrilled."

Amy's face softened. "Tell me, kid; I'd like to know how bad it is, so that I have my facts all lined up. You know I'm the closest thing to a primary care physician you have, kiddo; I want to know everything so that when something else crops up, at least one person will know the whole story: me!"

Helen sighed, and began to recite the basic facts, without revealing what she had been doing the past few days. Amy's face began to show concern, and Helen felt sorry for her. Any had always made her feel good. Helen berated herself again—as she always did when she remembered Amy—for neglecting the poor woman.

Helen told her story and waited for an opinion.

Amy tapped her head and said, "It's all in here. As soon as I find a port, I'll upload the details. I have a dossier on you—perfectly safe; there's no obvious connection to you—and that's where all this stuff will go." She nodded in a firm, businesslike way, to indicate that everything was under control. "Look, can you give me a couple of minutes, Helen?"

Helen nodded, resigned to a long lecture.

In a sense it was. Amy told her all kinds of information about what to eat, what to do, little changes to her lifestyle that would make things easier for her body. Helen found herself interested. It was all logical and it all made sense. She asked questions, and Amy was delighted, and answered them fully.

"There are specialists, these days; doctors don't do diabetic counseling. That's such a load. I try to do it when I'm in the position to do it. Whatever the counselors tell you will be reinforcement; that's good. Are you following all this stuff?"

"Yeah. I can't say I'll remember every detail, though."

"Try, darling!" For the first time Amy looked anxious. "Do it for the sake of the children! Do it for my sake. For the sake of what's-'er-name—Lorna. You could live forever if you're careful, sweetheart."

Helen began to get concerned. There had been no mention of life-threatening circumstances. What were they keeping from her?

"What do you mean, live forever?"

Amy took a deep breath. "It's not an issue with an intelligent, disciplined person, Helen. It's just not anything to worry about!"

"Tell me!"

"Well, of course diabetes can be life-threatening, if you're a moron; that's obvious!"

"Give me details."

"Okay. Suppose you have a sweet tooth." Helen nodded. "Against all advice, you continue to eat sugar and candy every day." Helen nodded. "Your blood sugar is almost permanently high..."

Step by step Amy detailed how the body got destroyed. There were countless scenarios, all of them painful. Helen asked to hear them all, and Amy was visibly upset at having to detail them. But something made Helen ask, and Amy tell. When she was done, they were both silent.

"I won't let any of that happen to you!" said Amy, choking with emotion. "Just ... do like I said." She scolded Helen. "Don't try to do anything silly. Don't fight it, don't lose patience. Work with it. And let Lorna help you, darling. You need all the help you can get; just be humble and accept it."

Helen remembered that moment as the moment when the penny really dropped. She was a diabetic, and her life would never be the same again.

The Graveyard

It was a very bright day. The ground was dry—it had been dry for the whole month, Little John had told her, in the brief conversation she had with him—and there was a stiff cold breeze. It was still standard time, and the sun was rising higher, mercifully shortening the angles at which it hit the house. There was a sort of confused but quiet hubbub in the house, with women and children she couldn't identify swirling round her and smiling sympathetically at her. As much as she had been sought out earlier in the morning, Helen was being left alone now, and she wanted company. Lorna was nowhere to be seen, Rain was not too well, and was hiding in the workshop with little James, Helen knew; that was the place to go.

Some woman who looked vaguely familiar came up to her and asked about hymn tunes. Helen couldn't understand anything, but she nodded politely several times. The woman patiently persisted, and showed Helen the music in an ancient hymn-book. With an effort she concentrated and answered the question.

"On a day like this, it's too much to ask you to sing!" she said, smiling, and Helen saw the kindness in her eyes. Suddenly things began to happen.

Helen saw herself as though through the eyes of a stranger. A small group was watching her: it was Cindy and the children, and Lorna and Rain. Gena turned to her, but Erin came to her first and gently took her hand and helped her out of the chair she had been in. Helen felt old. Lorna was there, too, ushering her to the door. She was helped into a car, with Lorna and Erin on either side, Gena seated in front, turning round to smile at her gently, reassuring her.

Next she remembered the church, being seated in the front pew with Little John, Annie and Erin on one side, Lorna, Grelly and Tommy on the other. Helen remembered turning to look at Lorna, wondering if she felt out-of-place in the middle of John Nordstrom's family, and Lorna turned to look at her questioningly. They said something to each other, but Helen couldn't remember what it was; she only remembered that Lorna had taken a deep breath and said it didn't matter.

Helen remembered feeling angry. Angry at her father. The service was long, with lots of speeches by the townsfolk, praising John Nordstrom. Annie was too broken-hearted to speak. Helen was indignant that no one was comforting Annie, but was shocked to realize that she herself was crying too, and Erin was comforting her lovingly. Old Elly spoke, softly but movingly about her companion of the last several months. Helen was asked if she wanted to speak, but she shook her head. She had been planning to do so on the plane, but she was too tired and upset, and anyway, she couldn't remember what she wanted to say.

The parish minister spoke at last, and the service came to a close with hymns and prayers, the packed congregation singing as they seldom sang, in honor of the bereaved family, and the recently deceased.

As had been planned, Helen was asked to help carry the coffin. For the first time that day, Helen felt strong, and wiping her tears, she took her place with Little John and Bo and Tommy. It was no weight at all, she found; her fatigue was a weakness of the soul rather than the body. Steady as a rock, standing proud and tall, she carried that coffin out to the grave site, and the business of burial began.

The graveside ceremony was moving, and Helen found her tears flowing. Finally the moment came for Helen to throw in a clod of earth, she felt such a wave of absolute misery that she cried out aloud, "Oh Dad!"

Lorna was standing closest, holding Erin's hand, Gena and Annie were holding each other, and together holding Helen, who had begun to fall apart right after she had laid the casket down. The look on Lorna's face as that cry smote her ears was something that Gena would never forget. Once again she was reminded about how fiercely the dancer loved Helen. And across the grave on the other side, Leila clutched her little baby girl and looked as if she would fly to Helen. Amy, Janet, Annie, Elly, all paused in their grief to show concern for Helen.

Helen turned and collapsed into Lorna's arms, and in seconds Tommy and Elly and Gena had joined her, as the earth piled into the grave from scores of sorrowful hands. Helen alone cursed and sobbed, abandoning all restraint.

Two days before, when Janet had conveyed the news about the death of their grandfather to Erin and Gena, the older girl had been shocked. At first Erin had taken it with an impassive face, only her nervously darting eyes showing any turmoil that the news may have caused in her little heart. Erin was now nearly Gena's height, and they were closer than an 11-year-old and a 15-year old would normally be.

Janet quickly expressed her concern and sympathy to them, sharing with them her own grief over her adopted father's passing, and wisely left the children alone while they mulled over the news.

"Grandpa!" Gena had exclaimed, and Erin had muttered, "Yeah ... that's awful," and then run out of steam.

"Give me a hug, sis," Gena had asked, her dull voice and face showing her misery, and Erin had given her a rather tense hug. "I guess we'll all be going," Gena said at last. "Where?" "To the farm, silly; the funeral will be there."

Erin thought a little and nodded.

"Auntie Annie will be upset."

Gena stared at Erin. "I guess everyone will be upset," she said.

Right after lunch, they all caught the plane out to Kansas, and met Annie and the others there. Grelly was quietly managing, with Bo and his girl helping out, but at the sight of the children and Janet, Grelly had simply sat down and wept quietly, as if she had only been waiting for the family to show up.

The sight of Little John had stirred something in Gena. She had seen him out in the yard, and gone over and given him a big hug.

"I'm so sorry!" she had said softly, her eyes full of tears, and he had blinked back tears of his own and given her a twisted grin.

"Thanks for coming," he said, and Gena felt a lovely warm feeling inside. John sort of waved awkwardly at her, and turned to talk to a couple of boys who had walked up. Gena wished he'd introduce her, but he wasn't going to, she knew.

Everyone was busy; Gena felt frustrated. No one wanted to talk to her, except Janet. Janet smiled at her whenever they met, and Gena always blushed. She had got into the habit of steering clear of Janet everywhere except at home, because Janet was very polite and serious with Gena in public—a part of her Principal act.

"You could help look after Bo's baby," Janet suggested, and Gena gratefully took that job for a few hours.

Then Mom had arrived, and Gena had felt her spirits immediately lift. But Gena had soon figured that Mom was upset and shocked. Gena had admired how Helen comported herself—Gena always admired Helen's grace. But she knew that Helen was an explosion of grief in the making. In one sense, she almost wished she would cry right away, but she simply talked to everybody, looking upset and nervous.

Then had come the diabetes discovery. Gena had thought Helen would collapse. Instead, Helen had simply begun to fade. She looked dazed, and Gena was relieved when Lorna had taken Helen in charge, and signaled to Gena that she wanted Gena close by. And Gena had signaled Erin.

At the church, finally, Helen had begun to come apart, and Helen's grief distracted Gena from her own. Everyone clustered round Gena's mother, but it was Gena and Lorna and Tommy who did the greater part of the comforting.

Now Helen became quieter as she became aware of the strangers around her, beyond the immediate family circle. It didn't reduce the misery in her voice, just the volume of it. And the softer she got, the more bitter she got too, and Gena felt the strain of battling her own emotions which automatically responded to her mother's outcry. Tommy was trying to calm her down too, to little avail. Once the grave was mostly filled in, the thirty or so attendees withdrew to a respectful distance. Gena regarded them, now tired, her mother's grief still assailing her ears and her heart, not certain what was expected of her. Why didn't they go home, and give the family some privacy?

"Helen," said Lorna quietly, gripping her arm tightly, to get her attention, and Gena was surprised when Helen quieted herself, a rag of a drenched handkerchief clamped to her nose and mouth, the sobs still wracking her breast, but silent now. Helen slowly raised her eyes to Lorna. But Lorna bent and picked up a clod of earth and handed it to Helen.

"It's time to say good bye, Helen," she said softly, so only the four of them could hear. "We know it's hard, darling!"

"You don't understand!" Helen whimpered to her, and Lorna's face flushed red. There was no anger, but there was a frustration there, that Helen's grief had come between them.

Lorna only waited. Her turn would come someday, but it wasn't any use to say it. The only reason Helen needed to pull herself together was because of the onlookers and the children. Helen had always been the strong one, even when her emotions were high. It was hard to watch her like this.

Finally Helen took the clod of earth—rather more roughly than necessary—and flung it awkwardly at the grave, and they all held their breath. Helen took several deep breaths, and stooped to pick up another clod, and toss it on the grave, this time with much more control, as if she wanted to get it right. Her face crumpled once more as she tried to whisper the word 'goodbye,' with only partial success. Suddenly she turned away to face the small band of close friends who wanted to console her and express their sympathies once more. Lorna hated these moments, to see Helen do everything wrong. In her heart she had imagined that Helen would do her proud, that she would conduct herself with dignity and grace. It was a bitter disappointment. It had been an embarrassing scene.

Red Carpet

Crashing the Oscars

A small group had stayed behind in the house: Marsha, Lisa, Marika, two of the Nordstroms from Wisconsin, and Rain and Evie, who were not feeling well.

By some miracle, Marsha had avoided being recognized by anyone, except, of course Helen, Sylvia, and Marika. (Recall that Marsha Moore was a popular Hollywood actress, as well as Helen's friend.) She quietly set about putting things away.

"You'll put them in the wrong places, and they'll never be able to find them," Marika warned her. "Just leave them; Annie will get 'em," she advised, but Marsha puttered around, collecting trash and empty plates.

The phone rang just as Marsha was near it, and she picked it up.

"Hello, Nordstroms," she said, coolly. (She loved to answer other folks' phones as much as she hated to answer her own.) Marika watched the scene with amusement.

"Yes," said Marsha. "She can't come to the phone, but I could take a message! Who's calling, please?" Marika's eyes twinkled. Suddenly her manner changed. She was instantly alert. "How wonderful! Hmm... there's been a death in the family, Mr. Russell, and she ... what?" Marsha leaned forward in an attitude of careful attention. "Me? I'm, er, a friend of the family. I'm cousin—Mary. Yeah ... uh-huh. ... yes, I know what the Oscars are ... but see, like I said, there's been a death ... wait, just a minute, please!"

Marika had been signaling frantically to Marsha. Now Marsha turned to her in puzzlement. Marika signaled for her to cover the receiver.

"What's up?" asked Marsha.

"What's going on?"

"Oh, there's a last minute invitation for Helen to attend the Oscars," Marsha said airily, "but there's no way; she's too ... well, with all the ... she has so many things to take care of, I can't see her going! I'll just tell him ..."

"No! Wait! Listen!" Marika was frantic. "Say she'll go!"

"Why?"

"I could go in her place!" Marika mouthed, and Marsha's eyes grew wide.

It was a rather risky plan, but if it worked, the advantages were worth it; it would establish that Helen Nordstrom and Sharon Vuehl were distinct individuals, for how else could they both be present at the Oscars? No one need know except the four of them, and Lisa and Marika needn't know exactly why Helen was unable to attend. They could tell Marika that Helen was to attend a meeting in San Francisco, and would be probably on her way back home while Marika masqueraded as her in L.A. Just as long as Marika didn't find herself on TV, or something. If the awards ceremony were shown on the plane, then Helen would be in trouble.

Marsha had attended the Oscars dozens of times, sometimes invited, sometimes not. She knew how to keep a really low profile at the awards. It was possible, and she had done it, and in fact, she was going to do it again on Sunday. It would be nice to have company she thought, provided she could maneuver to get herself and 'Helen' (Marika, in actuality) seats together. It was absolutely a stroke of luck! Marika had handed her the idea on a plate. Now Marika had to go on believing, and Helen needed to get her Sharon disguise so perfect that it would fool Marika. If by some chance Marika recognized Helen, Marsha would have to convince her to keep the secret. Marsha's head hummed with the challenge. She slipped into the little room that she had commandeered as her headquarters, and began to call.

To Lorna's relief, Helen pulled herself together with an effort. She couldn't hold back her tears, but she was calm. She greeted the line of sympathizers with patience and her own unique charm. She became the well-brought-up Kansas girl who held onto good old Kansas ideals and manners. The townsfolk went away totally in love with their Helen Nordstrom. She would probably operate the farm, the nice girl, rather than selling it off to be turned into more condominiums. But she told them that her head was still spinning, and her plans needed to be examined carefully, and they agreed.

When Helen got back in the car to return home, with Lorna and Gena on either side and Allie on her lap, she was much more aware of her surroundings. She seemed calm and collected, joining in the conversation intelligently. And everyone's mood improved tremendously.

There were lots of calls for Helen from Hollywood, but Marsha had briefed her carefully, and Marika and Marsha and Helen had talked. It had been a nervous moment, but Helen had pulled it off. The three of them got together in Marsha's little hidey-hole, and carefully examining Marika, they put together a plan to dress Marika so exactly like Helen, and in such a striking dress, that attention would be diverted from Marika's face to 'Helen's dress.'

The family gradually dispersed. Helen took leave of everyone carefully. Amy and her friend, Scott and Leila, Janet and Elly and family, Cindy and the kids.

Helen and Lorna took a long walk in the cold meadow. Lorna had a flight at four, and Helen was flying out with Marsha around the same time, ostensibly to head to Boston.

Lorna was quiet, letting Helen take the lead.

"I've been thinking," Helen began quietly, "you're a dancer ... you're in the prime of your life; you should stay in Philadelphia and dance." It hurt so much to say it, but strength came from somewhere. There was some saying that to keep a heart, you must first set it free. "You've just discovered what you can do!" Helen stopped, turned to Lorna and smiled. "You're so wonderful! So beautiful, my lovely friend, my heart." She said the words softly, with sincerity and admiration. "Just when I found you ... I have to give you away."

Lorna's face grew dark. She clenched her teeth with anger, and Helen wondered if it was anger at herself or at Helen.

They were in the lee of the barn, sheltered from the steady chilling breeze that had sprung up. Helen was dressed warm, in a heavy dress and a cardigan. Lorna had worn a coat over her thin grey wool dress, but had taken the coat off and left it in the house because she was hot. Absently, Helen wondered if Lorna was too cold now.

For one long year, Lorna had been trying to find for herself in relation to Helen. It was too simplistic to say that she was Helen's lover. She had been Becky's lover—in fact, she had immersed herself in the joy of being Becky's lover, affectionate, loving, supportive, caring, nurturing. But all the time, she had wanted to do the same for Helen. She had done for Becky the kind of thing Helen would have appreciated, but which Becky had affectionately endured for the sake of love.

But now, for months, she had controlled herself, and let Rain share in doing those things for Helen. But there were the children, and Helen's students, and Lorna's own students, and the dynamics were different. Still, the word 'lover' did not describe what Lorna felt for Helen, or did for Helen.

But Helen's thought of having to 'give Lorna away' cut her deeply, somehow. She knew that it wasn't really meant to suggest that she had belonged to Helen, and was now being surrendered, but there was some of that feeling in Helen's tone.

Lorna had intended the affair with Kat and Adrian to be a temporary thing, an experiment. It could go any way, none of them knew. They had stumbled on a perfect way of satisfying themselves sexually, and had begun to bond so closely it had been mind-blowing. But Lorna was recognizing that there was a part of her that could only be happy with Helen. This wasn't the time to reveal that fact. Helen was preoccupied with other things, and the words would be wasted.

But somehow Helen must know how Lorna felt about her two friends. Everything in Helen's manner suggested that she knew what Lorna was experiencing. Lorna sighed internally. Damn the woman; sexually she was sometimes too sharp.

"Helen ... this is a bad day to decide stuff. Don't you think? We're all upset ... You're upset, darling; I know you are. I've upset you ... Rain, your Dad's death ..."

"I'm just saying ... if you want to be free to go with those two ..."

"I know what you meant; only you could be so sweet and give me the freedom to do that!"

Helen smiled. She knew that in her heart she loved Lorna so much that in the end, what they said to each other didn't really matter. If Lorna wanted to go, she would go. Helen could only smile and wait for her.

Lorna was shivering with cold, and Helen impulsively put her arms round her. Lorna's legs were so strong, so firm and comfortable against her own! It was crazy to think of her gone. In seconds, Lorna's body was warm again, almost hot. Then they were kissing, and were on the brink of being indecently passionate, when Lorna pulled back and said: "Not now!"

Helen's finger still smarted with the blood tests that had been done on it. Before Amy left, she had insisted on everyone in the family learning how to test Helen's blood sugar with the little gadget they had found at the drugstore of the town down the road.

Helen's vision was blurred; the blood sugar hadn't yet stabilized. Once it did, she'd have to get new glasses. Poor Sharon would have to manage somehow. They had left everything unsettled; Bo and Jen would help run the farm for the family until everyone got together and decided what they wanted. Little John and Elly would be joined by Cindy, until Elly felt a little recovered. Annie had to get back to school; everyone had to go back to work. Only Elly was now suddenly without a real occupation.

Marsha was humming with tension. This escapade had become so tricky that something was sure to go wrong, and Marsha and Helen had to be prepared to save a number of possible scenarios. But Marsha had decided to play it as follows: she would figure out a number of ways to salvage the possible mishaps, but she would tell Helen only as the need arose. To burden Helen with this information now could mean disaster.

Helen had to be settled quickly, and then Marsha had to connect with Marika. Transforming Marika into Helen—despite all the natural assistance Marika had from nature—would be a challenge. The height was not a problem, nor was the eyes. The weight was a problem, and the face.

"Helen ... could you take over for a bit?" Marsha needed to think. She knew Helen could handle the plane, with Sylvia seated next to her. Sylvia's eyes were incredible.

"Okay," said Helen. The switch was made, and Marsha sat down to scheme. What a waste of brainpower! If all went well, all these contingency plans would be unnecessary.

The Academy Awards

Sharon Vuehl was her usual glamorous self when she met the Robbinses that afternoon. Having tried to resolve her feelings about her father's death, Helen had failed utterly. Somewhere in the skies over Utah, Helen found it easier to become Sharon Vuehl. Sharon had no problems, no family. Her only friends were the Robbinses, and that was good. The trick was to not get too close. She would have a wonderful time.

Steph looked cute in a dress at dinner, and Andrea looked lovely. Steve and Sharon praised the two Robbins women to the skies, deliberately making them blush. Steve had a lovely sense of humor, and the conversation sparkled. Then they settled down to business, and planned the logistics of their assault on the Oscars.

Sharon's dress was a simple, sexy red knee-length dress. Half of it was sheer red, and the rest opaque, to cleverly give the appearance of a stylish red pinafore over a sheer blouse. Late on Sunday afternoon, a make-up artist arrived, and was closeted with Sharon for a couple of hours. It was Marsha, of course, and they were making sure that Marika wouldn't be able to recognize Sharon as her cousin. Numerous, subtle changes to her appearance made her look younger, not quite as tall, and even smaller-breasted than Helen Nordstrom. The tan was made even darker. (Marika's Californian tan would be a problem, but a minor one. Marika and Helen did look incredibly alike, except for their overall build.)

The gasps of Andrea and Steph as she finally left the room were gratifying. Andrea recovered first and immediately took a number of photographs before saying that Sharon looked simply delicious. Stephanie simply stared, her jaw hanging open, and Sharon patted her behind affectionately as she walked past, walked out of the house, and was picked up by the limousine.

It was her turn to be shocked when she saw Sita. Sita was dressed in a lovely gown of some cool fabric in greens, blues and shades of brown, and she looked the exact opposite of Sharon. Next to her, Sharon looked bright and garish. Before she could recover, the door slammed, and the chauffeur was walking round to take his seat.

" _That's_ what you're wearing?"

Sita turned bright red. "You chose it, Sharon. We talked about it over the phone," she said frostily.

"But I ... never mind," said Sharon, also coloring. The kid was a foreigner and couldn't be expected to understand. She would simply _disappear_ under the bright lights. Sharon had wanted Sita to look bold and pretty; she should have known it couldn't be done over the phone.

"Just relax," said Sita.

In no time at all they were at the Awards, and Sharon was helping Sita out of the limousine. Flashes were going off, and people were talking loudly to them. Sharon offered her arm to Sita, who took it graciously. They got equal attention, though Helen's bold dress that revealed her physique so effectively, tended to shock rather more than Sita's clinging ankle-length gown that left one shoulder beautifully bare.

Considerably earlier, Marsha and Marika had arrived and taken their places.

Marika had been a total surprise to Marsha. Once they had set out together, Marika had gone into the Helen character, and stayed in it. She even made jokes about how she was doing in Helen's voice and manner. Helen's speech was gentler and had a deeper burr than Marika's; it was musical, but not as musical as Marika's normal excited, vivacious speech. In her youth, Marsha had learned, when Helen was excited she had spoken much like Marika spoke now. But since Marsha had gotten to know her, her speech had slowed down, and gotten slower every year.

When they walked, Marika had stood straight, like Helen, and seemed to gain almost an inch. She had lost a little weight about the hips, and that helped. They had waved her hair, braided it, and coiled it at her neck, and it made for a beautifully coiffed Helen indeed. The honey-gold eyebrows were left as they were, and yellow-brown contact-lenses dulled Marika's blue eyes to an amber-green, which was close enough.

Marsha shamelessly stared at Sharon Vuehl and Sita as they came down the aisle and took their seats, and she saw Marika—and indeed everybody in the auditorium—do the same. Sharon's hair flowed down her back in a red-gold wave, tied at the neck in the gold ribbon Marsha had given her. The natural wave of the hair at the temples was somehow more natural than Helen's own hairline. There was a proud smile on her lips that the deep red lipstick emphasized.

Much of the dynamics of Hollywood culture centered around the cult of women. Most of the power was in the hands of men, but these men had historically been lovers of female beauty. At different times, the spectrum of female talent available for a motion picture varied; in some years there were beauties of a serious dramatic disposition and of considerable intelligence, and who were neither overexposed nor overworked. At other times there were lovely women of a more playful nature, or even lovely women who had comedic talent. At yet other times, there were women who weren't beauties, necessarily, but who had the ability and the intelligence to attract men in other ways than with their mere looks. And at all times, the available talent inspired men to create movies. True, some movies were an idea in search of the right cast. But some movies—and not very few, either—were born out of admiration for a woman. Hollywood was, at least in part, a sort of ectoplasm that grew out of the desire of men.

Such a man was Edward Bingham. He was unmarried, but had been married six times. Whether he was married or not, he was usually in love with one woman or another. He was a vigorous seventy now, a devout, religious man. He had invested in several very successful movies early in his career, and was one of the wealthiest men in the movie business. All his movies were centered around women; women were his life.

Contrary to the witness of his most recent wife, he was slow to fall in love. His first two wives had died; it was the third one that he had divorced. They had been very much in love, but when that first ardor cooled, neither of them had been able to stand it. The fourth one had cheated on him. The fifth one had had a stroke, and he had fallen in love with his sixth and last wife while still married to the fifth. The divorce had killed the poor sick woman, and he had never forgiven either himself or his sixth wife.

He enters our story a year earlier, when he had watched _Mr Chips,_ and Sharon Vuehl had caught his attention with her brightness and her passion. Those eyes, that mouth! That voice! Then had come _Limelight_ , the remake of the old Chaplin movie, and he had seen the same actress in a different light. The personalities were so different, he had to concede, against his wishes, that the woman was an excellent actor. This meant, in Edward's opinion, that she was deceitful. His fourth wife had been a superb actress, and he had come to believe that she had only pretended to be in love all along.

Though he had never met her in the flesh, he judged and condemned the Vuehl woman as a money-grubbing fiend. But at the same time, he began to dream of movie projects centered around her. A movie about a poor girl who becomes a movie star. A story about a movie star who falls in love and marries, and whose former career destroys her happiness. An actress who falls in love with an older man, a movie producer. That was disgusting, and he abandoned that quickly.

Then he was dragged off to see Merit early in the Fall, and had been shocked out of his mind. He had told nobody about his obsession, so nobody knew. In the darkness, he stared fascinated at the screen, realizing that the damn woman was a lesbian—had been, all the time. And he knew she was not a money-grubbing siren; she didn't care for men at all. Somehow Merit became the actress herself. Completely losing his objectivity, he began to ascribe the motives of the character to the actress, and he fell in love again, as he saw her tenderness, her loyalty, and her deep sense of honor. Never mind that the movie showed so much skin that its story and its writing and its gorgeous cinematography was completely eclipsed by its superficial sexuality.

Once he had time to consider, he realized the error of his thinking. This was underscored when he saw one interview of the woman on television. There wasn't a single intelligent thought in her head; she was a simpleton, a mere valley-girl with a New England accent.

But he couldn't get her out of his head. His nights were filled with dreams about her, his days were filled with ideas for movies starring her. He didn't need the money; he just wanted to think about her all the time.

But that waned, and he moved on to other women. He played his records, went to church, attended Bible-study, read his newspaper, watched TV, played a round or two of golf, repulsed the cautious advances of his young assistants and household staff, all female. He liked women around him, but he never had sex before he married. He had his rules, a refreshing contrast to the crazy world around him. The trick was to marry Mr Bingham, not to get him into bed.

When Sharon and Sita walked down the aisle to their seats, Bingham was there, and Sharon walked within inches of his face. The dress the woman wore had a sheer strip down the side, almost like a satin stripe, and he could see the string of her bikini. He could get her scent, and it drove him wild. Her deep chest and wide shoulders were perfect; her walk was firm and confident, yet so womanly, with just a hint of hip; the curve of her breast maddening, the golden tan of her skin just deep enough to suggest hours of lying nude under the sun. The only jewelry she wore was a gold armlet, and the gold chain that held the turquoise silk purse that hung at her back. She wore sexy red sandals with straps round her ankles, and her feet were so beautiful that he wanted to reach out and touch them. And their seats were just a few rows forward of him, and Sharon had the aisle seat. He was going to be able to ogle her all evening.

He saw them sit down and hold hands, and a wave of rage swept through him. He couldn't actually see them hold hands, but he knew they were, by the smile on the redhead's face. She leaned forward and looked all around her, and seeing him watching her, gave him a polite smile. She could have cut him dead; she could have smiled seductively, she could have remained expressionless. It was strangely disturbing.

Sharon looked around, and saw, in addition to the strange white-haired fellow who was staring at her, a number of well-known actors and actresses smiling at her, and she felt vaguely embarrassed. She hadn't thought about how she would relate to her fellow-actors. She was officially a recluse, but she might be quite a sociable recluse if it suited her purposes. Even when she faced forward there were faces that tried to make eye-contact with her, female and male.

For Sita, the place was overwhelming. She was seated next to Sam Watkins and her famous beau, Jonathan Malkovitch. She had read that Sam was an idiot, and also rude. But she had sweetly said "Hi, I'm Sam Watkins! You're Sita, I know!" Sita had smiled pleasantly but hoped that Sam would leave her alone. She had only said how do you do, and dropped her eyes, and after remarking that she liked Sita's dress, Sam had turned to Jon and continued to talk quietly. In front of Sita were two rows, and then the stage. To their right were three rows slightly angled to face more towards them. At first Sita was too flustered to notice much of anything, but eventually she relaxed just enough to realize that all eyes were not quite on her, but were more on her companion.

Very soon the media event began. The host was the well-known actor David Stone, who combined intelligence, tact and charm with a certain old-time charm that was beginning to return to fashion after a long absence. Sita had dropped Sharon's hand soon after she had picked it up and pressed it, and now she wished she hadn't.

"Give me your hand again, Sharon," Sita said in a low nervous voice, leaning towards her. Sharon looked cool and relaxed, examining the stage and the orchestra with interest.

"Well," said Sharon, equally quietly, "wait until the camera moves away. He's on you right now."

Sita gasped. "Where? Oh ... I see him." He was crouched near the stage.

"Don't look at them unless they're close; in any case don't look upset at 'em," Sharon said, looking right into Sita's eyes. Sita couldn't resist her when she did that. Sita understood that she was a date, not a lover or companion.

Ignoring the cameras, she looked around cautiously once more, and got a sense of how Sharon drew people to her like a magnet. It was futile to think that Sharon would pick her, Sita, out of all the women and men available to her. She'd had her chance, her one night of bliss. That was the reward for all the good she had done in all her lives. To be the life's companion of Sharon was an arrogant dream. Her sister had lusted for Helen, and then left her in a moment of extreme stupidity. They were both destined to have their desires, but ultimately lose them.

Marika couldn't see Sharon after she had sat down, and she got a grip on herself quickly. She was doing a role, even if she was simply seated in an auditorium. The idea was not to attract attention, but remain in character for whoever happened to be watching her. She knew for a fact that a camera stood close by, and had been focused on her for several minutes. She tried to turn her head towards it, because she knew her full face was more convincing than her profile. Her nose was rather the wrong shape, and Marsha's makeup worked better full-face. But in the darkened auditorium, she would pass.

Everyone smiled at her sweetly, and she smiled back with Helen's cool smile, which was subtly different from her real smile. In public, Helen had a smile which conveyed a certain feeling: an acknowledgment, an expression of mild pleasure, a statement that she was happy to be there; and somehow a sense of respect. Marika had wanted to learn that smile for the day when she became famous, and today she had the perfect opportunity.

Once things began to move, they moved rapidly. Unlike Helen, Marika had the disadvantage of knowing many people in the movie business either personally, or by reputation. All the early technical awards were fascinating to her, and she had to work hard to appear to be as mildly interested as Helen would have been. One day Marika would aspire to be nominated for cinematography of a major movie, but she was yet to work on one. She had done work on dozens, but she had never been the cinematographer. She had an aisle seat on the very last block on the left, and two recipients had passed her on the way up to the stage, and both had smiled at her. She was instantly recognizable, she gathered. The broad smiles she received were surely for Helen, not for Marika.

With a shock, Sharon realized that she hadn't taken the time to learn what other movies and actors had been nominated at all. She only knew the four others who had been nominated for best actress in addition to herself: Sita, Justine Manet, Susan Wright, and Hayley Mills. As the event progressed, she gradually became frustrated that _Merit_ had been nominated for none of the awards that had come up. _Mr. Chips_ won for best script based on an existing movie, and she cheered. She stayed back, since she had no official creative role in it except as actress. The writer and the nominal producer went up together. They thanked everyone, and finally looked at Sharon, and she felt for the first time the excitement of being involved in an award at the Academy. The writer was speaking.

"Finally, I would like to thank the lady who made it all possible—she's seated right there!—the most professional, most pleasant, most wonderful actress, Miss Sharon Vuehl!"

The auditorium erupted in applause and cheers, and Sharon only had a fraction of a second to put on an expression of calm approval, rather than the flush of intense pleasure she really felt. Sita, next to her, could hardly contain herself. Sharon wondered where Marsha was hiding, the real producer of the movie.

Suddenly an usher was near them, and Sita was getting out of her seat. Her tiny hand pressed Sharon's as she squeezed past, a little kiss. That gesture was harder to manage her reaction to than the preceding celebration. Sharon was discovering how strongly she felt about Sita very slowly. A mere touch, it seemed, could shake her to her depths.

The next set of awards were technical ones, and then there was the familiar sound of the theme from _Merit_ , and a tiny figure was ushered on stage, walking with the deliberate measure Sharon knew so well. Under the lights, instead of being washed out, Sita looked fairy-like. She had chosen to dress neutrally, neither the little Indian woman, nor the Hollywood starlet, nor the British actress, but simply a young woman dressed for an important occasion.

Reading from the teleprompter with only the slightest tremor in her voice, she began. "This year's nominees for best supporting actress span a wide variety of roles, from a devoted daughter of a diplomat to the forceful queen of a major imperial power. They represent well the range that is required of modern actresses."

Sharon smiled benevolently, knowing that the camera was focused right on her face. She couldn't afford to think of anything except that she must do and feel exactly what Sharon Vuehl must do and feel. Sharon Vuehl must be supportive and interested in her young companion, but no more. On the other side of the auditorium, Marsha Moore watched the monitor, her heart in her mouth. This picture would be viewed by millions. Then her heart stopped. For a brief second, Marika and Marsha were shown, and then the picture cut back to Sharon Vuehl.

Sharon Vuehl was naturally about the same size and build as Helen Nordstrom. But where Helen had cultivated a serene, retiring presence (which Marika was mimicking to perfection) appearing not to care too much about her appearance, Sharon Vuehl was more aggressive, wide-eyed, eager, confident. She sat with her legs crossed, showing a lot of gleaming thigh, leaning forward, intent on the stage. Her red lips were slightly parted, and her perfect white teeth gleamed. She looked more swan-like with her long neck accentuated by her relaxed shoulders. But most of all, the camera caught the startling blue of her eyes as they stared at the slight form of Sita on the stage. Last, but not least, Sharon Vuehl looked not a year older than twenty eight. For her age, of course, Helen looked remarkably youthful. But Marsha had managed to make Sharon look younger still.

Attention was equally divided between the two women, Sharon and Sita. Dressed in dark red, Sharon Vuehl was an arresting sight, all the more because she was so rarely seen. The public had to wait months between sightings of the star of _Merit_. And when Sita finally announced the awardee's name, Sharon's face was wreathed in smiles, and the cameras showed Sharon applauding. And Marsha marveled, because the face was not that of Helen Nordstrom at all. Marika, too, stared at the monitor, and Marsha watched her out of the corner of her eye.

Marika shook her head. "She's really something, isn't she?" It was as if Helen had said it. Both cousins were doing a brilliant job of being someone else.

"How did I do?" she asked when she got back.

"Fantastic!" said Sharon, smiling brilliantly at her. "You speak so well!"

"Oh!" Sita made a gesture of dismissal. Sharon reached out to squeeze Sita's hand. Sita immediately grabbed it and held it for just a second before letting go. Sharon only smiled and gently slapped her hand.

Sharon watched the musical interludes and dances avidly, the beautiful men and women with equal interest, ignoring Sita's insistent nudges. The dancers wore the absolute minimum of clothing, the current fashions permitting a great deal of latitude in the matter of the clothing of dancers. Singers, too, tended to follow suit, blending in with dancers when appropriate.

Suddenly it was time for the award for which Sharon had been nominated: best actress. Though she had believed that she didn't care whether or not she won, Sharon realized at that moment that she did, too care. The presenter was one of the loveliest women of the screen, a woman Sharon had admired long before Sharon had ever existed. She read off the nominees, and Sharon was last: "..., and Sharon Vuehl for _Limelight_."

" _Limelight!_ What's she saying?!" Sharon's shock was evident.

"Of course! That's what you were nominated for: _Limelight._ "

"... and the award goes to: Sita, for _Merit and the Princess!"_

"Oh goodness!" Sita exclaimed, looking about her, flustered. "Finally, _Merit_ has won!" Sharon, still stunned by her misunderstanding, graciously made room for her little companion once more to get out to the aisle. Before walking up to the stage, Sita bent to kiss Sharon softly. She never said a word, but her eyes said it all, and the cameras got it. She walked up the steps with great dignity as the applause rolled like thunder. She accepted the statuette from the gracious woman who greeted her with pleasure and respect, and then turned to the microphone.

The customary tears and gushing never manifested. For a few seconds the young woman's face glowed like a beacon, expressing pure delight. The cameras caught her seeking out her friend in the audience, the motion of those beautiful eyes, the trembling fingers on the heavy statuette which she had rested on the podium.

In a clear voice, she thanked the Academy for the award, and, no surprise, said that she shared it with the other nominees, particularly her dearest friend, Sharon Vuehl. Then she meekly let herself be led away.

It was the only award that _Merit_ had won: best actress. Sharon looked about in frustration; did not _Merit_ deserve any more recognition than that? Certainly it was not a work of art, but as a work of entertainment, surely? Who were the other nominees?

Sita would know; she was the kind of girl who did her homework. Certainly Lalitha would have known. Sharon sat back in her seat, her arms folded. She felt like a mother whose child had been slighted, but who wasn't about to make a spectacle of herself. She didn't hate the Academy, no; it was that their criteria and their considerations were so much more complex and convoluted than her own naive belief that she had made a wonderful, sexy, sweet movie about a tender lover between two women that many had identified with. There still was 'Best Movie,' she knew, but surely the results so far augured ill for winning that final prize.

It was 'Best Director,' and Tony Cheng was nominated, as well as the directors of _Chips_ and _Limelight_ , and a couple of other action shows, and a young woman who had directed a lovely movie set in the former Yugoslavia. Sharon felt a touch on her shoulder and looked up to see an Academy messenger handing her a note. Sharon stared at her uncomprehending.

"Mr. Cheng hasn't showed up," she said. "Read the note, quick!"

The note read that Sharon should accept if Tony won. The messenger disappeared before Sharon could nod.

Scenes from the various movies began to appear on the monitors and the screen. For _Merit_ they had chosen an action sequence where Merit fights a drunken mob and carries the princess off to safety. Sharon felt Sita crouched at her side, and let her slip into her seat. The scenes from the remaining movies came on, while Sita picked up Sharon's unresisting hand. Sharon couldn't suppress a shiver. Surely Chang's directing had been nothing short of miraculous! He would win. But ... as an action movie, Merit had some failings; it couldn't compare to the amazing effects they had been seeing lately in films of that genre.

"The winner is ... Tony Cheng!"
"Where is he?"

"I'm accepting for him, as it happens."

"You'd better go, then!"

Sharon got to her feet, and all eyes were on her at once. Without thinking she slipped into the hip-swinging walk that was Sharon Vuehl's certified gait. She had only a few steps before she was at the stage, then a few more, and she was walking across to the podium. The statuette was suddenly in her hands, and she was alone at the podium, a vast sea of faces stretching out in front of her. She let her eyes sweep over them, identifying as many as she could. She had to play out this moment as long as she could; in a few hours she would disappear again, and the last thing she wanted was to be forgotten.

"My first time up here, and it's for somebody else!" she joked in a flat voice, and got a laugh. "Tony Cheng is a wonderful director," she said sincerely. "The director's art is now at its height; the nominees are evidence of that. But I'm glad Tony has won an award for our movie. I accept this on his behalf, and I thank the academy for him. Thank you, everyone!"

The last thing Sharon saw before she turned to leave was herself, dressed in a champagne-colored dress, watching from the extreme right. Their eyes met for just a moment, and she was walking out the back, Tony Cheng's statuette clutched in her hand.

The exit became a chute through which she was passed onto another pair of beautifully dressed ushers, who showed her into a room filled with reporters. Sharon hadn't expected anything of the kind, and was totally taken aback.

There was a storm of questions and the sound of scores of cameras taking pictures, and even a few flashes, blinding her already blurred eyes. She felt her body stiffen momentarily, but a gentle touch on her arm seemed to comfort her. She took a deep breath and filled her lungs, and heard, rather than felt, the attention go to her body. The lighting was excellent, and she heard the cameras whirr and beep as they focused and refocused.

"I need to get back," she said smoothly, not scowling, but not bothering to smile. Refusing to talk, she hurried away, and heard a clatter of footsteps following her. "This way!" a feminine voice said, and Sharon followed her. She was a luscious girl, and she smelled of mousse and perfume, not too strong. Very feminine.

She suddenly stopped, making a warning gesture that Sharon chose to ignore. Sharon pressed against her from behind, as she paused at the door, feeling the soft flesh of her buttocks against her legs. "Come on, you can go in!" she said, smiling a special smile at Sharon. Sharon winked at her, and she winked right back and smiled some more.

Sharon hurried to her seat as applause erupted. She had no idea what the award was. There was her seat: Sita had been clapping, and now the audience rose to its feet for some elderly gentleman.

"What is it?"

"A lifetime achievement award ..." Sita began. It was some producer whose name Sharon didn't recognize but whom Sita seemed to know well.

They sat down. It was time for best movie. The clips were shown again, and Sharon finally found out that Merit had been nominated for best film. A few seconds later, before Sharon had quite caught her breath, the winner was announced: _Limelight_.

Sharon remembered vaguely being pulled out of her seat by the people from _Limelight_ as they almost skipped up to the stage. Disappointed that _Merit_ hadn't won, Sharon had been seated, staring at the presenter with a vacant expression—which had doubtless found its way into every living-room in America. "Come on!" they had cried, and she had protested at first, but realization set in, and she had let them haul her along. Watching the Oscars long ago, she had detested these rowdy situations with dumb enthusiasm ruining an otherwise perfectly choreographed event. "Calm down," she had muttered, but they paid her no heed. She wished she had worn a more dignified costume, perhaps with a shawl; instead she wore this simple dress. The only other woman, Maggie Evans, wore a formal black gown and looked like a duchess. She hung back and Sharon took her arm as they climbed the steps together.

"I'm not gonna talk," Sharon said softly to Maggie.

"You should," Maggie said. "Say something for Sam Slade."

"Why?"

Maggie stared at Sharon. "Why? What's wrong with you?"

"Is he dead?"

"You didn't know? You're serious?" Sharon shook her head, a minute movement. Maggie's nod was equally subtle, and her face spoke volumes. Sharon shrugged, and Maggie smiled a frosty smile. Maggie was British, and not very tolerant of bad form. Sharon realized that she probably hated her for having done _Merit_.

Sharon hadn't spoken, according to her promise. They stepped out of the spotlight, and the host brought the event to an official close, and they were herded out to the press room again. Helen felt a familiar hand on her arm, and a familiar smell of perfume and mousse, and a soft breast pressed against the back of her shoulder.

"Congratulations!" said a soft voice in her ear. Sharon made no move to discourage the girl's touch.

"Thanks!" said Sharon, smiling as she turned around.

"I loved all your movies!" said the girl. "Honest!" They were the last in line. One of the guys, just ahead of Sharon, looked back and grinned.

"I've only made a few," Sharon said, her tongue in her cheek.

The girl squeezed Sharon's arm. "Yeah, and I've seen all three! We may not know much, but we sure know movies around here!"

She had a pleasant voice. Sharon placed her accent as native Californian. She was really very pretty, Sharon decided. Things were getting complicated. Sharon smiled and nodded, her eyes twinkling.

"Would you sign an autograph for me—after?" She looked nervous and excited, and spoke under her breath so only Sharon could hear. "I'm not supposed to ask, but it's over, right? It's all over, so it's okay. It'll only take a second!"

"I'll look for you," Sharon promised, grinning at the anxious girl. She was really pretty, and looked ready to burst out of her sexy dress. "What's your name?"

"Kendra!" she said.

The press conference had been intense. Did she enjoy making _Limelight_ as much as _Merit_? What were her plans? Was she disappointed? Where was the dress from? Was she attending any of the parties? Was she going out with Sita? Was it true that she was going a spread for _Elegance_? What was her opinion about the demonstration outside the hotel on Thursday night? What about a sequel? What about a TV series?

When Sharon turned to go back to the auditorium, Kendra was waiting for her. She pulled Sharon into a dark backstage corner behind the set, and handed her a souvenir and a pen, and Sharon wrote rapidly, disguising her handwriting. Then she handed it back and looked meaningfully at the lovely Kendra. The pretty grey eyes looked back at her in the half light. On the other side of the set the noise of the audience was a dull roar.

"You're incredible," Kendra said in a husky voice. "I can't believe we're alone like this!" She laughed awkwardly. "You must get this all the time, huh?"

Sharon grinned. "Not from such a pretty woman!"

"What can I do for you?" asked Kendra, her face deadly serious.

Much later, Sharon wondered how she had had the self-control to resist that offer. She slowly shook her head, while she gave Kendra the compliment of taking in her whole body.

"Look," said Kendra, breathlessly, and moved aside a fold of sheer fabric that seemed far too thin, and exposed one full, lovely breast, and another fold, showing Sharon its mate. "All natural!" said Kendra, her voice trembling with pride and nervousness. "Go ahead," she said, "touch it!"

"Not here," Sharon said, sounding cooler than she felt. "But I really—appreciate it! But I couldn't."

Kendra covered herself up, smiling ruefully. "I'm just a fan," she said. "I wouldn't do it for just anyone, you know."

It was a dream. Sharon and Sita were invited to several post-Oscar parties, and after much discussion, they decided to attend one. After a few minutes at that one, they would decide.

"We don't both need to go to the same ones, anyway," Sita said, clutching Sharon's arm in a vise-like grip, her eyes wide. Sharon grinned. They got into their limousine with some difficulty, and almost half an hour later arrived at their first post-Oscar party.

It was interesting. Sharon suddenly realized that she had known a few of the people she was meeting a few years ago as Helen, but somehow there must have been enough magic in the make-up to make her completely unrecognizable. She was introduced to maybe fifty people within twenty minutes, most of them ostensibly some of the biggest names in movies. Sharon and Sita were given food that was out of this world, and of course offered lots of drinks. Sharon nursed a glass of excellent wine for a long time, but soon began to drink another and another.

The number of intoxicated people rose, and Sharon decided to slow down. Sita stuck close to her like Jiminy Cricket, nudging her, tugging at her sleeve, poking her in the ribs.

"What?" cried Sharon in exasperation after one of these attacks.

"Watch what you say!" replied Sita, under her breath. "You're swearing!"

"Oh." Sharon blinked thoughtfully. "I swear when I've had a few."

"Maybe you should stop!"

"Stop? This stuff is good."

"Hey!" said a very tipsy starlet who was seated herself next to Sharon, and was asking about an imaginary situation that Sharon had been describing. "Don't stop now! What do the guys do?"

"Oh, they hide inside the church all night, and when the moon comes up ..."

"What are you talking about?"

"Hush!"

While they argued, Sharon felt her hand being taken and placed on something soft and yielding.

It was just the first of many interesting experiences. More opportunities for gentle physical intimacy with virtual strangers came Sharon's way than ever before. At this particular party no one wanted to slip away for too long: the entertainment was dazzling, and the number of famous names even more dazzling. Sharon got on very friendly terms indeed with some of the biggest names in Hollywood, especially those attached to the younger and most attractive bodies. It was becoming harder and harder to wriggle out of giving away her phone number.

All the while, Sita was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Somehow she was managing to stay away from the guests with more exploratory hands, but she was becoming aware of how much exploration was going on. About an hour into the evening she decided to find Sharon, who yet again seemed to have disappeared. She found her in a dark corner laughing with a handsome young man with his hand on her thigh, looking a little too intoxicated for Sita's comfort.

"Oh, Sita, hi honey!" said Sharon, warmly.

"I'm getting a little tired," Sita said in a low voice to Sharon, having smiled politely round the table. "Shall I go to the hotel, and send the car back for you?"

Sharon got up fairly smoothly—she was still pretty much in control of herself, Sita noted with satisfaction—and declared she'd call it quits, too. Besides, she wanted to drop in on another party or two.

In particular, there was a particular party that drew her. People coming from there had given her a glowing account of the guests who were in attendance, including some actors and models whom Helen had long admired. So Sita was duly dropped off, and Sharon directed the car to the home of the Robbinses. They were back, and all three met her at the door, looking very handsome indeed, still in their Oscar clothes.

"I just wanted to get changed!" she said breathlessly, smiling approvingly at them. "I'm sweating like a pig!"

Andrea nodded. She knew the routine well. Stephanie just stared at her. There was something subtly wrong with the beautiful woman.

Sharon emerged dressed in an incredibly provocative costume: a glittering black-and-gold midriff-baring top, and a matching brief skirt with a sexy black fringe that left most of her legs bare, and a sheer cover over all of it. Before Stephanie could do more than gasp, she was gone.

Stephanie turned to her mother, furious.

"How could you let her go like that? She looks terrible!" Steph pointed helplessly at the departing figure. Her father laughed.

Andrea smiled patiently. "I thought she looked fabulous, dear!"

"But ... she's practically naked!"

"Now, baby, she's a big girl; she can wear what she wants. Actually, it was a pretty modest outfit; all the important parts seemed to have been covered."

"I hate her going out like that! There's all sorts of—people out there!"

Sharon left a swath through the Hollywood nightlife that would feed legend for months. In public she flirted and danced, matching for exuberance any but the most intoxicated.

After the end of the event, Marsha steered Marika out the way they had come in. Marsha had pushed to leave their seats well before the end, to watch the last few minutes from another, more secluded vantage point closer to the exit, but Marika had been impossible to budge. All her talk the whole evening (in Helen's voice, moreover) had been about Sharon Vuehl; Marika was obsessed about her; and she simply _had_ to see how it turned out. She was beside herself with excitement when Merit won, and Marsha was ready to take extreme measures to preserve the illusion that Marika was Helen if Marika were to do something uncharacteristic of Helen. But even in her extreme excitement Marika was in character.

"Helen, get a grip," Marsha murmured.

"Wow!" Marika said in a creditable imitation of Helen's favorite exclamation, " _Finally!"_

"Come on, hon; time's a-wasting!"

"Just one tiny minute, please, please!" Marsha watched with such excitement, those in the seats close to them smiled indulgently. It was almost as much fun to watch Helen Nordstrom enjoying the awards as to watch Sharon accepting the award. There was whispering among the onlookers, and when Marsha finally got Marika to get up, they were waylaid by a dozen Helen Nordstrom fans.

Marika stared at them temporarily taken off-guard. Did she enjoy the Oscars? Was she planning to make a movie? When would the next CD be released? Who was the young violinist who had partnered Helen?

Marsha put on a patient smile, while she got an ulcer with sheer worry. The idea had been for Marika to impersonate Helen _without_ the burden of _actually interacting_ too much with the public.

Suddenly Marsha realized that Marika was doing very well indeed. At first she groped about for ideas about the movie questions in a quite un-Helen-like way. But as soon as the questions got to the CDs and recording, Marika knew almost as much as Helen did. It only remained to answer them in Helen's slow, earnest but reserved way. (Actually, Helen was much friendlier with the fans, as Marsha had seen first hand, but Marika's attempt was within acceptable limits.)

Alarmingly, the line of celebrity fans grew ever longer, and Marsha was lost between panic that one of them might be a close acquaintance of Helen, and the sheer pleasure of pulling off the preposterous masquerade with such success.

"Don't you remember me? I'm Carol! Remember when you were at Saint Mary's?"

Potential disaster was at hand. Marsha steeled herself to interfere if needed. The only thing Marsha could think of was to suggest that 'Carol' must have lost weight. If Marika thought of it first it would sound more natural. Marsha rehearsed possible ways to steer the talk that way, but Marika had a far more superior tack.

Her face looked sorrowful as she softly said that she couldn't remember. "I have little—lapses," she confessed, "not people, but certain periods, you know?"

"Oh, yes," said Carol, nodding soberly, "I should have realized. Anyway, it's lovely to see you!"

Marika put her arms impulsively round the embarrassed Carol, and Marsha saw her face relax and her eyes close in pleasure. Marika had studied her cousin very closely indeed.

That decided Marsha. The thing to do was to exploit the situation, so that as many people as possible saw 'Helen' on the same evening as Sharon did not receive her award for _Merit_.

Helen Nordstrom went round to many of the more sedate gatherings, until Marika and Marsha decided to find Sharon. Marika had been pestering Marsha all evening since they left the auditorium, but Marsha hadn't been comfortable with the idea. The alibi was perfectly good without the two women being actually seen in the same room after the awards. But after a couple of hours of unqualified success, Marsha decided to gamble. Her car phone easily helped her find where Sharon was; she was partying hearty at the club at which the beautiful people gathered.

"Oh god," Marsha groaned. "Listen, you're not going to talk to her. Promise me!"

"Why not?"

Marsha improvised. "She has a reputation for being unpredictable. I don't want anyone to be fresh with you; can you imagine Helen having to live down an incident?"

Marika took a deep breath and bowed her head, sighing her concession. After all, she was doing this for Helen. That was hard to bear in mind, when she was having _so_ much fun.

"I just need to see her, I guess. Is that disgusting?"

Marsha looked at her as she parked. Marika had been rather a two-woman woman. She had been in love with Helen since college, but her love for Lisa had become a way of life. But now, for whatever reason, she had become infatuated with Sharon. Marsha was playing with fire, but she felt the same inability to avoid danger in Marika's company as she felt in Helen's.

"Don't forget Lisa and the little one waiting for you."

"Shit. You had to bring that up." It was Marika's voice, softly reproachful. "I was enjoying myself so much."

Marsha suppressed a desire to slap the woman beside her. Marika had no idea what Marsha would have given to have a child like Marika had, even if it wasn't out of her body.

They got out. As they walked to the entrance, Marsha turned a cautious eye to her companion, and caught her eye, and the glance they exchanged was so full of meaning that it made Marsha feel all twisted up inside. Marika understood what Marsha was thinking—there was that clear look in Marika's eye. On top of that, she looked so much like Helen at that instant that Marsha felt a chill up her spine. At certain times, what you feel with someone has nothing to do with who it is, or your history together. Marika put her arm round Marsha briefly, and Marsha felt the tears rush to her eyes, but a moment later her control returned. Marika dropped her arm, and concentrated being a famous musician.

Inside, a drunk starlet was stripping. Sharon watched, her eyes popping. The music was loud, and the girl danced like some beautiful tortured soul, bare-breasted. She was drawing her skirt up over her body as she rocked to the music.

"Gosh, she's taking her clothes off," said Marika, unnecessarily, as she peered through the crowd that circled the girl, clapping encouragement.

"She's the third one!" said an enthusiastic young fellow dressed in a tuxedo, his shirt soaked in perspiration, his grin splitting his face in half. "We're trying to get Sharon to do a strip! I bet she will, too!"

"Hey," said Helen, before Marsha could get a word in edgewise, "I don't see any _guys_ stripping!"

"Aww, that's disgusting!"

"For you, maybe! _I'd_ like to see you take off your clothes!"

At the insistent shouts of "Take it off!" the girl finally removed her last stitch of clothing and threw it to the audience, and Sharon caught it and held it to her nose to cheers from the crowd.

In spite of the girl who danced naked, her face pure concentration, Sharon was as much the center of attraction. The two of them were dancing together, and the crowd was going crazy with excitement, and Marsha could hardly bear to look. "Let's get out of here," she said, turning to Marika, but she was gone. There she was, within a few feet of the dancing women, her eyes devouring them.

Marika couldn't resist the fascination she had for Sharon Vuehl. Half of her wanted her to strip and join the other girl, while the other half wanted her to turn away from the naked danceuse and come away. Sharon's moves were incredibly sexy; in fact both girls were amazing. The girl seemed to be in a trance, and it was very possible that she was under the influence of a drug. But man, she was gorgeous. And Marika could see that Sharon was under her spell.

Marika circled the floor so she could see better. They were dancing so closely together, their undulations matched almost perfectly in a dance that was obscene as it was beautiful, as it mimicked the dance of coitus. Marika clapped loudly with the crowd, and Sharon looked up and saw her. Marsha was sure something snapped, then, and Sharon put her arms round the girl. Everything came together. The music segued to another song, and suddenly Sharon and the girl were nowhere in sight.

Marika looked round her frustrated. Where were they? She headed back to where she had left Marsha, and found Marsha heading her way.

"Kid, we gotta go," said Marsha, ignoring a couple of well-known actors who were trying to attract her attention. Everywhere people were looking for some other entertainment. The supply of drunk starlets seemed to have dried up temporarily. Marika went meekly with the actress. Around them voices said: It's Marsha Moore and Helen Nordstrom! Are you sure? Yes! Man, where's she been? Marsha and Marika just kept walking, and in a minute were headed out to Marsha's hotel.

"Where did they go?" Marika asked.

"The Ladies' Room, where else?"

"Oh."

"Oh, get a grip, Marika."

Sharon, too, found herself in her hotel with the drunk starlet. The poor girl's clothes were in no state to be worn after a bunch of intoxicated men had stepped on them. Sharon had put her sheer tunic on the girl and got her out to the car somehow, and they had gone straight to the hotel.

It was past one in the morning. Sharon had paid the chauffeur handsomely and sent him away. Getting the girl up to her room had been an amazing adventure. She had to be kept in the car while Sharon had gone to get a wrap.

She was young, no more than eighteen. Her face was rather ordinary, except for a beautiful mouth with full lips. All Sharon knew about her was that she liked to dance, and danced the usual teen dances beautifully, and got drunk very quickly. On the way up the elevator, she fell asleep. Sharon sighed; she was a dead weight, and she wasn't light; she must have weighed about 135 pounds.

Sharon's flight back to Boston was in an hour. She boarded the plane as Helen Nordstrom. Seeing Marika at the club had been a shock, but a timely one. She had never actually been drunk all evening, but she had come close. There had been a number of close calls of various kinds, but her guardian angel had performed miracles, and here she was. She hadn't had sleep in days, and she'd lost her father. But all had ended well.

She felt some guilt, but surprisingly not a lot. It was as if Sharon Vuehl was someone quite unrelated to her. It had all been a little escapade, and had done nobody any lasting harm. The guilt was all in relation to what she should have been doing for her family and the farm.

There was also the business of the diabetes. Her constantly blurred vision was a nagging reminder that things were not perfect. She had to find out all she could about this business and decide what to do.

As the plane took off, she looked out the window, and she could almost see Sharon, staring at the plane in despair.

Florida

Aftermath

Very briefly, after Helen got back into Westfield after that adventure, everything seemed mostly right with the three of them; Helen made peace with Rain, who seemed to be relatively calm and affectionate with Helen. This was not unusual; somehow, Rain's relationship with Helen seemed to depend more on Lorna's presence, and the children, than with Helen herself.

Helen and Lorna had to attend a meeting of philanthropists, actually called by Helen and Becky, at which their small circle of donors reassessed their strategies for charitable giving in the face of the faltering stock market. The faltering at that time was nothing at all like the catastrophes of a few years later, but the charities as well as the donors were becoming uneasy.

While at the meeting, Lorna and Helen talked things over yet again, and Lorna decided to finally accept an invitation from a major ballet company in New York City. Helen knew that if she had stood in Lorna's way she would never have forgiven herself. She could not blame anyone for this disaster, except Lorna's amazing talent; Helen had been one of the first to see the potential in the kid, and it would have been the height of hypocrisy if she had stood in Lorna's way at this point.

After a day or two, the memory of the events of the Academy Awards attendance of Sharon Vuehl began to affect Helen. In retrospect, it seemed incredibly wild and inexcusable, and Helen would occasionally shudder at their memory. She occasionally thought of Stephanie Robbins, and her stomach would burn; she could hardly believe that the thought of Stephanie was so infrequent. If she had been a decent human being, Stephanie's emotional state would have been uppermost in her mind. But she appeared to be comfortable imagining that Stephanie's misery at having been loved and then abandoned, as entirely Sharon Vuehl's problem. She had also left the Academy Awards with Andrea to take care of, and some of these thoughts tended to keep popping up unexpectedly.

The College was surprised both with the mourning attire Helen wore, and with her testing her blood sugar every once in a while. "It's Insulin, isn't it?" asked Rita, the department secretary. Helen tried to explain, but Rita's medical background wasn't up to the task.

The end of the semester would soon be upon them. Without even thinking, Helen managed to alienate Rain, and she moved out. Helen was left with the two little kids, and final exams to prepare, and the usual end-of-semester pileup of academic complications. In addition, the new problem of having to deal with her Diabetes on top of everything else. Helen had gotten to understand, in a vague way, that with patience and intelligence, Diabetes need not interfere too much with her life. But without Helen realizing it, the condition did impact on her emotional equilibrium.

One of the major shoulders Helen leaned on, and had leaned on ever since she had started work at Westfield, was Betsy Schoorman, whom Helen had hired as her personal assistant. Betsy was a wonderful woman, and as long as Helen remembered that Betsy was there, she could be depended upon to tide Helen over whatever panic she may have been in. But increasingly, Helen simply forgot Betsy's existence, until Betsy showed up at the house, for some reason. A certain amount of time and effort had to be spent on making sure Helen took her medication on time, and that she tested her blood sugar on time. She needed new glasses, and Betsy took the responsibility for arranging for eye tests, and for doctor visits, because calling Amy when there was trouble was no longer a viable option; Helen needed a primary care doctor.

Unexpectedly, there was a call for Helen to perform as a violinist with a well-known orchestra in Atlanta, and to perform both as a violinist and a conductor with another group in Florida. (That was not unexpected in the world of Baroque period performance; the soloist was often the orchestra leader as well, not unlike with a dance band.) But how could Helen go? She had accepted the invitations with pleasure, and committed to them before she had realized that her resources had suddenly dwindled to almost nothing. She needed to deal with looking after the kids, or take them with her to the performances, and find child care once she got there.

Seeing Helen gradually going to pieces, Betsy offered to look after the children on the trip, but Helen shook her head; Betsy was too much of an important staffer to be stuck with the kids. Betsy then suggested that Helen call in help, either from Ferguson or Kansas, where either Cindy or Grandma Elly could be called upon to help, or from Philadelphia, but Helen shook her head, no.

Travels with Sita

Some time after Betsy had departed, the phone rang.

"Lalitha!"

"Oh Helen, I have been thinking about you so much! As soon as Lorna got the job, I knew it was just the beginning of your troubles!"

"Don't tell me: Becky called you, right?"

"Of course, but I didn't know about the Rain situation. Helen, Trish and I are coming right away. Sita will look after Suresh."

It had been decided. They would decide what would happen on the trip once they arrived, but they were to be picked up by Jim (Helen had a transport manager and pilot, and his name was Jim) in twenty minutes, and were hurrying to the small regional airport. They would bring little Megan with them.

Helen felt resentful as she washed up and put things away in the kitchen. She was losing control of everything. She had actually been enjoying managing by herself, with just the two children, but her friends seemed determined to thwart her.

James stood on a stool and peered into the sink. He was perfectly safe there, Helen knew. He just liked to know what was there, exactly. He spent a lot of time simply studying things from the top of the stool.

"Would you like to see inside the linen closet again, James?"

"Uh huh," he said, clambering down. He began to tug at the stool, and Helen picked it up for him. They headed upstairs, a lot faster than he could come down. He was strong, and had given up diapers for nearly a year, and his legs were a lot longer than those of the average three-year-old.

"Aunty Lalitha is coming for a visit, Jamie. You remember Amma?"

"Aunty Rain?"

"No, Lalitha. The pretty Indian lady?"

"Oh. Megan?"

"Right! Yes, Megan!"

James's face was split in a happy grin, even as he clumped upstairs ahead of his mother. Helen wondered what thoughts had sparked that. Perhaps he was as much of a lecher as his mother, Helen thought, ungenerously. It was strange that she was unwilling to tolerate in her child that which she was so tolerant of in herself.

"She's your sister, darling," she said, feeling stupid even as she said it. "You've got to take care of her, okay?"

"Allie, _Allie's_ my ... sister," he got out, with some difficulty. He stopped and stared at her a second, catching his breath, and set off again. "And Megan, she's a ... sister too," he added. It was too much to think, and talk, and go up stairs all at the same time. Helen knew that he was conflating the idea of _sister_ and _girl_. Oh well, she'd certainly blown that one.

Together they got out linen for two rooms, and spread the sheets, laid out the towels (James loved towels of any kind), and James got a sponge bath, and went to bed, in his own little cot this time.

Helen put on some music, and picked up the book she had been lent by her friend, and began to read, and was soon absorbed in it. Humming along with the music, she got up only to change the record in the old-fashioned single-disk player. She was startled by the sound of an engine outside, and a firm knock on the door. The visitors were here!

Helen had been dreading this moment. It had been a long time since she had entertained guests, all by herself. She was frustrated because she was afraid she had overlooked something obvious, and she had started reading partly to take her mind off it.

Now she realized she needn't have worried. The visitors were so thrilled to be there, it was like a treat for them to be anywhere but Philadelphia. They gushed on and on about how wonderful the house was, how clean, how well Helen was managing.

To Helen's confusion, _all_ of them had come along! Lalitha blushed and explained that Suresh hardly ever had a chance of getting out of the city, they had taken the liberty of all coming along. "And Sita wanted to see you too!"

Sita was all smiles, as she stood at the back, behind the rest of them. Suresh had the baby in his arms, and Trish was the first to give Helen a huge hug and kiss. Trish's affectionate nature always left Helen slightly off-balance. The understanding grin Suresh gave her made her wonder at his patience with his unusual bride. The poor fellow was growing up far too fast. Then Lalitha gave Helen the gentle embrace that was her customary greeting, almost a whisper of air. Her hair had been dyed brown again, but a few unruly strands revealed her age.

"I'm so sorry about your father," she said, softly, and Helen murmured her thanks.

"It's so good to see you, Lalitha!" Helen said, trying to keep the loneliness out of her voice. She wondered whether this was such a great idea after all. She gave Suresh and the sleeping Megan a quick hug, and told him that James was fast asleep, "But he helped me make your beds!"

Then she turned to Sita and held out her hand. But Sita put her arms around Helen in a more youthful version of Lalitha's delicate embrace. She stepped back, her face alight with admiration, and in a hushed voice said that Helen looked lovely. She herself looked such a pretty sight Helen was at a loss for words.

"I saw you at the awards, remember?" Helen said, her heart in her mouth.

Sita's face grew serious as she thought earnestly about the awards. "I was in such a state," she said, "I didn't know _what_ was going on. Honest. I must have waved, or something, yes?"

"I can't remember," said Helen, who of course had been seated right next to her being 'Sharon.' "I was dizzy with everything going on at once!"

"Exactly!" said Sita, her eyes wide. Helen looked away quickly, in case she began to actually salivate. Sita was too innocent and unspoiled for her. Disguised as Sharon she had less of a feeling of guilt at taking advantage of the poor thing's natural sex drive. But as Helen, she was through with that kind of thing. It had given her little but heartache.

She looked at Lalitha who was patiently waiting with a indulgent smile until Helen had done with her sister. They had all dressed western for the trip, all of them in quietly respectable suits, including Suresh, who wore a nice pair of slacks and a jacket and looked quite preppy. They certainly had an eye for clothes, Helen had to admit. She remarked how nice they all looked, and was told that Sita had picked out all the clothes. Even Trish managed to look her usual flirtatious self with a little more flair. She wore an Easter-ish dress with an open back, but still looked quite respectable. The two younger women had their usual effect on Helen, succeeding easily in making her forget about Lorna. But Lalitha, dressed in a warm grey that somehow complemented her unusual olive complexion, with her hair pulled back in its usual braid down her back, showing off her pretty ears, looked simply lovely, more so because she was quite unaware of how attractive she was. She was accustomed to everyone's eyes going to the sexy Trish, or to Sita, Helen guessed.

"Come in!" Helen exclaimed. "Goodness, it's not yet midnight! Jim must have flown at top speed!"

"He was doing around 300!" Suresh said at once. Helen and he exchanged grins. She had forgotten how much he would have loved to be taken up in the plane; she should have done it long ago.

"Is it too late to have a cup of tea? I have a little dinner, but nothing like you're used to, I'm afraid!"

They laughed. Tea would be nice, Sita said, shyly, adding that she had an itch in her throat that might be helped by tea. "I'll put the water on," she said quickly. "Here's a kettle. I'll put on enough for four."

"Let me do it! I'm not sick, you know!" Helen smiled, but felt frustrated by the way they seemed to be treating her like something delicate.

"It's done!" said Sita smiling.

"Becky said something about diabetes. Is it true? I told her you're far too healthy ..." her voice petered out as Helen gave her an embarrassed smile of admission. "... It _is_ true! Oh Helen. All this, all at once!"

Helen's anger was clear to all of them, and Helen saw the four faces looking at her anxiously. They looked afraid, except Lalitha, who was too familiar with Helen to be actually afraid of her temper. Suresh put a restraining hand on his mother, who simply put her hand over it lovingly.

"I'm ... fine, Lalitha. I resent being constantly reminded of it!" She managed a smile, but it had a warning in it. "The best you can do for me is to ignore it," she said firmly. "I take my medication regularly, and I do everything I have to do, and there's no impact on my lifestyle."

"All right," said Lalitha, equably. "I understand that you don't like the thing to disrupt your life, but it's silly to ignore it. What harm is there in talking about it? Suppose one of us gets it sometime? Will it have helped to never have discussed it, or talked about how you're successfully managing it?"

"Oh, you're sly!" Helen accused, exasperated, but she couldn't help smiling. "Lalitha, I don't want to be coddled, and have Sita making tea for me all the time. I'm the host, here, and you must let me at least pretend to look after you! This is going to be a holiday for you. You, especially, Suresh, and Sita, ... _all_ of you! We'll order out, if we need to. No slaving away on vacation!"

"Oh, let me only make tea, please!" said Sita sweetly. "I make good tea!"

They laughed, and the issue was left cleverly unresolved. Helen led the way upstairs to show them the two rooms. She hurriedly began to open up yet more of the rooms—there were dozens of them—when Lalitha and Trish stopped her and said one more would do.

"We'll put the babies together," Trish said, "if that's okay, and Amma and I will sleep together, and Sita and S'resh can each have their own room."

Lalitha Helen exchanged a look with Lalitha, who seemed satisfied with that arrangement. Without giving the appearance of actually doing the work on Helen's behalf, the visitors had the room set up in no time, the baby undressed and laid on a little mattress just near James, with her little doll in her arms, tucked in snugly. Within minutes they were all in bed, and quiet.

Helen lay awake, her arms feeling the familiar ache to hold Lorna's warm, firm, youthful body against her own. Her thoughts strayed to how she had made love to Sita, and even further back, to when Lalitha and she had been lovers. When Lalitha had eyes for no one but her. Or was there ever such a time? Helen remembered how she had encouraged her in her relationship with Gail. It was clear in hindsight what Helen's motivation was: it was so that she could feel free to pursue other women.

Sita's presence was alarming. Helen was on pins that Sita would suddenly recognize her. She kept telling herself that her voice was sufficiently disguised to prevent the connection. Her hair was beginning its fierce curl again. The curl of the hair was very distinctive, effectively altering the shape of Helen's face. It looked square with her curly hair, but quite oval with the hair straightened out. Helen's soft Midwestern speech was a deliberate contrast to Sharon's edgy New England twang. All that should be enough to separate them in Sita's mind, Helen decided finally.

Finally, unable to relax, Helen crept out of her room, and out to where the visitors slept. Their doors were wide open, and Helen paused just out of sight, wondering if they might wake up and see her.

She saw Lalitha and Trish asleep. A smile curved Helen's mouth to see Lalitha was curled up as she had seen her so often in the cold weather. Trish lay snuggled up against her, a thin arm thrown over her companion. Were they still lovers? Helen hoped that they were. Lalitha deserved as least that comfort, in spite of her rash choices. They were hardly more rash than Helen's own choices, she had to admit.

She saw Suresh fast asleep on his stomach. Helen felt a deep sympathy for the poor boy, so thoughtlessly seduced by Trish. He had been robbed of so much! Trish had paid in some small measure, by having to submit to the discipline of an Indian household, and the responsibility of keeping a house, when she had been accustomed to a free life of pure hedonism. But she really thrived in this environment, Helen knew. She had never known such care and love, and she was now their willing slave. But the theft of Suresh's youth was permanent. Soon he would feel the attraction of other young women, and anything could happen, none of it pleasant.

Helen peeked in on Sita, who was all snugly covered up in her blanket, her hair braided for the night. Helen leaned against the door frame, filled with longing. She couldn't see her face clearly, but in her memory she saw the soft lines of that face, with its eternal youthful beauty.

"Helen!" The soft whisper barely floated out into the hallway, freezing Helen where she stood. "Is it you?" Sita stirred slightly, and Helen knew she had been seen and identified.

"Yes," she whispered back, "go to sleep; I'm just prowling around!"

"Come in, come talk to me!"

Helen felt tense. She was uncertain what Sita would do. She wasn't an aggressive girl, but in some ways she was persistent. Better to 'put her to sleep' and then head back to bed.

She quietly closed the door, ostensibly so that they could talk without disturbing the others. Helen walked calmly up to Sita's bed. It didn't make sense to act nervous; that would only make Sita nervous too. Helen would act the motherly host.

Sita moved to give Helen plenty of room to sit on the edge of the bed, and Helen found herself accepting the silent invitation.

"I couldn't sleep either," confessed Sita, and Helen could see her quiet smile even in the near dark, and the dark eyelashes move as she blinked slowly.

"What's the problem?" asked Helen with an answering smile. "Tell Dr. Nordstrom!"

Sita giggled. It was amazing how she could do it in almost total silence. She felt Sita absently snuggle closer, and felt her silky thighs against her back.

"I'm just excited!" Sita said quietly. "I can hardly believe I'm in your house!"

Helen puzzled over that.

"Well," she said, " you've visited Hollywood! This must be pretty tame after all that!"

"Oh!" said Sita dismissively, "I hate hotels. I hardly got to meet anybody." Helen waited to hear what she had to say about Sharon. "Of course there was Sharon," she admitted, without any emotion in her voice. "She was the only one I knew there, except for the crew of _Merit_."

"Is she nice?" asked Helen, her heart in her mouth.

"Who, Sharon?" Sita stirred restlessly. "Yes, I suppose she is," she conceded. "I can never think what she's feeling," she said softly. She shook her leg restlessly. "I'd like to spend one single day with her," Sita confided. There was no talk of love, but it came through loud and clear. "I think she's hiding from me," said Sita finally, leaving Helen to draw any inferences she pleased.

"But what about you?" asked Sita suddenly. "Why were you walking around?"

"I was spying on you all," confessed Helen. Somehow Sita made lying irrelevant. "I needed to reassure myself that you're all actually here!"

Sita smiled. "I know what you mean!" she said, a laugh in her voice. "I used to do that with the Maunders' visitors! I just loved having guests stay the night!" Helen nodded, encouraging her. "We had a visitor's room, but it had a leak, and they would fix it every once in a while, but it always leaked again. And of course, it rained all the time!" She giggled again, and Helen had another bout of struggling against her baser instincts and keeping herself from trying to kiss the girl.

"Well," said Helen, "sleep tight! We get up pretty early around here!"

"We get up at five," Sita said, with a hint of challenge. "How early do you like to get up? I'll wake you!"

"Oh, don't bother," Helen said quickly. "I'll be fine. I like to run, but I haven't run lately because I've been alone with the kids. I work out in the basement instead."

"Six? Five?"

"Oh, around six thirty," Helen said, planning to be up by four.

"Okay!" said Sita. Helen bent to kiss her on the forehead, but Sita mistook her intention, and they ended up kissing each other on the lips. Helen stood and practically ran out, feeling her body responding furiously to the innocently little kiss.

Back in her room, Helen lay on her bed trembling, embarrassed at the way she had been betrayed by her body. Sita would not have noticed anything, she told herself, but the embarrassment remained. She hugged her hand between her legs, and closed her eyes, determined to control herself, but unbidden, her body gave her release that night without any further effort. With a long shuddering sigh, Helen lay still, feeling the stickiness gluing the hem of her nightie to her thighs. In seconds she was asleep.

She awoke hearing slight movements. The visitors were astir, and about to take over her kitchen and start fixing breakfast!

"Helen?" called a soft voice.

"I'm up," said Helen, tugging her stubborn nightie down over her thighs. "I'll be right down!"

"Go ahead and run," Lalitha urged, "we'll keep the baby occupied until you get back. Take as much time as you want!"

"Yeah, go on and run, Helen! We'll take care of the li'l tyke. He'll be happy to see Megan, I'll bet!"

Sita followed Helen upstairs. "I'll help you get ready," she said, for all the world as if she was a teenager.

"She'll be fine, Sita," Helen heard Lalitha call. "Come down and help us a little!"

"I'll be down in a minute!" she called back over the banister. The thick banister rail made her look thinner than she was. Helen stopped to tell her that she would be fine, really. "It's just a single garment," she explained. "What you might do is just walk up the lane; it's really beautiful at this time of day, and this time of year!"

Her eyes widened, and she said "Good idea! Okay, if you're sure you don't need help!"

Helen was torn between wearing one of her more provocative running costumes, and one that was a little more demure. She settled for something in-between, a black-and silver unitard that simply clung to her figure, but didn't emphasize any of her physical features with sexy patterns.

As she headed out, she saw with intense satisfaction the three women (Suresh was still asleep) gaze at her admiringly. "Wow!" said Trish in her forthright way, "Woo hoo! Looking sexy, there!"

Sita's jaw hung open, and her eyes echoed Trish's sentiments. And Lalitha's expression was one of loss. And Helen knew that there was a pulse under that cool exterior still.

"Something smells really good!" she said as she swung into her easy run to warm up.

The sun had risen by the time she got back, and there was a scrumptious breakfast all ready to eat. Helen hurried to the basement and put in a brief 20 minute workout, before heading upstairs to wash and change.

James was seated with Megan, and told Helen the good news that they had visitors. " _Look!"_ he exclaimed, "A lot of _people!"_ Helen agreed that there certainly was, and hurried off upstairs. She saw Sita look longingly upstairs, and signaled to her that everything was under control. The girl was lovesick, Helen understood. It was hard to be twenty-something, and completely ignored by the object of your desire. Helen remembered the night she had 'deflowered' her; belatedly Helen felt a sense of how it must have been for Sita. In spite of her careless manner afterwards, Helen realized that Sita had given her heart that night. It had happened to Helen. It was the hardest thing in the world for anyone to forget that first taste of love, especially for a sensitive teenager, with someone who could at all be the object of love. Some girls chose some loser at random, and concentrated on the experience of sex, and not on the person they were doing it with. They certainly circumvented the threat of making emotional ties with that first partner, but perhaps the price they paid for their freedom was that of being perpetually free. Helen was free now, but her heart ached for captivity. Was it too late for her? She had been captive so many times, it was beginning to lose its reality.

She showered quickly, and tested herself. 89. That was good, after a run. She took her pills, determined to downplay that aspect of her life. The less the visitors saw of her diabetic paraphernalia, the better.

Lalitha's family seconded Sita to travel with Helen. Just for company, they said, and she hasn't seen the South at all. Put like that, Helen could hardly refuse. Helen got dressed, and got Betsy and Jim working on the ticketing problem. Somehow Sita must have sensed Helen's annoyance, because she was very quiet when Jim picked them up.

"How do you like Westfield?" Jim asked jovially, and Sita replied she liked it very much, thanks, in a small voice. Helen glanced at her, and seeing her anxious expression, smiled at her. The only thing worse than having her tag along was having her look scared to death the whole time. Helen was rewarded with a grateful smile, but Sita remained quiet.

After a while, and some minor delay while they bought a seat for Sita, they were on the plane, and in the air.

It was very hard to remember that Sita was a celebrity in her own right, an academy award winning actress of an award-winning movie that had grossed record-breaking box-office receipts on its first day.

She was hunkered down in her seat, for all the world as if being on a plane was a new experience. They were facing each other in first class.

Helen could see this was going to be very difficult. The way the girl avoided her eyes, Helen knew that she was strongly drawn to Helen, and Helen certainly knew that _she_ was strongly drawn to Sita. If she didn't know herself, she would have let herself fall for her, but she knew her own weakness, and knew that only an exceptional woman could keep her in line. Lorna could, and perhaps Amy could. Too late, Helen could see that Rain could have done it, if Lorna hadn't been around. In the end, all three of them had come away with nothing. Sophie had warned her against this. Or had Sophie encouraged it? Helen shook her head; she would never blame someone else for her problems.

"What're you thinking about?" asked Sita gently, leaning forward, her eyes shining. "You just shook your head!"

"Oh," said Helen recklessly, "I decided I'd never again blame someone else for my problems!"

Sita laughed. "You're very honest. I admire that."

"Well, it's taken me long enough," Helen said. "Now when my life is in ruins!"

Sita leaned forward. Her pretty face was attracting attention, though she was fairly certain that neither of them had been recognized. Somehow, with her ears covered by her long straight hair, Sita looked subtly different from The Princess.

The thought that Sita was an accomplished actress made Helen pause. She was thoughtful as she watched Sita from across the little table. Sita's lips were the sexiest lips she had ever seen. Well, the sexiest lips she was looking at just then. The funny thing was that she really wasn't _trying_ to look sexy. Helen could have sworn to that. It was just that Sita's longing for Sharon had been frustrated for so long that anyone who looked the least bit like Sharon, or anyone who reminded her of Sharon for whatever reason, would get the full benefit of those hungry eyes. There was a lusty woman under that highly civilized exterior. The aristocratic air with which she had walked on board had the airline staff completely baffled. She acted more like an upper crust debutante—a very well-behaved one, though—than an immigrant girl, which was what she looked like in her simple skirt and blouse.

"I'll listen, if you want to talk," she said softly.

"You first!" said Helen smiling.

Sita's eyes stole around the cabin. She reddened slightly seeing at least a half-dozen eyes on her. But at least they couldn't hear, she must have thought.

"Could you move over, and let me have the window seat?" she asked. Helen realized that that way she would be hidden from most of the cabin. It was a good idea, it turned out, because she spoke with her eyes and her hands, and she told Helen everything.

It had been love at first sight. She had not recognized it as such, but the way she felt now, she had no doubts but that she had feelings for the redheaded actress, but that Sharon was a free spirit, and refused to be pinned down.

"I know it's really silly," Sita said quietly, "she's just an actress, but an incredibly brilliant one. But still, an actress. But that's all I know. I'm interested in so many things: literature, philosophy, history, religion. She—she likes animals; that's all I know." She shook her head. "It can't go anywhere."

She looked at Helen, her defenses totally down. She had no inkling of what she was doing to Helen. Normally Helen would blurt out that she should stop looking at her like that, because it was driving her crazy. Of course it had the opposite effect, and they'd wind up in bed together.

"Well," said Helen, loyally, "she'll go on being that way, until she realizes that sex just doesn't satisfy fully unless there's some feeling in it. And the older you get, the less you're satisfied with sex with a stranger. You want to belong to someone, you want to be a prisoner of love, you know?"

"You're talking about yourself, aren't you?"

She was irresistible when she turned her full attention on you. Helen looked straight ahead and closed her eyes, just so she could think.

"Yes. I was in love with Lorna. I'm in love with her. Now I know. But her life is ballet, and she deserves a chance."

"But why does that mean you have to give up your relationship?"

Helen shook her head. "It's too much right now." She needed to explain this to herself. "At this stage she's trying to find out how it works. Dancing is all about expressing emotion with your body, you understand?" Sita nodded, her mouth hanging open, hanging on Helen's words. "And you can dance, or you can dance like _she_ dances. It's a total emotional onslaught. She's _incredibly_ good. And to do that, she may need to be free. Free to feel ... whatever, for whomever."

"Yes, yes," said Sita, "I see now." She looked away into the middle distance lost in thought. "You want to make sure that if she can possibly succeed, she has a chance of doing so."

"Yes."

"Perhaps she can feed off the feelings she had for you, without being dulled with the comfort of a stable relationship."

Helen was stunned. "Er, ... huh. I hadn't thought it out in such detail."

Sita nodded. "I feel that way. I've been dying to work again. The more lovesick I get, the more I want to work, on harder projects. I suppose I should thank her!"

Helen snorted. "You'll probably end up doing a sequel, and have to do it with her. You'll melt into a ball of mush!"

Sita thought that was funny, and giggled up a storm.

"You know what would be funny? To write a sequel that's so idiotic that it'll end Merit forever!"

"You mean, to destroy the series, or just to make a parody?"

Sita searched Helen's face and then smiled. "Oh, I suppose, just to make a parody!"

It was very instructive. Helen watched while Sita wrote an entire parody in her spiky, precise hand, and saw that she had a brilliant sense of humor. The entire plot was worked out in detail over two hours, including crucial puns. It was a real plot, in that it made perfect sense on its own. Anyone who hadn't seen Merit would enjoy the movie, but anyone who _had_ seen Merit would simply die of laughter.

Helen took up the sheets, and stared in disbelief.

"You know, this is excellent stuff! Send it in to your agent, and let her take care of it. I bet it will work!"

Helen just knew it would, because she would _make_ it work. She wanted to produce it herself. She only needed Sharon's approval, and she knew how to get _that_.

" _You_ could be Merit!" exclaimed Sita. Helen looked around anxiously, but nobody was looking. Sita had the knack of getting excited very, _very_ quietly.

Soon it was time to land. It had been one of the most enjoyable plane flights she had ever made. But a strange thing was happening; the more they talked, the more Helen thought of the older sister. All the feelings for Lalitha she had buried and forgotten were leaking out of the vault of her heart. It wasn't that Sita was dull and uninteresting. She was a unique, fascinating person, one with whom Helen could easily have fallen in love. In fact, Helen knew that all she had to do was to let herself go, and she could seduce the girl in a twinkling, or let herself be seduced, because, unwittingly, Sita was putting the make on Helen. Her subconscious knew what her conscious didn't: that Helen and Sharon were one and the same.

But just as one could fall in love with a woman because of her sweet-natured children, Helen found herself adding all of Sita's charms to Lalitha. It was a dazed and confused Helen that stepped off the plane, with the aristocratic Sita by her side. They were met by a man holding a placard: Helen Nordstrom, Welcome to Atlanta! She was recognized instantly, and they were led out to a limousine, and driven to a hotel in great style. If it would be convenient, she was informed, the maestro and a few guests would be glad to entertain her at dinner. The aide bowed to Sita and made it clear that she was included in the invitation. Helen graciously accepted.

"He was really nice," Sita remarked when they went up to their room. Inevitably they had taken a double room. Now Sita was unpacking and Helen saw a couple of nice dresses. She breathed a sigh of relief. She had planned to take Sita out shopping, but there was no time before the dinner.

Unable to resist the temptation to dress to impress Sita, Helen wore one of her prettiest dresses, careful to pick out one that would be a contrast with what Sharon usually wore. (That wasn't hard, since Sharon tended to wear the sluttiest things she could find.) And she was able to find one that didn't overshadow Sita's lovely dress.

"Oh Helen!" exclaimed Sita, when she saw Helen's dress. "You're dressing plainly because I have a plain dress!"

Helen had to smile. On its hanger, the dress didn't look like much. In spite of her eye for clothes, Sita was not quite as far along as to be able to tell how a dress would look when worn. That was something you picked up in high school, and Sita had gone to the wrong high schools, Helen thought wickedly. Helen mumbled something about the dress being one of her nicest ones, and proceeded to do her hair carefully. Carefully, both to look different from Sharon, and also to give that impression of being informal, yet beautifully coiffed. She did it by brushing her hair carefully, pinning it down in the most troublesome spot, and then wearing it tied at the nape of the neck in a pretty black ribbon.

When she got into her dress and zippered herself up, Sita stared. Without being particularly brief, the dress showed off Helen's main beauty, her legs. A sexy pair of sandals completed the outfit.

"I'm so silly," Sita exclaimed; "on _you_ that dress looks ... gorgeous!"

Helen smiled at her sweetly, putting on her earrings. It was all for Sita; if she hadn't been here, Helen would have worn slacks and a jacket.

Sita looked lovely in an ultra-feminine asymmetric dress. As they walked across the lobby together, they attracted every eye, the tall, very American blonde, and the tall, exotic girl. Sita had worn her hair exactly the same way as Helen, but it looked of course quite different, because her hair was quite long, and straight. She wore just a touch of makeup, on her lips, and that was all.

Helen was delighted to see that while they attracted quite a lot attention, nobody had recognized them. Helen had at last successfully resisted the urge to wear a long blonde wig. Tomorrow she would wear her hair up, in coiled braids.

They were met by the maestro himself, and Helen introduced Sita simply by her first name, as she had instructed Helen, and he complimented them both. Helen could see that the poor man was quite overwhelmed.

He was a lot of fun. His wife was in the car, a delightful down-to-earth woman with a great sense of humor, and they chatted away, the four of them, poking irreverent fun at everything.

"I must warn you," said Mrs. Maestro, "the rest of the gang is going to be a bit stuffy!"

"Oh, don't say that, Eileen," said the Maestro, "they're not _that_ bad!"

"They're worse," was her unapologetic retort.

Fortunately, it was something in-between. Some of them were certainly stuffy, but most of them were just a little bit dull. Determined to make the best of the company, Helen searched for something they could be possibly interested in. It certainly wasn't music. Theater left them cold, as did politics. There was some interest in baseball, but with comedy she hit the jackpot. Unbeknownst to the maestro, they were all ardent fans of the comedy channel. It was very entertaining indeed to see the dull bassoonist, one of the most senior members of the orchestra trying to relate a funny story. Fortunately both Helen and Sita had excellent imaginations as well as the intelligence to read between the lines, and it became quite a productive meal.

They were all concerned when Helen refused dessert. She had asked if there was a sugar-free dessert, and was told that there was none. With an extremely disappointed face she had told them that she had diabetes. "Tell your chef that Helen Nordstrom told him to put one on the menu!" she joked.

"Miss Nordstrom!" exclaimed the waiter, eyes wide, "I didn't recognize you!"

Helen was confused for a second or two. What was one to say? She finally said, "Oh, it's me, all right," and got a laugh. "You make sure to tell him!"

"I'm sure we can improvise something, ma'am!" said the waiter, and hurried away.

"Are you really diabetic, Miss Nordstrom?" asked the Concertmaster.

"Yes, I'm afraid so! Why do you ask?"

"Have you spoken to the American Diabetes Association?"

"No, why do you ask, Harry?"

"I think they'd love to have a public-service spot by you! I'm diabetic myself, and I'm on the local committee. They do a lot of good work."

And that was how Helen first encountered the ADA.

Once they were back in their room, changed into their night clothes and snuggled in their beds, and turned out the lights, both of them seemed to want to talk. They talked about the dinner, about diabetes, about the children. At first it was just an excuse to hear each other's voices, but they soon found that there was a lot to ask and to tell.

"Helen," said Sita after a while, "would it be awkward if I came over to your bed?"

"Not at all," said Helen with false confidence.

Sita slipped out of her bed, picked up her pillow, and came round and stood close to Helen, and Helen moved to make room for her.

At first they lay awkwardly, trying not to touch. Then Helen said, putting as much easy warmth into her voice as she could, "Relax, kid, I won't bite, you know." It was the height of hypocrisy, because Helen had tried as hard as Sita, to avoid touching.

Sita seemed to lose it, then. She breathlessly began to talk about sex, and how inconsequential it was, but yet how much it dominated people's lives. On and on she went.

"Just the touch of a hand can give you an orgasm, but you never know what goes on in the mind of the owner of the hand. Don't you hate that a hand has so much power?"

"It's best when it's your own," Helen said, her tongue thick in her mouth.

Sita gasped. Her hand had been twitching on the bed between them, trying to summon up the courage to touch Helen. She was trying to make a move on Helen, but was too frightened; or rather, she held Helen in such high regard that she couldn't bring herself to risk the relationship they had established.

"Do you ... masturbate?" The word was dragged out reluctantly.

"All the time," Helen confessed. It was a relief to talk to a bigger prude than herself. "What about you?"

"Well, in a kind of way," said Sita, and Helen knew she must have been bright red, if only Helen could see the color of her face.

Helen turned to her and said softly, "I won't look."

Sita shook her head. "I couldn't!" she said. "I just couldn't. Oh, I'm so embarrassed!"

As Sita's embarrassment grew, Helen's embarrassment faded. "Why didn't you stay over in your bed? I would never have known if you did it!"

"Oh yes," she said, "you would have."

"Then why not in the bath? Go on!"

"I have to lie down."

"Then just do it."

She turned to Helen, and for a moment it was as if they were in love. But of course they weren't. "Would you do it, too?"

"If it makes you feel better, sure," said Helen. "I come in seconds, so it's no fun at all."

"It takes ages for me," she confessed. "It looks funny, so please don't look!"

Helen promised.

"All right, I'm going to start," she said, and Helen closed her eyes, and slipped her hand between her legs, spreading the leg away from Sita out wide. As she had suspected, her clitoris was swollen and ready. Helen tried to prolong the feeling by avoiding touching the clitoris, and stroking her labia instead, but with a hissing sigh, she felt herself hit a pathetically minute climax, and she was done. She could have wept with frustration. She knew the slightest word could affect Sita, so she took a deep breath, and began again, crushing her breast with her other hand. She could feel Sita's arm against hers, and it aroused her. She began to get a tiny bit of feeling in her sex again, and she kept working it, and with agonizing slowness, she began to build to another climax.

Then she noticed Sita next to her doing something with an incredible effort. Her whole body was in motion, and only her promise not to look kept her from staring. It was some rhythmic motion, and Sita was moaning in time to what she was doing. She had been absolutely honest when she said Helen would have known if she had done it. The shaking of the bed and her cries, combined, would have woken the heaviest sleeper.

It was a good fifteen minutes now. Just her voice was turning Helen on, even without the touch of her hand. It was an earthy grunting moan that came from deep in her belly. It was getting faster now, and Helen knew instinctively that it would be a whopper when it arrived. Helen's hand became a blur as she rubbed herself raw, and presently she was rewarded with one of the best ones she had had for a month. Now she braced herself for Sita's climax, which was approaching with all the subtlety of July Fourth. She was up to about two moans a second—Helen was sort of timing them—and she began to go faster, and there was some kind of noise, as if she was really having sex with a partner. Then with several loud cries, she climaxed, and let out a long wail as if she were in pain. But Helen knew she was in ecstasy. She just knew. Just in case, though, she waited until she was quiet, and asked.

"Oh Helen ..." she said in a throaty low voice, "it was a good one ... the best! Oh goodness ... I'm exhausted!"

"I'm not surprised," said Helen, "you certainly put a lot into it!"

"Please don't!" she warned Helen gently. "It's hard for me to joke about it, yet." Helen agreed not to talk about it at all.

They lay, just touching, and Helen let the wonder of the girl next to her wash over her in a wave of pure pleasure and desire. The very fact that she would share a habit so bizarre with her touched Helen deeply. She was panting with her exertion, her face turned away. It was a moment of terrible intimacy, which Helen savored with every nerve. It was all she could do to hold herself still, and not kiss her. As far as Helen was concerned, they had made love, and her body screamed for the tenderness that always followed, that _must_ follow!

"You know what I'd like?" Sita asked softly, and Helen innocently asked what. Her voice was hoarse with need, but Sita didn't notice. "Could you just hug me a bit? I ... I'd just like that, please."

Helen could have sobbed with relief. All her plans were gone. Her plans to maintain a certain distance between them, her plans to reinforce the difference between Sharon and herself by avoiding sex with the young woman, her plans to gradually renew her relationship with Lalitha—all gone in the immediacy of Sita's tender request.

"Just hold you?"

"Only—only if you think it would be all right!"

"Sita ..." Helen felt her resolve gradually return. "... I don't mind, dear, but ..." she put her arm awkwardly round the slim girl. She felt really hot, almost burning, but thankfully, she was too exhausted to be aggressive. "... We shouldn't start something that might ... you know ... make us feel uncomfortable with each other!" Sita's back was against her breasts, the back of her legs rested gently against Helen's thighs. The very softness of the touch was utterly erotic.

"I ... just want to lie here like this ... it's not really sex, is it?"

"No ... no, it's not," said Helen, tenderly stroking Sita's forehead, as if she was a child. It was the hardest thing to keep from nuzzling her behind her ear, and kissing her. Helen wondered what was going through her mind.

Gently Sita caught Helen's hand and guided to the safe area of her stomach. But her stomach was so soft, the skin so tender, that Helen suffered an agony of desire. And Helen could feel her every breath and every word. And moving her hand just a little ... but she didn't. The heat of Sita's body seared her.

They lay like that a long time. Gradually Sita's body cooled to a comfortable warmth. Sita's hand on Helen's was soft, and Helen recalled how tenderly they had made love. Truly, she had _been_ another woman then. She had done and said things that would have been impossible for Helen.

Sita turned around to face Helen.

It took Helen by surprise. She assumed that it was an aggressive move, and she felt her body stiffen.

"I'm sorry—I startled you!" Her face was inches from Helen's. Helen gave her room, but kept her arm around her. She tugged the blankets around them to make a warm nest for them. When she looked back in Sita's eyes, she saw there something that at first chilled her. The last thing she wanted was to make Sita fall out of love with Sharon, and in love with Helen. That would put an end to future possibilities of a lot of pleasure for Sharon. She knew that was ultimately a cynical motive, but it gave Sita _something_ instead of nothing.

Then she saw that Sita's gaze of adoration was something she had seen often in Lalitha's eyes in their early days. "You are such a sweet person, Miss Helen," she murmured. "So good, so gentle, so kind, ... so loving!" Her breath was sweet in Helen's face. The soft brushing of their bodies together, the awkwardness, was even more erotic than it would have been if they were in a close embrace. Just when Helen thought her senses were so saturated that she couldn't possibly be turned on any more, something new came along.

Part of Helen's mind was still going on autopilot, looking for ways to undermine the mood, the way Sita—quite innocently—kept trying to seduce Helen. Helen was certain that she would have been shocked if she had stopped to think of what she was really doing. But Sita was past the point of careful planning. The loneliness in her soul was something her family couldn't fill completely. And she was simply filling it—with Helen, since Sharon wasn't here.

"It was spectacular," Helen said, wondering whether she would be embarrassed. She was. She buried her face in Helen's breast, and Helen remembered that she often did that with Sharon. Surely, Helen thought, she should recognize the feel of my breasts! She pulled away slightly.

Feeling Helen suddenly tense, Sita gasped and shrank away in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Helen!"

"It's all right," Helen said quickly. She was so tense now that she thought she might never relax again. "It's just me," she said. "I'm just afraid that, in the state I'm in, ... I would tell you things—make promises—that I ... really don't mean."

Helen couldn't see at all clearly, now. Sita had become just a blur. She wiped her eyes, but the sticky tears just smeared all over her cheeks.

"You're crying!"

"No, no; it's just ... I get blurred vision ... it's something to do with the diabetes ... oh no! I forgot my pills! I was supposed to take them with dinner ..."

"Oh, Helen!" Sita slipped off the bed and had the lights on in a second. Helen propped herself up and looked about for her toilet case, which contained all her pills. She found them right next to her on the night stand. Sita was crouched at the open refrigerator, and she exclaimed that there was a roll in foil. "Did you put it here?"

"A roll?"

"It must be old," she said slowly. She opened it and said it smelled fresh. She put it on a paper plate and put it in the microwave. In seconds, the smell of fresh bread wafted through the room. Sita brought Helen the bread and some water. Helen thanked her, ate the bread, and took her medication, and Sita sat next to her, watching her intently, not saying a word. Helen felt exposed, with just the thin fabric covering her breasts. The light was dim, a reading lamp on Sita's side of the bed, but it was enough to reveal the color in Helen's cheeks. She knew exactly what to say if she were in love with Sita. But as a friend, she was at a loss. It had been a huge mistake to bring her along on this trip. The kid wouldn't see much of Georgia anyway, and they were hurting each other needlessly.

Helen put the glass away, and slid back under the sheet. She should tell her to go back to the other bed. But she just couldn't.

Sita came round to her own side of the bed, turned out the light, and slipped under the sheets.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked. Helen said she was, thanks.

"Thanks for getting me the bread and the water, Sita. You shouldn't have done that; I'm not sick, you know!"

Sita heaved a long sigh. "You don't understand!" she said quietly. "You're not just what you think you are!"

"Oh."

Helen's mind gave up. One of the drugs tended to irritate her stomach, and Helen found it hard to keep up the complicated discussion.

"Well, see you in the morning!" Helen said, as affectionately as she could, and turned away from her bedmate, and hunkered down to try and sleep.

She dreamed all night, but she couldn't remember what she dreamed. There were endless arguments, she remembered, but they weren't with Sita, she was almost certain. They weren't anything that made Helen angry, but she seemed to remember being frustrated.

When she awoke, she found herself snuggled against Sita, as if they had been making love. She carefully removed her hand from its comfortable position tucked between Sita's breast and her arm. God, she thought, the things I do in my sleep!

"Helen?"

"You're up!" She was surprised and embarrassed. "I don't know how we got like this, Sita ..." she felt herself getting redder by the second.

Sita laughed and said it was okay. "I didn't want to wake you, so I just lay like this. I'm sure nothing happened!"

"Well," said Helen, "seeing as we're both women, I'm sure nothing happened!"

"Ha," said Sita, "but _we_ know the kind of thing that _could_ happen!"

She got out of bed and hurried to the bathroom.

Sita was all Helen wished in a companion to explore the City, and more. Instead of the clinging vine she had been with Sharon in LA, she was an intelligent, lively equal partner. She was full of ideas yet easy to please, and Helen found herself enjoying the few hours between breakfast and rehearsal. Then Sita sat and watched and listened to the whole rehearsal. Helen was playing the new work by Yyyy, the Brahms, and Mozart's concerto no. 1. The new concerto had been requested in St Frank and Chicago, and Helen had become a sort of expert on it.

Helen was pleased when the maestro asked her help with the score. They assumed that she had discussed the work with the composer, but of course she hadn't. But he had endorsed her performance, which was the important thing.

Helen kept an eye on Sita. She thought she'd ask for a break if Sita got restless, but she didn't. Every time she looked, Sita smiled back at once. She was enjoying herself. Helen felt a familiar pleasure, which she tried to suppress but failed.

When they played the Brahms, Sita's attitude changed. Instead of watching with patient interest, she was now involved in the music. Brahms may have spoken to her in any way—as far as Helen could remember, the Maunders weren't particularly musical—but with Helen playing the solo instrument, it was just enough of a connection to make Sita really relate to the work. When Helen glanced at her—she actually split her attention between the maestro, the principals, and Sita; she knew the work from memory—she was so involved, she actually forgot to smile. Her concentration was total. Helen could hardly wait to quiz her on what she thought about the piece. She thanked god that she loved music enough to be interested in such things. It was odd to be considered such an authority on this work, yet feel such an amateur, in the best sense of that word: a _lover_ of music.

A break was called, and Helen dutifully chatted to the musicians, mindful of her reputation for being friendly to orchestras, and willing to talk with even the most junior players. It bothered her to be so aware of the details of how she was perceived, and to feel the pressure to encourage some of them and discourage others. But she had set herself out to be an advocate for classical music at every possible level, and she believed that encouraging individual musicians was part of the campaign.

Time was up before she could get away, but she begged for five more minutes to check with her friend, and the maestro graciously agreed. They were running through some of the _tutti_ passages as she hurried down to Sita.

"I'm fine! Go on!"

"Come with me! I need to go to the bathroom!"

"Oh! Okay!"

Helen reveled in the illusion of being young and in love again, looking for the women's room in an unfamiliar building —"At the end of the hall, miss!"— using adjacent booths, with a restroom all to themselves, and giggling hysterically at the sound of their own peeing.

Just before Helen pulled the flush, she heard: "Helen?"

"Yes?"

"You have to forget that I ever said this, okay?" Helen's hand froze halfway to the flush. "And I won't mention it again."

"What ..."

"I love you!"

It was out in the open.

"Sita ..."

"Hmm?"

"You know we had a sort of agreement ... dammit ..." Helen flushed and tried to adjust her clothes, but her fingers didn't seem to want to work. She opened the door and went out, fighting her skirt and her blouse. Sita came out, cool as a cucumber, took the situation in in a single glance, and smiled at Helen sardonically.

" _Why_ did you say that?" Helen demanded, angrily.

"Say _what,_ Helen?"

"You know what I mean!"

Sita's face was guileless. "Give me a hint," she said.

Helen gave up. "How do you like the music?" Helen asked.

Sita's face completely changed. She seemed to forget everything else.

"That last piece you played: oh, that was lovely! So nice and rhythmic, like a dance!" Sita gestured with her hands to emphasize her meaning. "The last few pieces were all lovely! Let's see, there was a really beautiful slow piece, then before that, an interesting sort of almost argumentative piece, I mean, sort of antiphonal, with the violin on one side, and the orchestra on the other? You remember the one?"

"Yes, they're all movements of the same work, really. The Brahms concerto, in three movements. I could tell you liked it!" grinned Helen, a lot more excited than she could understand why. After all, she had introduced the Brahms to hundreds of students.

"I see! Brahms's concerto number what? I _must_ remember this one. I've got to get myself a stereo, and start collecting records!"

"It's his _only_ violin concerto: _the_ Brahms violin concerto in D major!"

Helen's eyes searched Sita's face. If it had been Lorna, she would have kissed Helen in the bathroom, she knew. But this girl preferred to mess with Helen's mind. God, what a tease she was!

"Come on, you're late!" Sita exclaimed, glancing at her watch. She hurried on ahead, pure grace in motion. She had a different kind of grace from Lorna, Helen thought to herself, a more fluid, delicate thing. No one could be as beautiful in motion as Lorna. But Sita was certainly graceful, she had to admit.

However distracted she was with Sita, she was always able to focus on the music. Perhaps because Sita was so focused on the music, too. Perhaps it was just that Sita did it for Helen's sake. For whatever reason, Helen _felt_ more musical when Sita was watching.

But she would feel more musical with _anyone_ watching. It was just in the nature of Helen being in love. She _needed to be in love_. She was an artist. Unlike Sita, she couldn't feed off her sexual frustration. She could not convert her _need_ for love into music. She could only feed off love that she was already experiencing.

True to her word, Sita did not bring up her sudden declaration again, and Helen wondered whether she had imagined it. She took Sita out shopping, and bought her the best little stereo that money could buy; not an incredibly expensive one, but one that had all the important features, and was made by a reliable manufacturer. Sita accepted it gracefully. It amused Helen how Sita forgot that she had money, and she encouraged her to continue to forget. She had already told Wendy to invest most of it and funnel the income into a spending account from which Sita could draw using a credit card. Wendy had blithely agreed to do it, with a nod and a wink.

Then they went into BNB Books and Records. They browsed for a while in peace, and Helen proudly showed Sita her recordings, located all together. Sita's eyes opened wide, and she murmured that she owned one of the records, but wasn't aware that there were so many. "In England there was just a couple, you know?"

Somehow, when Helen came to the counter with her violin concertos disk, she was identified. She had spent six hours incognito, but the sales clerk spotted her, and called the manager.

"I just have to, ma'am! I just have to! I'd get fired if he found out!" Helen had pleaded with him, to no avail. The manager came over and introduced himself, and Helen introduced them all to Sita: "This is my friend Sita."

"Sita! What a lovely name! And where are you from, may I ask?"

"I'm British, but I was born in India," she said, with dignity.

Unfortunately the original clerk had eyes like a hawk. He pointed to Sita, his mouth hanging open, and stammered, "You're ... she's the princess! Mr. Hawkins, she's ..."

"What princess?" asked Mr Hawkins, frowning. He looked from Helen to Sita to the clerk, Randy.

"You know, Merit and the Princess!"

Mr. Hawkins's face was transformed. He looked questioningly at the girls. "Is it true? Are you the young lady who played the princess?"

"No!" laughed Sita shyly, "but they tell me I look like her!"

It was brilliant. Soon they had forgotten Sita, and concentrated on Helen. They insisted that Helen should take whatever she wanted, but she insisted on paying, and they reluctantly saw the sense in that. It was comic how embarrassed they were.

They managed to escape after Helen had signed about a dozen CDs, because Randy had been rather quiet about the whole thing and not made a big fuss. Helen promised to stop by some day and do a signing.

"Gosh," said Helen as they walked to the hotel, "you're so tricky!"

Sita shrugged. "What can they do? I could tell them yes, I'm the princess, but there's nothing for me to sign!"

"Oh, sure there is! The book is out, and there are posters! It's fun to do a signing; you get to talk to people, and there are kids, and it's like a party!"

Sita laughed. They got inside their room without being pestered, put away their loot, and had lunch delivered to the room.

"Do you really like people so much?" Sita wanted to know.

Helen thought a while. "Not all the time. But I can relate to them when they're talking about music, or something that I'm interested in."

Sita shook her head. "I can be polite, but the thought of talking to hundreds of people bores me," she said, and took a bite of her sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.

"Kids, I like, almost any time," Helen admitted. Sita agreed that was different. She could handle kids, but not teenagers.

They went shopping again in the afternoon. They found that they were good at picking out clothes for each other. While Sita didn't have quite the eye for clothes that Lorna had, she was able to spot things that Lorna might have missed; weird clothes that she thought might look good on Helen, and often did. They were often things made by native American designers, or South American, or African designers.

In contrast, Sita looked good in European clothes, especially French and Dutch designs. She looked lovely in exotic clothes, too, but then sometimes the character of the clothes warred with the character in her face.

In many ways, Sita was a prude. Unlike Helen, who actually liked having a friend with her in the dressing room, Sita positively refused to let Helen in her cubicle. Helen only saw her when she was completely dressed. Still, Helen began to realize that Sita's beauty was a subtle thing. Individually, her physical features were entirely unremarkable, except for her lovely complexion, and, of course, her remarkable expressive face, with every feature perfect. Her arms and legs and figure were passable, and well within the limits of acceptable norms, but hardly stunning. A photograph of her breast, for instance, might not have commanded much interest. But the living, moving Sita was a riveting sight!

Conversely, when Helen modeled a dress for Sita, the look in her eyes made Helen believe in her own beauty once more. Even Helen, who was quite accustomed to being admired and exclaimed over, felt a thrill at being looked at with such desire by Sita.

Sita made her try out all kinds of clothes, and some of them were clearly for the purpose of sexual stimulation. She chose revealing clothes that showed off Helen's body, and gazed her fill, moistening her lips, and then shook her head, saying it wouldn't do. Helen played along, knowing what was taking place, but a willing accomplice. She occasionally remembered that her students and Peter Lawrence were struggling in class while she was parading half-nude in front of Sita, but she dismissed the thought from her mind whenever it intruded on her consciousness. Her exhibitionism was having a field day.

"You should always show off your legs," Sita declared, when the clerk wasn't around. "You have beautiful arms and legs."

"What about the rest of me? My breasts, my buttocks?" Helen asked, seriously. "People have said nice things about my buttocks and hamstrings."

Sita blushed.

"Well, you can't reveal your buttocks, and you can't hide them, either, can you?" She busied herself selecting more dresses. "Hamstrings ... I'm not quite sure what they are, really?"

"Oh," said Helen, and indicated them with the casual air of a fitness coach. "It's these, right here, see?"

"Oh. Hmm." She looked at them and up at Helen, checking to see if she was being made fun of. She decided Helen was genuinely interested in her verdict. She looked away, but sneaked a quick glance back at Helen's legs before continuing. "Hmm. Yes, you do have pretty hamstrings."

"So you think I should show them off?" Helen pursued the question, tongue in cheek.

"Yes. You should wear a tennis dress tonight at the concert!"

She was too quick to fool with. Helen recalled how she had bullied the poor girl as Sharon. Now it was clear that she had been so infatuated with Sharon that she had let Sharon walk all over her. With Sharon, Sita lost all her verve and vivacity, and became a puddle of adoring mush.

It was a puzzle. In certain moods, that adoring puddle of mush was more what Helen wanted; this intelligent, clear-eyed woman was a little too much work for Helen when she just wanted to relax, and feel her sexuality react to Sita's proximity.

But the rest of the time, when she was making music, thinking, active, the vivacious, alert, curious Sita was infinitely more enjoyable and stimulating. She was usually very decorous in public, no matter how outrageous she was in private. But under that dignified exterior, Helen knew, was a delightful sense of fun ready to come out. It was on a smaller scale than Amy's larger-than-life sense of fun, or the kind of dangerous adventure that Marsha was usually pursuing. She could still be shocked by anything too outrageous. She wasn't outrageous; quite the opposite. But within the confines of the kind of sedate person she saw herself to be, she was a wonderful source of fun.

Helen sighed. She recalled how happy she had been with Lalitha, with her endless philosophizing, her amusing hang-ups about what people should and shouldn't do, her conviction that Helen was the manifestation of the goddess, her determination that Helen should eat and live right! Those years in India had taken some of the vitality out of both of them. When they had met afterwards, Lalitha had been deeply affected by the changes in Helen, which in turn had awakened the love that had slept for so long. But the effort to rehabilitate Helen had taken its toll on Lalitha, and eroded her tolerance of Helen's incurable promiscuity. If Lalitha couldn't tame Helen, could Sita? Helen knew that the answer was in the negative, but her heart would not listen.

But she had to play Sita's game. Helen was careful not to give the least impression that she and Sita were a couple. What the bookstore made of it she could not tell, but in her manner Helen made it clear that they were only friends, a completely platonic relationship.

The clerks at the two stores they shopped at for dresses, at least, were successfully convinced that Helen and Sita were a couple of tourists. It was interesting that even Helen's credit card, which said _Helen Nordstrom_ now, didn't arouse any comment. Or perhaps the Atlanta retailers were too accustomed to celebrity customers to give it a second thought. Sita had managed to persuade Helen to accept one dress from her, and Helen had decided to wear that one that evening, as a tribute to her charming companion.

Helen took Sita out to an early dinner to an Indian vegetarian restaurant. They had been given an invitation to eat with some of the friends of the orchestra, or to meet them at the wine and dessert reception afterwards, and Helen had opted for the latter. Feeling bold, she had informed them that she was diabetic, and could not eat sugar, and they had taken that news very seriously. In two short weeks she had come from being angry at her disease, to being embarrassed by it, to being defiant about it.

Sita had been lukewarm about the idea of eating at an Indian restaurant. When they had more or less settled on another restaurant, she had suddenly changed her mind. Helen had been mildly annoyed about the change in plan but not shown it. Her obvious embarrassment over the about-face was sincere. She insisted that she wasn't usually flighty about such decisions, and Helen believed her. They dressed for the concert, and took a taxi to the restaurant, of which the orchestra folks had spoken highly the previous night.

The restaurant, located in a nice old house was beautifully decorated. There was a multi-ethnic serving staff, all dressed uniformly in richly-patterned but not-too brightly-colored loose tunics, and dark dress slacks. They were led to a rather public table, but Helen charmed them into giving them a more secluded table. Sita blushed almost continuously, her eyes downcast. In England, Helen knew, she had few Indian friends, and was very uncomfortable with Indians. Unfortunately, they had attracted the attention of the Indian staff, who had a clear view of them through a doorway on the opposite side of the room, and they saw a stream of people of all ages come and study them through the curtained doorway. Their waiter was changed to what appeared to be a senior member of the staff, a middle-aged Indian gentleman who was correctness itself, courteous, intelligent and charming. He suggested numerous delicacies to them, few of which were recognized by Helen, and fewer still by Sita. She grew gradually more red, until she saw something she found familiar. Then with almost pathetic desperation her eyes lit up, and she pointed it out to the waiter.

He gently spoke to her in a few Indian dialects until he hit the native dialect of Sita and her family. Helen listened impassively, not revealing that she could speak it. He kept to the topic of food until the menu was settled, and he asked if Sita had been in the US long.

Helen smoothly interrupted that Sita lived in the United Kingdom, and with her manner politely implied that they would prefer to talk once the food had arrived.

Shocked that Helen spoke the dialect, the waiter apologized and disappeared. Equally startled, Sita stared at Helen.

"Oh Helen ... he might get annoyed with me, you know? It's considered bad form to be —short— with, er, fellow-countrymen!"

Helen made a grimace of apology. "When he gets back, I'll make sure he knows I wasn't putting him in his place. I just wanted to give you a little time to figure how much you would tell him, that's all!"

Sita's eyes widened. "Quick thinking!" She looked at Helen curiously. "I had forgotten all about your legendary language-skills!" She smiled. "You speak our dialect very well!" Helen blushed her thanks.

Following Sita's eyes, she saw a little child of about a year in the arms of an older girl of about nine or ten, both of whom were studying them with unmistakable interest. Even at some thirty feet, both children were simply beautiful. The ages were such that Helen was reminded of Gena and Allie.

Helen and Sita murmured to each other how cute the children were, when Helen impulsively beckoned them over. They immediately disappeared, only to reappear a little later, with more little ones peeking around them. Losing all restraint, Helen beckoned to them again, but they shook their heads at her.

Deeply disappointed, Helen muttered to herself that she wished she had something to tempt them with. She picked up her bag, and rummaged through it. She found her medication, her blood-testing kit, a pitch-pipe, her credit-cards, and money. Then she saw a rattle that she had thrown in the bag months ago for James.

"That's perfect!" exclaimed Sita, as eager to entice the children as Helen.

"No," said Helen, "the kid will put it in his mouth, and it's not very clean! It's bee in here for ages."

"Oh, who cares! They're Indian kids, Helen; they'll put all sorts of things in their mouths!"

Helen stared at her bemused, and they both broke out giggling. Throwing caution to the winds, Helen waved the rattle at the kids, offering it to the baby. "Come here, baby!" Helen called softly, her eyes alight.

Suddenly the waiter appeared with their appetizers, and Helen hid the rattle as if it were some illicit gadget.

Halfway through setting out the food, the waiter looked up puzzled at their guilty smiles, and following their eyes began to laugh.

"They are just interested in staring at everybody," he said, and called out to the children to scram.

"Oh, please, could we see the baby?" Helen asked. "I'd like to give it this, but I think you probably want to wash it first," she said tentatively.

"I think they're ready for bed," he said, and called them over. There were four of them, from the youngest, a girl, of three months, to the oldest, ten, as Helen had guessed. They were beautifully dressed in typical Indian clothing worn at home, as Helen was accustomed to seeing in India, and they were the most beautiful children she had seen. Helen wiped the rattle carefully with a dampened napkin, and gave the baby the rattle. She promptly put in her mouth, and the waiter—apparently their father—said that it would be virtually impossible to get it out of her hands.

"I have four of my own," Helen volunteered, "about five years older than these: three to sixteen!"

"Really?" asked the waiter, expressing polite disbelief that Helen could have children so old. Helen laughed, and smiled at Sita, by her manner inviting them to resume their conversation if they so chose.

With an embarrassed smile, the waiter confirmed that Sita was a resident of England. Had she lived there long? For almost ten years said Sita politely. Her dialect was fluent, but there were odd stumbles as she groped for just the right word. Helen could feel her tenseness, but she gamely stuck it out. She was visiting her sister in Philadelphia, and would return in a few weeks.

"Please taste the _hors d'ouvres_ ," he said, smiling anxiously.

"Shall I tell him who you are?" Sita smiled at Helen, who was playing with the little girl. Sita was plainly anxious to draw attention away from herself before it came out that she was the famous Sita from _Merit & the Princess._

The waiter grew even more anxious. "Who is this lady?" he asked, half smiling. Helen smiled at him as she held out her arms to the baby, who decided she liked Helen and came to her, to the excitement of her siblings. "I'm a musician," she said, and pointing to the violin that lay on the floor next to her, "I play the violin ... My name is Helen Nordstrom," she said dropping her voice. "I'm probably not too ..."

"Helen Nordstrom! Of course! Tonight! The orchestra, right?"

Helen nodded, pleased that he knew about the concert. Sita watched fascinated, a half-smile on her face. "You should come!" teased Helen.

"We are! My wife is a big fan, you know! Seven thirty, we'll be there!"

Helen was pleasantly surprised. It must be a cultured city indeed, she thought, if the restaurateurs were patrons of the arts. But then, she thought, what did she know of the demographics of such things?

"That's wonderful!" she said, pleased. "I wish it was a good program for the children; but it's Brahms ... I don't know ..."

"Do you know, er, five—no six years ago, there was a nice children's show you did in a mall somewhere? You remember that? In a mall, it was!"

Helen laughed. "That was recorded twenty years ago, it was the year 2000, and I was just a young girl!"

It was amusing to see his face go into shock. Helen was pleased that he had liked it, and apparently they owned a videodisc of the programme. The older girl mentioned Peter and the Wolf, and Helen grinned and nodded, yes, they had put that one in. And the pretty Indian woman in that recording was this lady's sister, she added, indicating Sita.

It was a joyful meal, though they had to eat it in a hurry. It was a lot of information for all of them to absorb. The food was delicious. Helen grinned at the thought that their hosts after the concert would be rather startled at the pungency of her breath. Both she and Sita preferred their food moderately spiced, at about 3 on a 10-point scale. Sita made sure that Helen took her pills. With a little creativity, they were able to find a sugar-free dessert for Helen: yogurt, sweetened with fruit.

"I would love to see that video," said Sita, with longing in her voice. "I want to remember my sister at that age. It's as if those days were stolen from me."

"I'll locate one for you," Helen promised. "Oh, she looked so beautiful that afternoon!"

The children had immediately gone and watched the video, right after they had heard Helen's remark. They had run back out after the women had eaten, and grinned and nodded, saying they had recognized Sita's sister, and they claimed that she looked _exactly_ like her, a permissible exaggeration.

They arrived at the concert hall just when the orchestra were getting slightly anxious about their featured soloist. In spite of having kept the little Indian girl for quite some time, Helen looked smart, with her hair braided and coiled about her head in a formal arrangement. Sita was conducted to a seat in the second row, and the concert began.

The concert began with the Mozart. Compared to the other two pieces, it was a mere appetizer, and Helen hardly felt it go by. It was played with just a fraction of the full orchestra. After the expected cheers, the rest of the orchestra came in, and they played Yyyy's concerto. To her surprise, the audience was pleased with it, and gave her two curtain calls. There was an intermission, and Helen went backstage, and realized that she hadn't given Sita instructions to come round. Perhaps, thought Helen, it was just as well.

As it happened, Helen wasn't bored. She was sought out by numerous members of the orchestra, and made many friends. While talking, she mentioned the idea of a children's concert, and there was much agreement that an impromptu concert like that might be fun. What would become of it, Helen had no idea. Living in Westfield, as she did, and being a full-time teacher, doing a children's concert as an educational community project was not something that came up.

After the intermission, they played the Brahms, and the audience went wild. The maestro himself hurried to Helen and gave her an enormous hug. Apparently she had outdone herself. Helen bowed repeatedly, and came out a second time for more applause.

After so many years, Helen had acquired a feel for the response of an audience. There was a difference between an audience that was feeling good, and intent on showing its affection for a performer, and an audience that had just had its socks knocked off. This was the latter. And they wanted more. In fact, they had given up on the 'Encore' bit, and were chanting 'More, more, more!'

Helen had not thought of an encore. Now she turned to the maestro and shrugged, smiling. The applause and shouting rose to deafening levels. Finally the maestro suggested that they play the last movement over, and Helen herself announced it to the audience. They yelled their approval, and they played the last movement even better than they had the first time around. She wished she had the opportunity to play many more works for them. Though she was playing for the money, the financial rewards paled in comparison to their enthusiastic approval of her playing.

There was a standing ovation, then, and Helen made them stop and sit. She said that they had been a wonderful audience, and that she was trying to plan a children' concert for the city in the near future. "Be ready to send the kids at a moment's notice!" she said, smiling, and the audience cheered wildly. She wished them all goodnight, and the evening was brought to a close fairly peacefully.

"Wow!" Helen exclaimed to the maestro, "What an appreciative audience!"

"Well, it's certainly a change!" he said, happily wiping his perspiring neck with a snowy white kerchief.

"You mean, this isn't the way it is usually?"

"Not usually, no!" Apparently they were hard to please. Helen sympathized, and wondered how to remedy the situation. She wondered aloud what the cause of their dissatisfaction was. The maestro gave her a rueful smile. "I think the city's getting tired of me," he confessed. "Now that's for your ears only!"

Helen nodded, looking at him thoughtfully. All she could tell was that it was an extremely disciplined orchestra, and they played very well. There was a large number of young players, and there was no reason for dissatisfaction on that score.

It was a thoughtful Helen who welcomed Sita backstage. They got their things together, and stood ready to be taken out to the reception.

It wasn't very far. Everyone made much fun of exactly what Helen had feared, and Helen swore never to eat spicy food again before a concert if Sita was going to be present; the poor girl was mortified, though she kept her dignity throughout the good-natured ribbing.

They were in bed by eleven. Helen had called home, and learned that everyone was fine. Sita had talked to her family, and assured them that she was taking good care of the patient.

After they rang off, used the bathroom for the last time for the day, once again they got into bed, facing the night, and what amounted their inappropriate longing to be in each other's arms.

"I wish they wouldn't treat me as an invalid," Helen grumbled. Sita was amused. They had so much to worry about, but Helen had picked ostensibly the most innocuous possible topic, but it was a bigger issue than Helen realized. Sita said so.

"Don't you understand why?"

"Why?"

What Sita thought of as Helen's soft country accent made even the sharp question into a gentle inquiry. Helen's gentle informal speech was a contrast both to her big, strong appearance, and her incisive public mode of address. But Sita knew this was the real Helen, tender, gentle, affectionate, hungry for love. But she didn't recognize love when she saw it.

"My sister, Trish, Suresh ... they love you very much, Helen," Sita said gently. In spite of her wide knowledge, it was clear Helen knew little of the facts about diabetes. "If anything should happen to you, they would be devastated!"

"What could happen to me? I'm fine, Sita; the diabetes is under control. Nothing bad is going to happen!"

Oh yes, thought Sita. She had known friends who had been diagnosed diabetic late in life, and who had died miserable deaths. She blocked those images from her mind resolutely. There was no point in frightening herself or Helen needlessly. But if Helen started to get careless, they'd scare her thoroughly.

"Well, you're distracted by the concerts, you're traveling away from home, irregular hours ... it seems reasonable to make sure you don't forget your drugs, don't you think?"

Helen was taken aback by how like Rain she sounded. Perhaps there was a way Englishwomen spoke to idiot children that they all learned at some time or another, she thought. Yes, Helen certainly _had_ forgotten her drugs.

"Yes ... I suppose I should feel grateful, really." She squirmed, tossing in her side of the bed restlessly. "I've been so healthy all my life ... I just don't know how to be any kind of ... non-healthy person."

Were all American girls so cuddly? Sita wondered. From a sample of two, it appeared that they all were solidly built, and felt lovely to snuggle with. Of course Helen was no spring chicken; in spite of her youthful personality she was older than Lalitha by a few years, and there had been grey hairs one time Sita had looked.

Her every instinct was to flirt with the sweet woman. Helen's hunger for love was the dual of Sita's bottled up love in search of an object. And in Sita's heart, Helen was already firmly established, by proxy from having heard all of Lalitha's stories for many weeks.

But one of Sita's secret hopes had been that Lalitha and Helen would some day find each other again. In this tragic break-up of Helen's family, as it were, Sita saw a silver lining: Lalitha would be the perfect companion for Helen. If she could set aside her silly concern for Trish and seize the chance, it could be the beginning of the best years for both Helen and Lalitha.

But here she was, betraying her sister. It had been an impulsive move to declare her love for Helen that way. Now it just hung between them like a half-cast spell, waiting for ... some magical word. What had she gained by it? Just the knowledge that Helen was being tortured as much as Sita was. She knew Helen was tortured by what they both felt. She had wanted to ease the pain, but she doubted she had done that.

Last night had been amazing. She had had an enormous orgasm, and then in the night Helen had made love to her in her sleep, softly, tenderly. She imagined how it must have been between Helen and Lalitha when they were younger, and smiled. She sighed. Oh, to be Lalitha! She had pulled Helen out of the prison of her amnesia, and then sadly run out of steam. Sita had the will and the imagination to take over the project, but instead she had saddled herself with this worthless actress who disappeared at the first opportunity. Everything was wrong.

She felt a need to simply connect with Helen physically. She would put a pillow between them after Helen was asleep; she would purge thoughts of sex from her mind; that was why she had insisted on a vegetarian supper. Everyone knew that abstention was easier if you left off meat. But her heart wanted a mere touch, a chaste touch. She would simply hold Helen's hand. It would tell Helen how she cared for her, without the burden of arousing her sexually.

Helen was involved in her own thoughts, when suddenly she felt Sita's hand slip into her own. It took her by surprise, but she accepted it meekly. Sita was calling all the shots, and Helen didn't have the insight and the motivation to challenge her. It was an expression of tenderness and longing as eloquent as anything, but it gave both women the satisfaction of knowing that they set bounds on their intimacy. But could they keep to those bounds?

It was too hard. Helen tossed and turned so much, they had to give it up. In the end, Sita placed a pillow against Helen's back, and wrapped herself around it, and fell asleep that way.

The next morning, once again, they were in each other's arms. They opened their eyes at almost the same time, and they slowly disengaged. I'm sorry, one of them said. I'm sure ... nothing happened, said the other. They enjoyed their proximity to each other, with grave expressions on their faces, and then got out of bed with a sigh. Their plane was to take off mid-morning, and after breakfast at the hotel, they made their way towards the airport.

Sita had bought a book at BNB. After they'd been in the air a few minutes and gone through their complimentary materials and commented on each one, she asked Helen "Would you mind awfully if I read a little?"

"Oh, not at all. I think I'll read too," said Helen cheerfully, and pulled out her book.

Getting through the airport in Florida was quite different from Atlanta. Everyone seemed on the verge of recognizing Helen, and some actually did. They all welcomed her to Florida once more, and asked if she was staying long, and whether she was giving any concerts. Sita was nodded at and welcomed as Helen's companion, but otherwise left alone. It was several degrees warmer—in the eighties—and Sita looked happy with the temperature, but she didn't like the sun.

As soon as the welcome committee had taken them to the hotel, Helen's phone began to ring; Becky was checking in to say that Florida public TV was on her line asking to speak to Helen.

"Shall I tell them where you are? Are you in the mood for a children's concert or a benefit? These are some of the questions I'm getting!"

"Good heavens, Becky, I just walked in the door of my suite! _How_ did they find out?"

"I have no idea! Maybe the orchestra spread the word! It certainly wasn't me."

Helen was stunned. "Yeah," said Helen, "tell them where I'm staying, and tell them to call the room. That way I can take the phone off the hook."

"Good. Talk to you later."

Sita decided to explore the vicinity of the hotel on her own. She was not normally a bold girl, but somehow she seemed to have found the courage to get out on her own.

Just before she left, she took a careful look at Helen.

"What's the matter? You look as if you expect me to disappear!"

Sita giggled. She shrugged. "Be good!" she said, smiling, put on her sunglasses and walked out.

As we know, Helen had many exciting adventures in Florida, in her younger days. Many of those were gone from her memory, but a few remained, especially events to do with two sisters with whom Helen had lost touch. Helen was determined to make contact again with Karen Baker, who had been a beautiful girl in her early twenties, in demand for portraits of the Madonna, for Christmas cards.

Helen made contact, and to her dismay found that Karen had become an alcoholic, and appeared not particularly happy to see Helen. Helen returned quite demoralized. Sita was back before Helen, and felt sorry for her.

Sita had bought Helen a dress. It was an ankle-length, loose gown, cut completely on the bias, with a wide flare, and a clever cinch at the waist that pulled it back into a bit of elastic so that it fit anyone. Sita took it out of its bag and held it up.

"Look what I found for you!"

Instantly Helen's face changed. So she was normal in that way! Sita knew that most women could be distracted by clothes.

"For _me?_ Oh Sita! You shouldn't have! What if it doesn't fit?"

But she was there in a trice, taking the dress from Sita, already seduced by the lovely fabric. It was a kind of crushed silk that clung to Helen's body, but also had a lot of character. "It's beautiful fabric," Helen murmured.

"I found it at a used clothing store!" said Sita, excited.

Helen whirled about holding the dress, and declared she would wear it for the concert.

"You're not serious!"

"Yes, I am!"

Helen quickly hung it up, then hurried into the shower. She came out shortly afterwards wrapped in the huger luxury towels the Hotel provided. It was one of the most luxurious hotel suites Sita had ever been in.

Helen could hardly wait to put on the dress. There was still time, and Sita smilingly offered to braid her hair again. Helen sat on a stool in her towel, and Sita gently dried Helen's hair. Her quick fingers—even quicker than Lalitha—made a very tight braid, that still felt moderately comfortable. She explained it to Helen, but she was too preoccupied to listen carefully. Then Sita watched carefully as Helen put her hair up in the formal renaissance style that suited her so well. Helen loved the way Sita looked at her. There was just a little too much _hunger_ in it to be appropriate for a girl gazing on her goddess, but she needed a little adoration to heal her battered self-esteem.

Helen put on a lacy scrap of a bra, joking that she needed a lot more support now than before she had Jamie, and a whisper of a panty, thigh-high silk stockings, and the new dress.

It was perfect. Sita adjusted the cinch at the back, and Helen whirled around, dancing and pirouetting, and Sita just watched, open-mouthed. Helen seldom cavorted about. Sita loved it—the dress, the woman, all of it. She sighed.

Sita wore a pretty dress, more colorful than the simple but tasteful clothes she usually wore. She felt brave today, and the warmth of the weather had made her dizzy with romantic thoughts. Helen's dress was the ultimate thrill; the dress had cost Sita all of fifty dollars. The hem had come loose, and she had carefully mended it, better than it had been before, and added a few detail to the fastenings. Now she filled her eyes with Helen in the dress, a beautiful sight. Sita had never seen Helen in a long flowing dress like this one, and had wondered if Helen could manage the full skirts, but she did. It was a perfect length.

Impulsively Helen grabbed Sita and hugged her.

"I was feeling pretty low when I came in," she said, her face serious, her great green eyes searching Sita's face, her mind obviously going over her afternoon's experiences. "I would have been in a bad way if I had been alone. I'm glad you're with me."

Sita was deeply touched. "Thank you for bringing me," she said simply.

"Will you be all right by yourself again? You look lovely tonight!"

"I'll be fine," Sita reassured her.

Then Helen gently kissed her on the cheek, and drew back, her eyes thoughtful. The kiss burned on Sita's cheek, a woman's soft, tender kiss, her lips soft as those of a young girl. What a woman she was, Sita thought; such feeling and such brilliance combined in a single tortured being! Compared to her, Sharon was such a one-dimensional creature. Sita's last doubts about what she felt for Sharon disappeared. She could never feel the old passion for her again. There was a painful sense of loss. From a passion for a woman she could never find, she was beginning an admiration for a woman she could never have.

"Let me get my things," Helen said, seemingly under the spell of the moment just as Sita was.

She was too, too sensitive for a woman her age, Sita thought. What a contrast these western women were to the wizened women she had known in India! Those could take care of themselves with any man, with a word or two to put them in their place. Men thought they were in charge, but there were subtle ways of defending yourself against unwanted masculine interest. Or feminine interest?

A while later Sita found herself in the audience, right in the front row. It was a brand new concert hall, specifically designed for a chamber orchestra and other small ensembles. It was roughly circular in shape, and the orchestra sat on a low circular dais at one edge of the circle, and the audience filled up the remaining space. The walls were all paneled in either wood, or some material that simulated wood. The ceiling was not too high, and also paneled in wood.

Access to the galleries was through the second floor, and there was a concourse all round the second level, split off from the hall by sound-reflective glass panels. The hall was almost completely filled up, and Sita saw extra chairs being put round the concourse, and people being seated there. Extra chairs were being placed along the aisles, and in spite of the heavy climate-control, the room was getting a little warm.

Sharp on time at seven thirty, the orchestra walked on stage, with Helen right with them. Sita had expected her to come in after the orchestra was seated, but she simply came in right with them, in her straight ankle-length black skirt, white shirt, and short jacket. They began tuning right away, but it was clear this was just a final tune-up; it took mere seconds.

Then Helen approached the foot of the low stage—just a few inches high—and smiled at the audience, who burst into cheers, the galleries standing and shouting, causing a deafening din.

Helen grinned and waved them to sit down. "You must be clairvoyant," she kidded, "we haven't even started!" Laughter. She looked up at the seats at the back, and noticing the people seated behind the glass, she turned to the wings and said, "You've put people behind the glass! "How are they going to hear the music?"

Right on cue, two microphones on stands were brought out and set in front of the stage, and the man said something to Helen, who nodded smiling, and turned back to the audience, and the people behind the glass.

"It's a full house, I guess!" More laughter. "Can you hear me?" she asked the unfortunates behind the glass, and they nodded vigorously. Evidently the PA system extended out on the concourse. Helen nodded in acknowledgment, and Sita watched her, mesmerized with the ease with which she handled the crowd. She had certain mannerisms, and movements of the hand that were very feminine, but which she never seemed to use privately. It was almost as if she was a different person, yet there was a little continuity—enough for Sita to feel comfortable that it wasn't fake. It was simply theater, Sita realized. Helen was accustomed to performing before large crowds, where only studied, large gestures were visible.

"You're probably familiar with the idea that Baroque music was usually conducted from the harpsichord, or from the first desk of the violins. I decided to conduct the Suites from the keyboard, from this beautiful harpsichord that has come all the way from France." Cheers. Helen smiled. "You probably paid too much," she said, and the audience broke up laughing. "But it's a beautiful instrument; I've made them, so I know," she added. It must be wonderful to be such an authority on so many things, Sita thought to herself. And she was utterly fearless about appearing to be too smart; she didn't care one whit about saying what she thought. Sita couldn't conceive of ever being that way.

Helen went on to describe what the suites were, and in a few sentences had packed in an enormous amount of information, about the composer, exactly where the pieces were written, and for what. To her great satisfaction, Sita learned that the pieces were indeed renaissance dances, except for the introductions. She closed by saying that she hoped they enjoyed the pieces, they being two of her very favorite works by Johann Sebastian Bach.

She took her place at the keyboard, and with a nod, they all began into the serene opening of the first piece. To Sita's disappointment, the sound was a little dull, actually, quite dull compared to the lively sound of the afternoon's rehearsal. Then, very quietly, the sound seemed to get more live, and all around the room she could see the difference in the faces of the audience. Some trick was being played with the sound system. Sita saw tiny grilles set into the woodwork all round the room, and she understood that the system had been designed that way.

Sita watched Helen sway with the music. During the three-hour rehearsal of the afternoon, Helen had trained them to watch her with the eye of a baroque musician, and listen with the ear of a modern performer, better-paid, accustomed to more rigorous standards of performance. Sita was quite unaware of the subtleties of the process of mounting a baroque performance in the 21st century, but she could tell that it sounded brilliant, perfect, and musical.

She knew when the last movement of the first piece was over, and she applauded enthusiastically, proud of her friend. Helen bowed graciously, and indicated for the group to take a bow.

Gesturing for silence, she said a few more words while the extra players filed into their places, to stand around the periphery, holding their shiny instruments ready, and Sita steeled herself for the unbearable clamor of the things. Helen was talking about how the baroque trumpeter's art had been rediscovered, and suddenly Sita connected the slender trumpets with Lalitha's smithy in Philadelphia. They had moved the factory out to another part of town near the warehouse district, in response to complaints about the hammering. It was a corner of the district which was slowly becoming cleaned up and beautified. In their more spacious new quarters, they had built a bigger brass manufactory, and they had a couple working for them who were experts in brass instrument manufacture. Under Lalitha's tutelage, they were making beautiful trumpets, trombones and horns, a few every month.

"There are no valves of any sort, as you can see! And further, they have a beautiful, pure shining sound, a little softer than that of a modern trumpet. You're almost certain to have heard these before, but now you'll be aware of the facts about them. Bach's Suite no. 4 in D major. Thank you!"

With a crash of trumpets and drums, they were into the music.

Somehow, being prepared for the sound, it didn't seem quite so harsh as it had been that afternoon. It seemed much softer, and clearer, and Sita wondered whether they had done something to soften the sound. In the afternoon it had echoed and reverberated around the room almost unbearably loud, and Sita almost hated the sound of the drums.

Sita's mind inevitably wandered. She watched the girl seated behind Helen step forward to turn the pages, and wondered whether she could learn to do that. She studied the way Helen sat, so gracefully for a woman whose body was so big and strong in its lines. Just watching Helen play the harpsichord, not Helen's chosen instrument, made Sita want to learn to play it, not because she loved music so much, but because it looked so graceful. Finally, with an exciting, rhythmically sophisticated, the piece—movement—came to a close, and the applause started almost before the last notes had died down.

A short break was announced, and Helen led the rest of the musicians offstage. Sita knew her way to Helen's dressing room, and she made her way there. Everybody got out of the way of the beautiful young woman in the rather severe dress. Sita knocked on the door of the tiny dressing-room Helen had been assigned, and heard a brisk 'come in.' Helen was in her underwear, just about to put on the lovely gown Sita had bought.

"You're really going to do it!" Sita said, flushed. It seemed almost wrong to do it. "I'm not ever sure it's proper to wear—you know—used clothing!" she exclaimed.

"Well," said Helen seriously, as she got into the dress, "I don't usually. There's always the possibility that the previous owner might be in the audience ... I don't know why it's such a big deal, really!"

She was a little flushed, and Sita thought she was beautiful. They looked at each other and Helen broke into a grin. "How's it going, do you think?"

"Super!" Sita said without hesitation, as she turned Helen round to adjust the cinch at the back.

"Yes, they seem to be having a good time," she nodded. "How do I look?"

Helen did a turn for her, and swung the skirt around, and Sita said she looked perfect. Reading her mind, Helen gave her a quick hug.

Helen picked up one of the violins. "I'm going to use this one," she said, rather breathlessly. "It's my first time! Wish me luck!"

"The first time playing that violin?"

"On stage, yes!"

After the break, the orchestra took their seats first. Helen had told Sita that she was going to do it this way, just to show off the dress! When Helen appeared on stage, she was greeted with enthusiastic applause. Sita watched fascinated as Helen put some extra something into her walk—so different from the walk of the beautiful women Sita had studied in her childhood, as they made their sarees do magic for them; but yet, perhaps, not so different after all—that made her oh-so-feminine. There was that flush on her face that she could never have created with make up. If only her eyes were a darker color, like cornflower blue! And her eyelashes longer and darker! (In her mind she re-made Helen the way she would have liked her: short, curly dark hair, wearing cutoffs and a muscle shirt, the collar open a few buttons, tanned dark, wearing sexy leather sandals ...)

With a start Sita realized that Helen was talking to the audience. She had turned to the orchestra and sweetly asked permission to chat up the audience with some inconsequential nonsense. She had turned away from the microphone, and Sita could only hear snatches of that exchange—something about being her first concert in this century. She was all charm, all confidence; there was no sign of the Helen who had returned from whatever unpleasant meeting some hours earlier.

"Do you like this dress?" she was asking the audience, and received an enthusiastic affirmative. "I spend a lot less on clothes than most women performers—something like twenty thousand dollars in the last three calendar years. Yes, I know," she said quickly, as there was a distinct gasp from the audience. "It's a terrible example!" Laughter. Sita shook her head in amazement. She was simply unbelievable. "But in the previous fifteen years, I spent a total of less than a thousand, so I was catching up!" More laughter. "This one," she was saying, gracefully swirling the skirts of the gown, "was discovered for me by my friend—seated right there," she pointed to Sita with her bow and smiled, "right here in one of your used clothing stores, and I _love_ it!"

Pandemonium broke out, and Helen looked worried. "Oh dear, I didn't mean to insult _anybody._ " Sita could see her thinking fast. "Think of it this way: the same fabric is earning money twice!" The laughter was somewhat muted. "I guess I'm learning: never wear hand-me-downs at a Florida concert!" More enthusiastic laughter that time. "Listen, if the previous owner and the retailer — _and the manufacturer_ — contact me within the next few weeks, I will donate $500 for each of you to your favorite charities, and I'll let you take the credit! Write to me care of the symphony! I really mean it!" The topic ended in laughter.

Helen continued with matters more related to the music. She talked about the piece, and she also talked about the violin, and its former owner, and Sita was touched by Helen's obvious love for the woman and her family. Sita also learned a lot about old violins, and a lot of what Lalitha had tried to explain to her was made clear in a few sentences. Helen's feelings about how the instruments had been modified —" _raped"_ — was clear.

"But it still bravely continues to make music," she ended, "a symbol of so many brave men and women who have suffered incredible trauma, and still put in more than their fair share of service; the music of their lives continues!" There was applause, and Sita felt tears in her eyes. It was as though Helen was speaking about Sita and her sister. It made Sita want to _do_ something with her life. It was an amazing feeling of empowerment, even with such a simple, sentimental idea. Helen's words were delivered with a soft, gentle voice, but the audience was moved. It was part of the magic she created. "I would like to dedicate this performance to Patricia, Richard and Lisa Wallace." There was respectful silence.

The music began. Helen conducted as she waited to play. It was one of Sita's favorites, she remembered the tune of the opening very well. The orchestra had been arranged in two semicircles, so that almost everyone could see almost everyone else. An older gentleman had taken Helen's place at the keyboard, and he had quite a different sound from Helen, more tinkly, more audible. Simply for that reason, perhaps, Sita felt—as she had that afternoon—that Helen should conduct them all, and let someone else play the harpsichord. She loved the sound of the soft-voiced instrument!

Helen's entry was incredibly sweet, almost apologetic. But the tone built, gradually, and soon she was dominating the orchestra, not just with the volume of the sound, but with some subtle cleverness of the music itself, ... or was it the performer? It was as though the violin was gaining courage, and growing in confidence, and ever so charmingly subverted the entire orchestra, arguing, laughing, singing, stealing its song, and doing clever, wonderful things to it.

Sita watched Helen's face as she played, the joy, the concentration, the exaltation, and sometimes some watchfulness. What did it feel like to both conduct and play? Did she just play and hope for the best? Was she giving mysterious, invisible indications to the orchestra?

When she wasn't playing—which was perhaps a few seconds, total—she was nodding at them in time, and occasionally she would wave her bow. Sita had heard the piece several times, now, and was already beginning to have opinions about how the tempo and the phrasing should go. This meant that she knew what was coming, phrase by phrase, and appreciated the subtle differences between how it had been done in rehearsal, how she would have _liked_ to have it done, and how indeed it was done. Sita was becoming a critic, and the verdict was: it was wonderful. Yes, Helen timed some of the key moments just a little differently; why? Perhaps it was the mood. Maybe it was just to see if she could. It was part of the bonding between Helen and her orchestra of the moment.

The lyrical slow part, which began in a rather stately fashion, was mostly Helen's own. It was also the most beautiful to watch; Helen was beautiful in slow but rhythmic pieces. In faster movements her fingers flew, but her body remained more or less stable and firm. In the slow movements, she swayed about somewhat more; not distractingly, but noticeably. At point, just for a second, their eyes touched, and Sita got a brief hint—the barest hint—of a smile. Just for her. Somehow that was an important little victory for Sita; at least, it seemed so at the time.

The slow movement (or piece, as Sita thought of it) inevitably came to an end, a more deliberate end, Sita noticed, than during rehearsals. They carried the feel of deliberation with them as they launched into the last, fast 'piece,' to Sita's disappointment. It was brisk, but not the exciting headlong hurtle that Helen had rehearsed! Sita wanted so urgently to see Helen impress her audience that she squirmed. What was she doing?

The idea had been at the back of Helen's mind that afternoon, to start the last movement off a little slow, and then pick up. It was an old trick, and one that sounded vulgar if it was too noticeable. So now Helen was hurrying up the pace smoothly, to get to within a little—say 80%—of the final breakneck speed that Sita remembered so well. It was nothing like the furious pace that was common in the eighties; the impression of energy was gotten with articulation, accenting, rather than pure speed.

When Helen was playing it was a little easier. The idea was to keep ahead, but just barely, to avoid the impression of raggedness. It wasn't hard, since actually Helen was less anxious to speed up than the players themselves, who seemed to be quite obsessed with speed—a new phenomenon, according to their music director. "I've never seen them speed crazy like this," he had exclaimed. His guess was that they were eager to impress Helen.

"They don't have to impress me," Helen said, shaking her head, "they're really excellent. You've got a good group, here." All they needed was to really gel as a group, is what she didn't say. They were all relatively new hires, she had learned; there had been a lot of turnover in the little orchestra in recent times, which was one of the reasons Helen had probably been invited. It was good to know that she had a reputation for 'tuning up' orchestras that were in the doldrums, as long as she didn't get a reputation for not being able to do anything else. She longed to be invited to conduct a first-rank orchestra, one that was already perfect. She longed for that feel of mastery over a hundred people, the feel of playing a vast instrument, of moving a thousand people to their knees with the sheer emotion of her playing.

Thankfully, all that was gone from her mind now; the music had taken her over, and it was the rhythm that drove all of them, both Helen and the troops. The melody, the harmony: in these jolly jigs, they were all subsumed in the rhythm. She was watching the cellos and the basses carefully. The basses had been warned to play percussively but not loudly, and they had done a brilliant job in the _gigue_ during rehearsal.

The pace picked up so subtly that Sita was taken unawares. In fact, during the episodes, Helen actually used a little rubato to give the impression of actually holding the pace back. But with the running little sixteenth and thirty-second notes she picked up again, even just a _tad_ faster. The old violin—easily 300-odd years old—was as nimble as ever—more so. Pat had used some unusual kind of string that spoke easily—more easily than her own violin—and rapid passage-work was a snap. She had only played a couple of scales before the concert; the violin had told her it was ready within a few seconds of her laying the bow on it.

Everyone was swaying along in compound triple time, and Sita could not help but nod along. Then they were into the final stretch. Around her, people more knowledgeable about Bach _concerti_ were marveling at the precision of Helen's playing, the clarity, the perfection of the time-values of the notes, in spite of the speed. The speed of the fingers was dazzling, they were a blur. She stood with her feet apart, her knees slightly flexed, her upper-body relaxed, like that of a singer, but the muscles of her arms swelled rhythmically with the motion of the bow, and the fingers on the strings. The exciting double-stopping was breathtaking; the entire orchestra seemed to be taken up in that whirlwind of unstoppable energy, and then with the feel of a river in flood opening into the sea, the concerto ended. Helen grinned at the audience, and they saw the perspiration on her face and her shoulders. She stood for a moment, radiant, soaking in their abandoned enthusiasm, and then made a gracious curtsy—just a bow with a graceful step back of one leg, and a slight bend of the knees—but oh, how beautiful it was! Wearing a dress like that, it was impossible to resist.

The audience went wild. It was an old-time gesture, perfectly in keeping with the dance-like music they had just played, and the very unusual woman who had played it. A woman who transcended the need to constrain her gestures to reinforce her authority or her dignity. Sita found herself on her feet, and she watched Helen beam at the audience in unashamed delight as they all stood for a standing ovation.

Several days later, Helen and Sita were back in Westfield. On Sunday night, after dinner, Jim flew the visitors home. Lalitha wanted to stay, but it wasn't possible; Suresh needed to get back to school. There were instruments in the works, and there were plants to water, fish to feed, none of which could be left to the tender mercies of Trish. Sita could be spared, but Sita showed no desire to stay, and Lalitha disliked the fact that she was so relieved. She realized how jealous she was of her sister's rivalry. If Sita had confessed that she loved Helen, Lalitha would have stepped aside at once. But she had not confessed. She had acted as though she had merely established a close Platonic friendship with Helen. So why should it evoke such intense jealousy in Lalitha?

Helga

Conchita

And it came to pass in those days, that Helen's corporation—which was partly not for profit—was in financial trouble. Becky, Helen's corporate financial officer, urged her to hire a different sort of agent, someone who would more aggressively market Helen, to bring in more revenue. Helen hated the idea; her team, consisting of Betsy, her personal assistant, Robin Friend, who filtered her performing invitations, and kept track of her engagements, Jim Wilson, her travel manager, and Becky in Philadelphia, and of course Marika and Lisa, the recording engineers, were plenty. But Becky had her way, and an aggressive new agent was hired: Conchita Carver.

Conchita hit the ground running, and pushed to come to Seattle for the periodic filming of Helen's part in the _Galaxy Show_. While they were there, Helen brought up the idea of the spoof of _Merit_ which Sita had written while in the air on the way to Atlanta.

"I have an idea!" Helen had said, excitedly.

They looked at her quizzically, wondering what more she could have on her mind. Helen had already brought up the idea for a music festival in Seattle.

"What about a parody on _Merit and the Princess?"_

"What??"

"How? They're not going to stand for it!"

"I have a story idea, too! And get this, it was written by the woman who played the princess! And let me tell you: it is fantastic!"

As anticipated, that caused an uproar, but everyone agreed that if it could be done, they had to do it before it was spoiled by some other outfit. Conchita undertook to wangle the permissions, with Helen's help. They decided that Helen and Annie were perfect to play the title roles.

Soon it was back to the sound stage for Helen and Annie, while Conchita stayed to talk to the producers.

"I'd like to talk about producing," she said, once the others had left.

It was an incredibly productive visit.

"I had no idea what you were going to be doing, when you said you had plans for Saturday!" said Conchita, laughing. Helen grinned. "I didn't quite guess how much you'd be interested, at that point!" she replied.

Conchita and Helen discussed the satire on _Merit_ , and the procedure for getting the rights to it. Helen decided that, since they had several hours to kill, they may as well do some work. She called Marsha using the air phone, and after catching up a little, and warning her about where she was calling from, she told her about Conchita.

"Un-oh! You're breaking into the big time!"

"I am, huh? Just because of her?"

Marsha said she had heard about this Conchita, and evidently the business insiders were agreed that she was a power player. But Helen wanted to talk about the _Merit_ parody.

"Listen, I have a crazy idea, and I want you to approve it!"

"Oh yeah?"

"It's a parody on _Merit!_ "

There was a hearty laugh at the other end. "I've been getting a couple of them every week since the Fall!"

"Oh shit, I hope you didn't say yes!"

"Whose idea is this?"

"Sita's!"

"Sita? Oh Helen! Be serious. I'm not going to throw away the idea like that! It deserves better!"

"Marsha, it is brilliant! Listen!"

Lowering her voice, she described the story over the phone.

"Okay. The opening scene is of a Norwegian fjord. Then you see a bunch of girls playing ping-pong, dressed in _lederhosen_. It's a hotly contested match, and there's this great big girl who's, quite simply, a ping-pong wiz. She hits a winner, and it's the game. Got it so far?"

"Uh-huh, I'm listening."

"Okay. It turns out, this is a major ping-pong nation. Their two big things is ping-pong, and wrestling, and a sort of rite of passage for them is to go out into the world, and play ping-pong and wrestle where no one has ping-ponged and wrestled before. And they're supposed to bring back a bottleful of ping-pong balls and a bunch of _lederhosen_ that they've won from their, er, adversaries. They've beat the crap out of all the neighboring kingdoms, and now they're after bigger game."

"Gotcha."

"Well, anyway, it's her time, and she's sent out with a bunch of girls—and I think it's important to get a likable bunch. They're not supposed to be big, or stupid, or anything like that, just real easily surprised, and easily annoyed. So anyway, they set out, and they have their first run-in with pirates. They let them aboard, at first, and insist on a bout of wrestling. The pirates decide to play along initially, but soon the girls can see they're not taking this seriously, and the men are asked to leave. The men pull out their swords and stuff, and the girls make mincemeat out of them—the fight is very carefully choreographed; it's a riot—and now the gals have a bigger ship, too."

Helen took a breath. Conchita could barely keep a straight face.

"Well, they land on the shore of this place, and it's China, see? And they come up with these guys, big handsome fellows, who beat the pants off of them. They're all depressed, now, and they lay about with long faces, but the local girls befriend them, and tell them that war is about to break out between their kingdom and their neighbors over a disputed province."

"And the idea is to kidnap the princess, who's in a nunnery."

"Well ... are you ready for this?"

"Hit me."

"The Princess is a little tyrant, who's studying martial arts in a mountain _dojo._ She's supposed to be good, and she can never resist a challenge. But the girls tell our friends that they don't have a hope of seeing the Princess, because she scorns their kingdom; she'll fight anyone but them."

"Aha!" Helen could feel Marsha getting interested.

"So the Chinese girls teach our friends the martial art as quickly as possible, and the guys are all, ha ha, yeah, right, she's gonna challenge the Princess, you gotta be nuts."

"Uh-huh."

"Then they have a test fight, and Helga wins. So they put on their lederhosen, and head off to the border, and ask to go to the dojo. Their visas are good for the mountain kingdom, so they go in, and Helga asks to be admitted, and she is."

"I hardly dare to listen any more. It sounds awfully iffy, sweetheart. I mean, I love the kid, and everything, but it's incredibly shaky. Where are we going to get the money to film in Norway?"

Helen saw frantic signaling out of the corner of her eye, and turned. Conchita was asking to talk to Marsha. She said Conchita would tell her the details, and handed over the phone.

"Hello, this is Conchita Carver! It's a pleasure to talk to you!"

"Hi! I was just asking how she expected to manage shooting in fjords!"

"Galaxy Studios is interested in the project; we have their okay, if you give permission!"

"Galaxy!" Marsha was impressed. "Then, the erotic angle is ..."

"Oh, no; it's hardly present. Maybe adult situations, that's all. It doesn't depend on sex at all. I mean, there _are_ some serious parts in the movie, but it's basically a family comedy. The assumptions are preposterous, but there are interesting and three-dimensional characters, some subtle allusions to other movies, and except for the ping-pong, it's pretty plausible!"

"And Helen wants to play the main character?"

"Yes, that was the idea. We were thinking of Annie Nordstrom for the Princess, but I wonder if she can pick up the martial arts fast enough."

"You know what ... let me talk to her, please Conchita. Good talking to you!"

"You too!"

"Hi Marsh."

"Kiddo, have her write it up for me. I want to see it on paper. I want to have creative input."

"Whoo hoo! So it's yes!"

"I guess!" Helen could barely contain her excitement. "Listen ... aren't you concerned about being recognized?"

"Nah; we could arrange to have _Merit_ on the set as an expert, as a publicity stunt!"

"Hey, that's good! You know what?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm very, very tempted to ask to appear in it!"

Mother's Day Race

There was a soft knock on the door, and Helen knew Conchita had come for her. Conchita was a health nut, and she knew that Helen ran, and she had asked Helen to sign up for a 10K race that was being run that weekend. It was seven thirty, and the race was at eight. She grabbed a robe and headed downstairs, passing Allie, who jumped into her arms for a quick kiss, and then flew downstairs to the door.

"It's Aunty Conchita!" she called out in a delighted squeak. "Mama!"

"I heard, baby! Hi, Conchita, come in!"

"Time to get rolling!"

"Are we walking over, or what?"

"No, we'll drive," she said. "I had a little dry bread, and a little water, that's all!"

Helen disappeared, then appeared dressed in modest running shorts, like Conchita. Allie was pestering her, wanting to come see, as soon as she heard it was a race.

While in Florida with Sita, Helen had succeeded in contacting Karen Baker, and somehow persuaded her to come visit in Westfield, the idea being to try and get her as much help as possible to deal with the alcoholism. Karen had resisted furiously, but Helen had prevailed. In addition, Helen's longtime friend, Dr. Amy Salvatori had also decided to come on an extended visit, because she knew that Helen needed a lot of moral support at this time, with Nadia dead, and Lorna and Rain gone, and the corporation having great financial trouble, and of course, the diabetes which was turning out to be a bigger deal than Helen had expected.

Amy and Karen appeared and took charge of the kids, and Conchita explained where it was all going to take place; they were starting at the Elementary school, and ending there. There'd be swings and slides for the kids to play on while they waited.

Conchita was particular about what Helen brought with her: a water bottle, a towel—"Your face is gonna beg for it"—her hip pouch, and a bad-aid or two. And her money, twenty dollars, or forty, if she wanted a T shirt. Helen decided she wanted one, so she bummed forty off Conchita, since there was no cash in the house, and she didn't want to walk around with a check.

It was cheerful pandemonium at the race headquarters. Helen strode up to the clerk who smiled brilliantly at her. "Helen Nordstrom," she said pleasantly, putting down her money. She was given two large placards to wear, printed with an enormous _143_ , and _Helen Nordstrom_ under it. All around her a huge crowd was milling around, people she had never seen. Conchita found her and explained that there were some runners who went from town to town, running in every race they could get to.

People grinned at Helen in a friendly way, and she grinned back. Suddenly a bunch of students found her, and surrounded her as if Helen were a long lost friend. "Miss Helen!" they cried, "How _nice!_ You're gonna run with us!"

"Hey," she said cheerfully, "I didn't know you guys were all runners!"

"Oh, we run just for fun!" said one fellow, whom she recognized from the Creative Arts floor, which she had neglected for a number of weeks.

Conchita grinned at the circle of students and Helen quickly introduced her. "This is Ms Carver, who has just become my agent! She's going to be my boss!"

"Hi kids!"

"Miss Carver, make her sing the National Anthem when the race begins!"

"Ah yes, Helen, I must volunteer your services! Excuse me!"

Helen's arm snaked out and grabbed her. "Not so fast! What's all this?"

The kids explained.

"Doesn't everybody sing?"

"Someone has to lead!" exclaimed a forward little thing, number 169, Tammara Payne.

"Yes, Helen, like she says!"

"So who leads usually?"

"A boom box!"

It was inevitable that once Helen was recognized by the organizers, she would be made to sing. Sharp at a minute to eight, Helen sang the first notes of the bugle-call that opened the National Anthem. She was immediately joined by a couple of hundred enthusiastic—and quite musical—voices. At the end of it, there was a loud cheer, and Helen took her place of honor on the front line, a privilege usually reserved for those who had won races in the past. Conchita stood with the students at the back. The countdown began, and bang! They were off.

Helen couldn't help smiling. There were two hundred people, some of whom had clearly never run anything close to ten kilometers, men and women of all ages, shapes and sizes, children bursting with good health, pimply youths wearing nylon briefs far too small for them, hefty teenage girls with determined looks in their baby-blue eyes; flirtatious young things unable to decide whether to run like hell, or smile at the men; earnest looking people in decorated wheelchairs, grey-haired women speed-walking. Helen let them pass while she waited for her friends.

"Run, Miss Helen! What're you doing? _Run!"_ they called from the back, in a cacophony of cracked voices of both sexes. Helen grinned and began to jog. It was way too much fun and excitement!

She felt a half-dozen arms pushing and pulling her, and urges, "Run, run, run!"

Helen found herself next to a laughing Conchita. "Come on," she panted, "let's get through this huddle!"

"I don't feel tired or sleepy!" Helen declared, feeling wonderful.

"Well, that's now; it'll catch up with ya!"

They set off in pursuit of the undergraduates, and presently passed the rearmost one, Helen's artistic friend. She encouraged him with a gentle push up a slight slope, and he waved her on, puffing along quite cheerfully.

She began to pass dozens of people she knew by sight, and even by name, her colleagues, more students, the pairs of women from among 'her' lesbians, who smiled at her in the friendliest way, other runners she had met in the mornings while she ran, a mailman she was friends with, a couple of grinning guys from the football team.

She passed the last of the people on wheelchairs, and the last of the speed walkers, surprisingly far ahead of the main body of runners. Now there was a gap. Far ahead she could see some of the students, and a number of strong runners.

Conchita was beginning to breathe hard, and Helen slowed down.

"Keep going," she panted, "don't hold back!"

"Aww!"

"Just go!"

Still smiling, Helen opened the throttle just a little. One by one she passed the students who gasped encouragement at her. She passed men, who looked annoyed, or who looked blank, or who smiled, according to their temperaments or mood. Finally, only a single man and a young thing of about fourteen were ahead of her.

She held back, keeping pace with them, until she saw the route curve back towards the school, and a sort of chute made out of barricades, and a number of folks with cameras, some of them shooting already, others waiting for their favorites to come by. Helen ran faster and faster, and passed the other two, entering the chute just ahead of them.

"Mama! Mama! _You won!"_ There was her family, at the end of the chute, cheering like mad! She ran up, past the ribbon, and turned to congratulate the girl, Number 11, Tracy Ringard. She saw two bright blue eyes, shining brightly, and a huge grin.

"I knew you would win! That was awesome, how you ran!"

"Oh, I feel wonderful!" Helen told her. She was soon surrounded by a host of admirers, and she turned round to grab the two kids and carry them on her hips. They covered her with happy kisses, and then Amy and Karen were there, hugging her. Even Karen was excited!

Conchita ran up not too much later.

"Is it true? They said you won it, beating the men, you beat everybody!"

Helen laughed. "I feel rotten!"

"Where did you learn to run like that?"

"Learn? I just run like the blazes, that's all!"

"Miss Helen! _You won!! Yee hoo!!_ Wait'll I tell everyone! Hi, James! Hi, little girl!"

"It's Alison!"

"Hi Alison!"

"What a lot of fun!" Helen declared afterwards, as they headed home. It was hard to put her finger on what exactly she had enjoyed the most, whether it was the fine weather, the running itself, the winning, or the festive atmosphere. They had made a great fuss about awarding Helen's prize, a pair of sunglasses, and a special T shirt that said 'Champion.' Helen had peeled off the T shirt she had worn right in front of the crowd, in true Olympic style, and put on the prize T shirt, and raised both fists in a sign of victory. The cheering from the women had been deafening.

The organizers had thanked her enthusiastically for participating.

"You owe this lady here," Helen said, indicating Conchita with a smile. "I didn't know about the race until she made me sign up!"

The principal organizer, who was the owner of the local bicycle store, laughed. "You're our main sponsor, Miss Nordstrom! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Helen had blushed, and explained that she had authorized her assistant to support every charitable organization in the locality.

"Will you run in our Memorial Day race?"

"Certainly, if I'm here!" Helen had promised.

When they arrived at home, there was Conchita! Helen walked over to her.

"Hello, Agent Carver! What a nice surprise!" said Helen, wondering what she was doing there. Then she caught Conchita's eye flicker to look behind her, and she swung round, feeling suspicious.

" _Happy Mother's Day!!!"_ everyone yelled, and there were a dozen roses for Helen, of all colors, in a huge bunch in Allie's little arms.

Helen just stood, shocked and overwhelmed. She looked at the two women at the back, and then at Conchita. It was a total conspiracy.

"Thank you so much," she said accepting the pretty flowers. She had done nothing for the other mothers in her circle: neither for Elly, nor for Annie. She turned to the women and blurted out, "I've got to send flowers fast!"

They laughed. Conchita said they had to make sure things were better organized next year.

"I must call and wish Betsy," she said, "then I have to send the flowers; I don't care how hard it is."

"To whom?"

"Oh,... Rain, for one,... Lalitha, Trish, Olive, Annie, ..."

"Oh yes."

"Just let the children call," Amy suggested.

Filming

The semester was presently over, Graduation took place, the choir and the band sang and played for the proud parents, and Karen returned to Florida. Helen discovered a stray dog, Lita, who had puppies in a corner of her yard, and made friends with the local Vet, to whom she had taken the dogs to get them their shots, and made friends with the Vet and his baby daughter Ruth; and on the recommendation of Conchita, took the kids and Amy out to the Beach. All this is described in several stories, mainly _Helen at the Beach._ Then it was time to begin filming for _Helga and the Other Princess._

A whirlwind took over Helen's life. Suddenly she was in northern Canada, being put into costume, learning lines, meeting new actors each day, running around in the cold and the snow. Then she was in the studio in Seattle, with Annie, who had been given the part of the Princess, and who looked very fetching with exotic makeup. Annie had been taught martial arts, and Helen found herself 'fighting' Annie in incredibly violent, highly choreographed battles.

There were incredibly comic scenes, but Helen and Annie found themselves exploding with laughter, while the crew looked on, too preoccupied to be amused. An awful feeling began to take hold of Helen: the film was going to be a miserable flop. The writing had been excellent, and the cast was much better than merely competent. Everyone was doing a great job. But Helen seemed to have left her heart behind at home. She just wasn't "in it." She began to tune out, and none of it made sense anymore. She longed to get back home, be with Gena, with Allie, little baby Ruth and her father, little James ...

Annie was just beautiful. She had lost a little weight, and her slim figure, her exotic makeup and her beautiful hair, the sexy clothes they made her wear, the look in her eyes—it was making her pulse race when she was acting opposite Annie. But as soon as it was over, Helen's thoughts were miles away.

By some strange combination of circumstances, Helen and Annie had spent practically no time together off work. After the first day's shooting Annie had hugged Helen, and Helen remembered snapping out of the weird detachment she had felt all day and really _seeing_ Annie for the first time. Then Annie had been called away, and the next time they met it had been on the set. It was strange to sleep alone for two weeks.

Meanwhile, while they had been all at the Beach, Helen had met, and been infatuated with the daughter of a photographer who had undertaken to do a book of portraits of Helen. Marissa was a lovely, dark-haired, slim woman, who had been brought up in a very secluded way, home-schooled, and they were completely fascinated with each other.

She had called Marissa on Sunday. Marissa had called while Helen was filming, and left a message on Helen's phone. Marissa answered the phone, as she always did. It was late, around eleven, but Helen knew someone would be up.

"Hello, Brooks residence." The voice sounded just slightly breathless. _She knows it's me,_ Helen thought, an odd excitement making her chest tight in the most pleasant way. She realized, with some amazement that though there were a number of pretty girls on the set, she hadn't really studied them the way she usually would have. But the thought of Marissa's brown curls and her pretty brown eyes was making her feel more alive than she had been all day.

Even before heading out for filming, Helen had known that she was pregnant. It could have been either of two men whom Helen had been with: Marissa's brother, Matt, in Philadelphia, or David, the veterinary surgeon, baby Ruth's dad. At the moment she wasn't showing, but she expected that by Thanksgiving, the secret would be out, and there would be lots of speculating as to who was the father.

Publicity

Several interviewers visited, invited by Conchita. A studio was created in Helen's downtown office, beautifully decorated by Natasha and Marika, and Helen talked with the first interviewer about everything ranging from her work to the new movie. There were clips that Helen talked about, laughing so hard they couldn't make her stop.

For the second interviewer, they dressed her completely differently, in a myriad little barrettes, until she looked very youthful indeed. When she looked in the mirror, Helen felt uncomfortable with how nubile she had been made to look. She didn't protest, because she felt beautiful, and above all Helen was recognizing how much she loved to look beautiful.

In this interview, they cued two scenes: a battle scene which had been filmed with great care, in which Helen fought both Annie as well as a stunt-woman. The shots had been cleverly merged to make a seamless scene that surprised even Helen with its beauty.

"This scene elevates this movie above the usual parody, _I_ think," said the interviewer. "Tell us some more about it!"

"Oh dear," said Helen with a sigh, "I was in much better physical shape back then, wasn't I!"

"I don't know, you look wonderful right now, in spite of the pregnancy and everything! Do you work out?"

"Yes, every day, if possible," Helen said, truthfully. "But for the movie, it was very different. I worked out constantly!"

"And you seemed very much at home with the fights! You've had training in the martial arts?"

"Yes. My father, first, then my friend Janet Krebs, and then another friend Leila Smith. I like martial arts. It's easy for a dancer, and I'm kind of a dancer!"

The interviewer smiled. "Been in any real fights?"

"Oh . . . a few," Helen said, evasively. "They were very unpleasant." She glanced at the camera, her face grave. "No matter how good you are, a real fight is never pleasant—that seems obvious, doesn't it? But the movie fights were rather fun."

"And Anne Nordstrom—no relation, but a high-school friend of yours from way back, correct?"

"Yes!"

"She had to learn martial arts for this movie?"

"Yes," said Helen with some admiration, "and she was amazing. I love Annie, and I hope this movie is good for her career."

"Well, she's an important character in Galaxy!"

"But she needs this. There's a lot of talent there."

"Let's look at another scene. Tell us about this one!"

"Er, um, I think this is a love scene, where the Princess falls in love with my character. It's a sort of spoof of a love scene, really, but—I think it's done with good taste; you must judge for yourself!"

The clip was rolled, and they came back to Helen.

"What strikes one right away is how much love there is between you two, anyway!"

Helen nodded, bright eyed. "I've loved Annie since we were thirteen, and anyone can see that when they see us together!" Helen smiled. "But you can also see what a comedic talent she is!"

The interviewer laughed, and admitted that it was a unique scene. They went on to talk about the script and Sita, who had written the screenplay.

"Nobody can raise Sharon Vuehl for a comment on the movie!" the interviewer said. "What do you think she would say?"

"Oh, I think she'd love it," Helen said with conviction. "Sita says she has a great sense of humor, in which case she _has_ to love it!"

Helen flew to Hollywood for the premiere of the movie. She was dressed in a sexy black dress that showed off her bosom to advantage. Her hair had been done up beautifully in an asymmetrical style far more luxuriously sexy than any she had worn before. She was surrounded by beautifully clothed beautiful women, including Sita, Annie, Marsha, and several of her costars from the movie, and Heather, looking pretty and excited. Conchita was there too, in a sexy outfit of her own, a slinky dress slit up the side almost to the waist. With the beautiful score provided by one of the foremost film composers of the day, the movie was an amazing success. Helen stood facing the flashing cameras, feeling excited and invincible.

Then the movie hit the theaters. It was a blockbuster. Though it didn't make as much as _Merit_ in the first weekend, the media reaction was incredible. It had been heavily orchestrated by Conchita and her contacts, of course. Helen had seen very little of Conchita that Fall, mostly because she was working furiously to publicize the movie, looking at every possible angle to profit from it.

Right after the movie release, Helga dolls hit the stores in time for Christmas. (Helga was the name of Helen's character in the movie.) There were ping-pong paddles, costumes, princess-style underwear for kids, story books, and above all, posters.

Helen's students went wild with excitement. The movie was shown in town, and the entire College went for a whole week. TV was full of it, as was the Web. Helen could hardly review for the finals for questions about the movie. Had she really done the fight scenes? Where had she learned to fight? Who was Janet Krebs? Was Annie Nordstrom really her classmate from school?

Then came the first shock. A long article appeared in the New York Times denouncing Helen. The author had found Helen's performance in the new movie objectionable, and unbecoming in a musician who specialized in the sacred music of Bach. Helen stared at it, unable to believe her eyes. Amy simply dismissed it as a crank.

The next shock was a cancellation of a Messiah sing along that Helen was to have conducted in Pittsburgh. Then the TV evangelists got on the band-wagon and held up Helga as subversive and morally objectionable. It was said to make lesbianism palatable to children.

There was a veritable storm in the press. Unfortunately, the intellectuals who defended Helen were denounced as radicals and perverts, and Helen began to get very angry.

The last straw was when parents began to take their children out of Westfield. Girls came sobbing to Helen and said that their parents had asked them whether there was rampant lesbianism at the school, and whether Helen had approached any of them sexually.

Retreat

End of Term

It was the last couple of weeks of classes. The President had just had a press conference at which he had, with barely restrained anger, said that Westfield was an excellent institution, and that he deplored the baseless accusations that were being made.

Helen was persuaded to appear on a news interview. Was she a lesbian? Yes, she said, she was bisexual. Was she a threat to her students? Absolutely not, she said. She had never approached a student sexually.

Had she ever had sex with a student?

Helen had thought for a while.

"If it ultimately helps the College and the students," she said with a tight smile, "I think I could steel myself to answer questions that are a little more invasive than is customary. But ..."

"Dr. Nordstrom, please, I want to make it clear that I don't want to ..."

"Let me finish," Helen interrupted. "The students come first, and then the College, and then other lesbians and homosexuals out there in my position. The more it becomes normal to cross-examine a person like me about my relationships, the more it seems as though we're perverts and predators. There's always a temptation for a teacher to become emotionally involved with her students. Teaching is an invasive thing, a loving thing. I often hug my students—when they're comfortable with it. But that's not sex.

"Now, I'm comfortable making the following statement: I have never had a sexual relationship with any student whom I was teaching. I think _any_ college professor should be able to say that. To have such a relationship is a betrayal of trust. But I would refuse to answer a more general question about my sexual habits _on principle._ I don't see myself as a threat to any institution, and I invite you to ask anyone, my friends, my students, my enemies. Anyone at all. Every relationship I have had has been based on mutual respect and love. I have never forced myself on anyone!"

The interviewer nodded, letting Helen wipe her eyes.

In a gentle tone, the interviewer continued.

"What would you like to say about the opinion of some that you are no longer fit to perform sacred music?"

"Why am I not? If god gave me my talents, why are they not good enough to perform his praise?"

"Do you believe in god, Helen?"

"Yes!"

"Don't you think it will be offensive to some that a lesbian should be singing a Bach cantata?"

"For heaven's sake, why? Some people can't stand lesbians, but what gives them the right to deny a woman such as me to sing? I mean, some people can't stand people of one nationality or another; does that make it wrong for them to perform? Next it will be short people, or people with red hair!"

"Let's talk about the movie. There's a scene where you're nude. That has been put forward as evidence of your moral depravity!"

Helen laughed. "I've been nude before, and nobody minded. This movie is being used to bludgeon me into retreat. It's a funny, exciting movie, and I'm sad to see kids who enjoy it having to face unreasonable adults who denounce it for no reason at all."

The interview seemed to go far towards providing some balance to the public debate over her morals. More and more people came out in support of her. But there were still more voices raised against Helen.

Finals week was a somber time. Students took their tests, and before they left gave Helen long silent embraces, and she suspected that she would never see some of them again. By the end of her last final, she was no longer able to keep back the tears. Many freshmen gave her little cards they had made themselves, and they all said, Miss Helen, I love you very much. Remember me, no matter what happens!

Helen had to force the information out of the registrar's office. Six hundred students had transferred out, more than a third of the student body.

Helen graded her finals with a heavy heart. Her students had, every one, written the most wonderful exams ever. They had studied hard, drilled ceaselessly, practiced their hearts out, and put their all into their work. She computed the grades late on Friday afternoon, and found not a single failure; there were only As and Bs, and a few Cs. Every exam had a love letter at the end of it, with words of fierce support, or heartbroken words of farewell. Her email was full of similar sentiments from students from other semesters, both those whom she had disagreed with, and those who had always admired her. The faculty were divided. The majority of them expressed their support with words and gestures, but there was a small minority that had always had reservations about what they felt were Helen's excesses of behavior, and the administration's too-indulgent attitude towards them.

That weekend, the weekend before Christmas, the children were home, as were Ann and Frank, Natasha, David and Ruth, and Betsy. They were watching television, where there was a news special about Helen.

All sorts of authorities had expressed their opinions on the subject, and by and large, they had been very balanced. Over the past couple of days, more and more of Helen's sexual adventures had been aired, and they were all paraded before the cameras, and Helen was shocked at the volume of information that had been gathered by the Press. There were only rumors about the offenses perceived as her worst, but presented so tellingly, Helen could only feel shame at having to watch it along with her most respected friends. Halfway through the program, Natasha gravely stood and slipped away, and something inside Helen's heart turned to lead.

The last to speak was the co-anchor of the feature, a woman whom Helen respected deeply. She waited, frozen to immobility, her face no longer able to show her feelings. Gena and Erin sat nearby, and James and Ruth sat in her lap, not understanding much, if anything, that they were seeing and hearing, but certainly perceiving that it was negative.

"Well, Sondra," said the anchor, "your thoughts on all this?"

Sondra sighed. It was her habit to speak to the anchor, not the camera, thus keeping the tone of a conversation, and that was how she spoke now.

"You know I admire Helen very much, Steve," she began.

"Yes, yes I do."

"... and having listened to all of this— _stuff,_ I still think Helen Nordstrom is one of the most wonderful women I have had the pleasure to have seen and heard in my lifetime." Helen felt the tears finally prick at her eyes.

"You have never met her."

"Well, once. I'm sure she doesn't remember it, but it was way back; we were both kids, and she had come over to our school with a group of kids from her school for—I can't remember what, a debate, or an exhibition, or something. I remember thinking then, she's going to be famous, and of course I was right!" She smiled briefly at the camera, and Helen knew it was direct to her.

"As always!"

"As always." Her eyes went to her folded hands. "Let me first say that not one thing I have heard or seen tells me that she deserves the censorship she has received the last week. The beating she has taken—nothing could condone that. Of course there were excesses, but look, we've seen much worse!"

"I certainly agree. My goodness, the woman's a saint compared to some!"

"So why all this? It's partly the cranks coming out of the woodwork, gay bashers, people who hate any kind of success, and the ultra-conservative, ultra-Orthodox Christian types. They can't stand to see a woman who performs Bach one moment doing a spoof of a lesbian action movie the next. There's something irreverent about it."

"And it doesn't help that she's fabulously rich!"

"No, it doesn't."

There was a brief pause while Sondra considered her next words carefully.

"But to me, she was a hero. She was someone I trusted to speak for me. She never said a word I disagreed with. She was larger than life, she was perfect, she was—wonderful. I deeply resent this concerted effort—this largely _successful_ concerted effort to destroy her credibility, this conspiracy to grind this woman into the dust." She briefly glanced at the camera, and there was anger in her eyes. "And there's a small corner in me, in my heart, that's furious at you, Helen, for allowing it to happen. I know you're only human." She turned her lovely grey eyes on Steven, trying to gain control of her feelings. "I know she's only human. But I can't help it. And there must be millions out there who feel betrayed, like I do. And I _hate_ the world we live in, that makes icons of people, only to destroy them!" She looked at the camera, her lips firmly pressed together. "And so, we've lost another icon, another hero. And America is the poorer for it. _The world_ is the poorer for it." She looked at Steve again. "Where will we find heroes again? I guess the world is telling us, only heterosexual, monogamous heroes can cut the mustard. Others need not apply."

Someone switched off the TV. Helen sat, dry-eyed, her breath labored. There was a dead silence. Helen struggled to her feet, trying to carry both children with her. Amy picked James up, and Helen stood, with Ruth silently clinging to her neck. She blindly headed out, and they wondered where she was going.

Helen walked up and down, looking for something or someone. Finally she looked outside, and found that someone. Natasha was seated on the kitchen steps, with the dogs seated near her.

Natasha sat perfectly still, hardly appearing to breathe. Helen shut the door and pulled her shawl tighter around her. It wasn't the cold outside that made her uncomfortable, it was what she was feeling inside. By now Natasha had to know she had company.

After an eternity, Natasha turned round to look at her, and in the dim starlight Helen could only see the set expression on her face, and her great luminous eyes looking at her.

"Cherie?"

The soft sound of the gentle word unlocked the last barrier to Helen's tears. Helen could barely see the hand that was stretched out to her. She lowered herself next to Natasha and wept.

"I thought you were disgusted with me!" she blubbered.

"No, it was the opposite," said Natasha, her voice rough. Then quickly shifting to French, she said, _I have no words to describe how I hate what they do to you! Have they no mercy? No gratitude? How can you bear it?_

_I don't expect their gratitude,_ Helen replied, _only reason and common sense!_

_It is too much to ask,_ Natasha said, wiping her own cheek.

_Indeed it is,_ said Helen.

They sat in companiably silence for a few moments, as Lita, the dog comforted Helen with a lick of her face, and the puppies crowded round. Then they sent out Ruth from inside to fetch Helen, and Helen had to go in.

Philadelphia

"I'm going to resign," Helen announced at dinner. It was a doleful meal, and no one was talking very much. Amy sat across from Helen at the other end of the table, looking like a thundercloud. Everyone looked upset, and now they looked even more upset. Thirteen pairs of sad eyes looked at Helen. "It's best for the school."

"No, it isn't," said Amy.

"It's best for the worst kind of people at the school," said Frank.

"I'm glad you didn't make me go here," Gena said, usually the last one to denounce anything or anyone.

"You should stay and fight!" said Erin fiercely, her chin held high. Allie asked who she would fight with, and everybody shushed her.

There was a soft knock at the door, and everyone looked at each other as if it had never happened before. Glaring round the table, Helen wiped her mouth and got up briskly and walked to get the door. It was Conchita, and she looked like death warmed over.

"Come on in!" Helen said, smiling, but Conchita only stared at her.

"Did you see the news?" she asked hoarsely. Helen turned and led the way to the dining room, picking up an extra chair on the way. Conchita followed like a zombie.

Helen waited for the girls to make room, and set the chair between them. "It's grilled cheese sandwiches," Helen said brightly.

"Helen! I ..."

"Oh yes. PBS."

"I'm so sorry!" Conchita said, her face very grey.

"What could you have done, kid?"

"I could have killed the movie!"

"Kill a _movie?"_

"Shh! It means to stop it from being made, silly!" said Erin, glaring at Allie.

Helen finished her sandwich and her soup and pushed her plate away. While the others had pecked at their food, she had put away three whole sandwiches and two bowls of soup. She cursed herself for having such a healthy appetite at this time; it just didn't look right.

Tears poured down her cheeks again. Both Amy and David made to get up and come to her. "Oh, _sit down,_ you two!" she exclaimed, and little Ruth began to wail. "I just want to talk! Come here, darling!" she said to the little girl, and reached out a long arm to pick her up from her seat and put her in her lap. "I wouldn't mind it if I didn't like to _teach!"_ She blew her nose loudly, frightening Ruth, and then spent a few seconds stroking her little head tenderly. "They just look for the one woman who loves to teach, and _that's_ who they slander! It's just entertainment for everyone!"

"Oh be reasonable, Helen. Stupid people must have kids in college, too, you know. They're only protecting what they see as their investments." Amy's face was like stone. "It's not everyone who's amused at the antics you get into, Helen. You shouldn't expect the whole world to have the same kind of sense of humor your family does."

"Thank you for your kind thoughts, Amy."

Amy only sat and stared at Helen, until Helen reached for her plate and took another cheese sandwich. Gena hurried to make more, gesturing for Erin to join her.

Conchita looked stricken. "What're you going to do? What ... what would you _like_ to do?" She blanched, to think that Helen might construe her question as putting the responsibility entirely on Helen.

"She wants to resign," Betsy said quietly. Betsy's voice held no condemnation. Amy was the only one brave enough to suggest that Helen should share some of the blame.

"Good," said Conchita, firmly. "This rural society is too restrictive, Helen, and you know intolerant it is."

"It isn't _them!_ It's the _parents!"_ Helen almost shouted. "They're saying I'm out there getting ... favors from my students! That's what they're saying!"

Conchita nodded, her face full of misery. She understood better than anyone how Helen loved to teach. To resign from Westfield was a temporary setback. Never to teach again: that was a blow that Helen could never come to terms with. Helen's soul was the soul of a teacher; it imbued everything she did with the power of her desire to explain, to illuminate, to express her delight in the world. To be kept away from young minds would be a kind of spiritual death for her, and everyone in the room knew that it was so.

"I should stay and fight," Helen said quietly, staring with unseeing eyes. "No movies, no funny business, ... just shut myself up with the children. After a few years, people will get tired of picking on me." She looked at Amy with desperation in her eyes. "I'll have my baby ... if you'll stick on with me ... I could be kind of a hermit."

"A vegetarian," Amy said wryly.

Helen's eyes grew wide at Amy's gibe. Tears threatened her again. She simply waited silently, too miserable to retort.

"If you ask for a reduced load, or some kind of assignment away from the school, until the fuss settles down, I think the school will agree to it. But in the long run, I think you would be miserable if you were to never teach again, Helen," said Betsy quietly.

"She is right, Cherie," said Natasha at once. "Go slowly. Ask for a year off, and teach some course—not a required one, you know, just a voluntary one, yes?"

"An elective," offered Betsy.

"Elective? An inessential course?"

"Yes, that's what an elective is."

"Ah. So no one can say: my daughter is forced to take this terrible woman's course, and undergo such difficulties, because it is inessential, or elective. Only the confident ones, with intelligent parents, they will come. And cherie, they are the ones you care about!"

Betsy nodded.

Conchita finally summoned up her courage to speak.

"Wherever you decide to go, I'll come along," she said, getting her voice to work with great effort. "That's if you'll let me work for you."

Helen shook her head. "I don't blame you for anything, Conchita; I just want to stop being such a big operator. Perhaps it's envy that makes people turn against me. If I just stayed home and gave violin lessons, you couldn't help me. What would there be for you to do? The last thing I need is publicity, don't you think?"

"Where would I find a job, after this? If you won't have me, I may as well work at McDonald's."

It was then that it struck Helen that if she closed down all her operations, a number of people would be out of work. She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes.

The girls came back with more grilled cheese sandwiches, and Helen thanked them with a smile. She helped herself to a sandwich, but it seemed her appetite was gone. While she toyed with it, she tried to encourage the little gathering, but her words ended in broken sentences.

"I don't want to let you down, all of you," she said, the smile dying on her face. "If your love alone could keep me going, I'd live forever," she said, trying to smile, and rose quickly, and hurried upstairs to her room.

Betsy sniffed, wiping her nose.

"I don't want her to worry about me," said Betsy, raising tearful eyes to Amy. "I'm not afraid of going back to my folks. You must tell her that."

The other adults quickly turned to her and assured her that now, more than ever, Helen needed her.

"I'm the only one she can give up, but I can't leave without tying up lots of loose ends," Conchita said, sounding very upset. "I can work without pay. And I can help you out, Betsy."

"We can help each other," Betsy said, awkwardly.

"If I was at Westfield, at least it wouldn't cost any money," Gena mumbled.

"It's really not about money, darling," Amy said quickly, realizing that the kids would be acutely anxious if they thought that the family had to fight for every dollar. "It's about keeping everyone safe and comfortable until this crisis blows over." Gena nodded, understanding far more than Amy said.

As everyone rose from the table, Gena helping David with the little girl, and Amy and Erin helping the half-asleep James upstairs to bed, Natasha, Betsy and Conchita stayed to talk to David and Ann and Frank.

"It's a complicated problem," Natasha said, "and you must all try to keep Helen away from some simple solution. Slowly, gradually, with much thinking will come the solution."

"You're a good friend, Natasha; I'm glad you were here when this thing happened. She respects you, and she'll listen to you. You're absolutely right." Betsy spoke gravely. Conchita was too destroyed to take the initiative from her. It was Betsy who would have to lead the team through this crisis; all Conchita could do was to safeguard their investments and save as much of their income as she could.

The visitors departed, and Natasha and Amy went upstairs for the night. Each of them had encouraged the others, expressing admiration for their efforts to help. Natasha went to the room she had been given, looking after Amy with a silent plea. Her heart ached for her friend Helen, but it was Amy's privilege to comfort Helen through the night.

Amy went in and shut the door. The lights were out, and she undressed in the dark. After a while, as she sat down on the bed to peel off her thermal hose, her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she saw that Helen was wide awake.

"Helen?" she said softly.

"Hmm?"

Amy slipped under the blanket and snuggled close to Helen. She put her hand on Helen's cheek, and Helen pressed it with her own.

"I love you!"

Helen's eyes moved, studying Amy's face, trying to read what was written there.

"Oh Amy!" she whispered. "What should I do?"

"You don't have to do anything! No one's asking you to!"

"I have to. I have some dignity left."

"Well—ask to meet the President, ... and offer to resign. He'll refuse."

Helen just looked at her, her arm resting on Amy's waist. _If I was never in love with her,_ Amy thought, _I certainly am tonight._ She longed to melt into Helen's arms and make love to her, but Helen was thinking. Amy waited.

"Still ... I have to insist."

"No, you don't. Offer to teach a couple of electives. If he stands by you, he'll make lots of points with lots of reasonable people, parents, alumni, faculty, students, everybody. Everybody who's anybody is on your side! The people who're fussing are all scum, and we all know it."

Helen thought long and hard.

"I guess you're right." She caressed Amy's face. "Six hundred students, Amy!"

Amy stretched close to kiss Helen gently. "Some of them are going to miss Westfield."

"All of them. It's a great little school, Amy."

"God, sweetheart, it breaks my heart that they can't see how loyal you are to the fucking school, after all you've been through!"

"I don't think they're against me; it's the parents. Don't you understand?"

"All right, all right! Sleep now." She snuggled close, and Helen finally relaxed completely. She wanted to make love so much, it was a great effort to leave it up to Helen. "You've come a long way closer to figuring this thing out, darling."

Conchita called early the next day to say that she was checking on the progress of the movie. "If it caused so much trouble, we may as well suck as much out of it as we can," she said sarcastically.

Betsy and Natasha agreed with Amy that Helen should offer to resign, and if she was refused, she should accept a reduced assignment. Helen declared that she would ask for an appointment that very second.

The President was indeed at his desk, and with a grave voice told her he would be glad to give her a few minutes.

"He says to come right over," Helen told them, hanging up. "He sounds as though he's ready to accept my resignation."

"I'm coming with you," Natasha said firmly.

"It won't help," Helen told her.

"Whatever happens, I want to be there when you come out!" she said.

"I'll go," Amy said, getting up to fetch her purse. "It's my job."

An hour later, Helen and the President faced a small array of video-cameras, summoned from the closest big news services.

"Last night, I was deeply shocked and hurt as I watched the evening news, in which there was a detailed enumeration of the so-called misdeeds of one of Westfield's most cherished treasures, Helen Nordstrom. Careless accusations have been made about Dr Nordstrom, accusations completely unsupported by any kind of evidence. Much has been made of Dr Nordstrom's sexual orientation, and inferences made about her character. Misguided parents have chosen to take their children out of Westfield, insinuating that her presence on our faculty is a threat to the well-being of our students. A number of them left with the greatest unwillingness, because of the love they had for their teacher.

"It has been nearly a century since sexual orientation was confused with bad character. For decades, the standard of conduct in an undergraduate institution has been that there should be _no sexual relationships between a member of the faculty, and a student that is under his or her tutelage._ All other contact is regulated by the normal rules of academic and social intercourse among consenting adults. At Westfield, we are proud to encourage an atmosphere in which any student may bring a complaint against anyone, and receive a fair hearing without fear of prejudice. There has _never_ been any hint of complaint against Helen Nordstrom for any cause.

"This morning, Dr Nordstrom tendered her resignation. In spite of the fact that she was clearly heartbroken, having witnessed the same program that I did, and understanding fully well that she wanted only to try to forget the cruel and undeserved accusations implied by the number of students who were removed from our school by their parents, and knowing that Dr Nordstrom has taught here not because of financial necessity, but because of her love of music, her love of teaching, and her love for our little town, I have refused her resignation. Had I accepted it, the loyal students that remain, and the majority of our faculty and our alumni would never have forgiven me.

"I'm deeply grateful that Dr Nordstrom has reconsidered. I am well aware that Dr. Nordstrom's private life is in stark contrast to what many of our parents and alumni consider normal and appropriate. But that is immaterial. The fact is that she has treated us, faculty and students alike with _nothing but the most proper respect at all times._ As the chief spokesman for the College, I am proud to declare that Westfield stands by Dr Helen Nordstrom, and that she will remain with us for a great many years to come. Thank you very much."

The President rose from his seat and folded his prepared statement. He turned and smiled at Helen, asking her something, and she smiled and shook her head. The school's press officer came forward, and fielded questions for a couple of minutes, and then the Press dispersed.

"What are you going to teach?"

Helen shrugged. "Nothing. I guess I could put something together, but basically I'm on leave with pay. It's totally silly."

"You could go live in Philly, and conduct the Impromptu people!" said Gena, though she knew Amy would hate that. The Lamberts would, too, and David. She sighed. Her romantic heart had decided that Helen should find happiness with Marissa.

"I'm going to stay here," Amy said stubbornly. "I'm tired of moving."

Conchita came over a little after lunch.

"Helga has broken every box office record for its first week," she said. "If you give up your charities, you'll never have to work again!"

"I thought the bad PR would affect the ticket sales," Helen said.

"They've actually increased it," Conchita said. "The merchandising has brought in about half a million, net, and the sound track will bring in more. We've made about half a million with just the TV appearances!"

"Really?"

"Yes! And every time they play your interview, you get royalties, remember. And Sita's cleaning up, too. And so is Annie!"

Things settled down to something like normal. Helen let it be known that she would like to celebrate Christmas quietly in Philadelphia. She invited the usual crowd to visit in rotation, so that she could spend time with them individually. She asked Becky to find her a quiet house in as secluded a neighborhood as possible. Sooner or later she would have to move down to Philly. She would have to find some way of dealing with Ann's problems, and with David and Ruth. But she wanted most of all to be close to Marissa.

The following day, they packed a lot of stuff into huge bags, including all Natasha's stuff, and put it in the plane, and in three hours they were in Philadelphia. Minutes later, they were standing outside a large house in the suburbs, surrounded by a high wall, a big gate, and beautiful grounds.

Jim and a helper moved their things inside, and gave Helen the keys to a brand new minivan that stood in the driveway. Inside there was a piano and some nice furniture of a hodge-podge of styles, battered but serviceable. The girls had a room to themselves, Helen and Amy took the master bedroom, and Betsy and children took another room. Natasha had a nice room to herself, and James and Allie had their own room.

On the plane Natasha had made friends with Betsy's girls, and had found them friendly and polite. The younger child loved ballet and music, and the older girl, now in college, loved music and poetry. They were both very quiet, rather overwhelmed with the prospect of staying with Helen for the holidays. On the third floor there were four more rooms, waiting for other guests.

Becky came to visit, and shortly afterwards, Helen's former lover, Lalitha and her family. To Natasha's eyes she looked exquisite, almond-eyed and olive-complexioned, her wavy silky black hair gathered in a low knot at the nape of her neck, greying slightly at the temples. Her expression was solemn, and she smiled rarely. Her sister was with her, and Helen greeted the young woman with great warmth. At that moment Natasha caught Lalitha's eye, and received a warm smile from the older sister that was like the sun peeping through clouds.

The children approached the Indian women with cautious friendliness at first, James hurrying over to greet the pretty little girl who was Lalitha's grandchild. Soon there was a quiet hubbub of cheery children's voices. Natasha took particular pleasure in the patience and sweetness with which Gena played with the younger children.

The young man was now tall and very good-looking. The flirtatious young woman whom Natasha had met before was as vivacious as ever, but her speech had become more educated, stopping short of actually cultured. To Natasha's dismay, the daughter-in-law attached herself to Natasha.

"Your family must want you back soon!" was the first thing she said, her eyes wide, her smile polite but genuine.

"Well, it's just my husband, and my aunt," Natasha said.

"What about cousins?"

Natasha shook her head. She explained that she had left home young, and was now out of touch with the rest of the family. She sometimes visited with her husbands relatives, but he was an orphan, and not close with them.

Natasha wondered if the ebullient young woman would ask to visit. The last time she had met her, she had gotten the impression that she was rather irrepressible. But she merely smiled, studying Natasha's face.

Helen was talking to the two sisters, while Amy chatted with the young man. Helen's face, as well as those of the other two, clearly showed that the topic of conversation was unpleasant. Natasha studied their expressions to see any sign of criticism, but there was none. She sighed with relief.

"They're talking about all the mean news stories," the girl with Natasha said, following her eyes. "Huh. I don't read them too carefully, but it seems like a lot of fussing to me."

"Yes, it is indeed a lot of fussing," Natasha agreed. "I cannot imagine that Helen is one who takes advantage of people."

They talked a little more. "It's just that ... Bach lovers are a little narrow sometimes," Natasha said.

"Oh yes," said the young woman, nodding. "I know all about what went on at the Impromptu."

Natasha then got an earful of the prejudiced thinking that had come to Trish's ears through Lalitha. She learned much about both women in the process. To her great relief, it became clear that the critical sentiment among the musicians was not as uniform as it appeared. The majority of the players simply felt uncomfortable at the thought of Helen conducting sacred music, and it just so happened that they had chosen to do a lot of sacred music over the next few months.

The group moved into the enormous kitchen in the house, and when Gena, Amy and the young man got back with groceries, they began to put together the most delicious lunch Natasha had ever eaten. After lunch, the visitors left, promising to visit every chance they got.

Calamities and Trials

In Philadelphia, many things happened that do not have much to do with the story, but I summarize them here, just in case. (You can easily ignore most of this chapter, or just skim through it.)

Firstly, Helen sent all the children, Amy, and Betsy's two children off to Paris with Natasha, because Helen was feeling _so_ depressed that she was bringing down everyone's mood. Also Helen was spending a lot of time with Marissa, and that was getting Amy really mad.

On Christmas Eve, David (the Veterinarian) and his baby daughter, little Ruth, came to spend part of the holidays with Helen, and so did Helen's family: Tomasina (called Tommy), Little John, (Little) Elly, Grandma Elly (Grelly), and Janet, the last three being no relations, but very close friends. Betsy was still with them, having sent her daughters off. Then, late in the evening quite unexpectedly, they saw a TV Evangelist showing a clip from _Helga_ , after which he told his viewers that they had just seen the _Whore of the Galaxy._ Helen was stunned, and the others were furious, that such viciousness should be found on a Christian channel. For the first time, Helen actually saw that some people actually hated her.

The following day, they had all been invited to tea at Marissa's home, when Helen could not prevent herself from relating the cruel remarks of the evangelist on TV. Thinking that Helen would want to be alone with Marissa for a little longer, the rest of the group drove away in two of the cars, leaving the jeep for Helen. Helen was driving in deep snow all by herself, wearing her seatbelt, when the jeep skidded off the road, and down a steep embankment, headlong into an enormous boulder, and Helen lost consciousness. When she found herself in a hospital afterwards, the fetus was dead, and she had a long cut on her face, from her eyebrow to her mouth. When Amy heard of the accident from France, she immediately flew back, in order to supervise Helen's recovery. It took more than a month until all the surgery was healed, but the bruises were slow to disappear.

Helen asked the Dean of her school for full leave for the Spring semester, and the Dean immediately gave it. Helen got Becky working on finding a more permanent home for them in Philly. (They did own the nice old house in which Helen had lived as a student, but it was now occupied by Lalitha's family.) The family moved into a smaller house, closer to the area in which the younger kids would be going to school. Gena was back in college and so was Karen, Betsy's older daughter. Little Elly had been suspended from her school, having earned terrible grades for the fall semester, and now was living with Helen. Dr. David went back to Westfield, unhappily, leaving baby Ruth behind with Helen. Elly started taking courses at the local branch of Penn State. Janet and the others went back to their homes, except for Little Elly.

All day Amy read the newspapers, and Helen did the groceries and cooked the meals, and Betsy tried to stay out of everyone's way. The kids: Carol (Betsy's younger kid), Alison, and even James, were all sent to the local Quaker school, the Friends' School. In the afternoons, Helen visited with Marissa and her mother Diane, and Trish ferried the kids from school in the early afternoon.

Amy kept telling Helen to get out of the house, and go do something, but Helen just stayed home, puttering around. Amy finally lost her patience, and headed back out to Westfield and started working at the local hospital. The dog Lita, and her puppies, now almost fully grown, were pleased to see her, and so was David Powers.

Sita

Until Helen had moved to Philadelphia, Marissa had never stayed out of her home for very long, only leaving home for shopping, or for some event, such as a ballet. But lately Marissa had gotten the courage to spend a lot of time in Helen's home. One day, Marissa's mother, Diane Brooks, told her children that she was feeling weak, and that she ought to prepare them to carry on when she was no longer alive. This threw Marissa into a panic, and Marissa, for various reasons told Helen that she wanted to _go slow._ Helen thought this was a good idea, and Marissa visited Helen at her rented home, and they did not indulge in any sex at all, which was initially hard for Helen, but soon became normal.

One day Sita called and came over to Helen's house while Marissa was visiting. Marissa had a soft spot for the young Indian woman who carried herself with such dignity and who spoke so beautifully. (Helen had still not shown her the movie _Merit & the Princess_, so she really had no knowledge of Sita's professional ability except second-hand, through Helen and the family.)

Marissa herself met Sita at the door.

"Goodness, did you _walk?"_

"Certainly! It's a lovely day for it, isn't it?"

"But it must have been miles and miles!" Marissa exclaimed, wide-eyed.

"Hardly; it's less than a mile," smiled Sita.

Marissa smiled warmly at her and drew her inside, and brought her to where Helen was working at the computer, reading her e-mail. There had been several messages from her students, and for the first time in months she was reading them carefully.

Sita took in the scene at a glance, and hesitated at the archway separating the little lobby from the dining room. Helen looked up and smiled encouragingly, setting aside her mail. "Hi, Sita!" she said.

"You're busy," said Sita doubtfully, "I'll come some other time!"

Marissa peeked past Sita. "Oh—don't ..." She walked past the visitor into the room. Frowning reproachfully at Helen, Marissa waved her hand, dismissing the computer and all that it stood for, before she turned to Sita and smiled. "Please come in and sit down, Sita, it's _so_ nice to see you!"

Sita advanced slowly. Marissa knew the had something on her mind, and she realized that it was something for Helen's ears alone. Helen seemed to have picked up on it already, and her eyes were alert, a slight frown showing that she was ready to listen. She murmured to Sita, inquiring softly, as she firmly closed down her laptop and moved off the table.

A watery smile struggled onto Sita's face as she gracefully sat in the chair Marissa had offered her.

"Well," she began, tentatively, "how're you?"

"Okay, I guess," Helen said smiling. "What's on your mind?"

Sita seemed to sigh silently. "I . . . it's nothing, really," she said, looking at the table. She glanced at Marissa and then at Helen. "I wondered if you'd have a minute to go out for a little walk with me!" Helen looked uncomfortable, and Sita quickly suggested the back yard, instead.

"Why don't I let you two talk? I'll go upstairs," Marissa offered.

"No, no; I need to . . . _walk_ while I talk!" Sita said, rather agitatedly.

She was dressed in her usual skirt, sweater and sneakers, and Helen was dressed casually in a T shirt and shorts, and now she grabbed a sweater from the closet and led the way to the backyard. "Come on!" she said, quietly encouraging, her arm round Sita's narrow shoulders. Marissa's eyes met Helen's over Sita's head, and Marissa nodded encouragement with a smile.

As soon as they were outside, she hurried up the stairs to the upstairs window that overlooked the back yard. Helen and Sita walked up and down, with Sita talking animatedly. Marissa smiled as she imagined Sita talking rapidly in her agitation. At times like this, she knew, Sita's English accent became more pronounced, and Helen often had to interpret for her.

Marissa loved the way Sita moved and talked, the way her face reflected her every emotion. She didn't use her hands as much as Italians did—at least not usually. But today she was upset; it was clear even form this distance. She was using her hands, all right, and it was all frustration and hopelessness. What was it all about? Marissa's heart went out to her. She desperately hoped Helen could set right whatever Sita was upset about.
She watched as the two of them stopped, and faced each other. Then Helen closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and told something to Sita. Marissa saw the disbelief in her face, quickly turning to anger.

Helen then said something briefly, and stood there with a half smile. Marissa could almost hear Sita gasp, and saw Helen watching her shocked companion with a look of wary concern on her face. Sita's face blackened like thunder, she visibly tensed up, turned on her heel and hurried, almost ran into the house. Marissa, thoroughly upset and confused, hurried to the stairs. She ran downstairs, but Sita was already out the front door.

Not knowing what she was doing, Marissa ran after her. Sita was already a tiny figure far up the street, just disappearing round the fence of the little churchyard at the corner. Marissa kept running. All she knew was that she couldn't bear to let Sita be alone in this mood. The poor thing had walked all the way from home, and now . . . what might she do? What was the problem? Had Helen said something cruel to her?

Marissa realized she was crying. She controlled herself, carefully flicking her tears away without getting too much of it on her hands. On and on they went, Marissa slowly catching up, but now they were far from any place Marissa recognized. She _had_ to catch up, or she'd never get back!

"Sita! Sita!" she cried, anxious and afraid. They were just half a block apart. It was more than a mile, Marissa was certain. "Sita!" Marissa wasn't accustomed to shouting, and her voice sounded strange even to her.

Sita must have heard her, because she looked over her shoulder while she crossed the street, and was almost run over. Marissa gasped, and ran to the intersection, and the two girls stared at each other from across the street.

It was a very busy street, and the noise was deafening. Marissa hated noise, and she covered her ears. She had set out to catch Sita and comfort her, but now she had to get Sita to come to her, and convince her to take Marissa back. She beckoned urgently to Sita to come back.

There were no traffic lights, and it was a while before Sita could cross back.

"What're you doing?" Sita demanded, impatiently, "Or rather, where're you going?"

"I was coming after you!"

"I'm going home, Marissa!"

"But you were upset!" Marissa felt stupid as she said it.

"You were watching, were you?" Sita pronounced the 't' in _watching_ , and Marissa was distracted for a moment. She smiled, and Sita went red. Marissa stopped smiling and searched Sita's angry face.

"I wasn't listening, but I saw you get very mad," Marissa said softly. "I got worried."

Sita took a deep breath. "Did she send you after me?"

Marissa shook her head. "No, I just ran after you when I heard the door slam! I wanted to . . . make sure you were okay!"

Sita couldn't keep the bitterness out of her face, though she kept it out of her voice.

"Well, . . . as you can see, I'm okay," she said. "Now, please go back, Marissa!"

Marissa looked back the way she had come, and it looked completely unfamiliar.

"I . . . I don't know this part of the city," she admitted. "You have to tell me how to get back!" She looked at Sita's impatient face, and back at the street, and hesitated. "Are you _sure_ you're all right?"

They had been standing right on the corner at a bus stop, and a bus pulled up and opened its door. They stepped back and waved it on. The bus driver shook his head in severe disapproval, muttered something and drove off.

Sita stared after it, vacantly. Marissa reached out her hand and gently held her by her shoulder. "Sita!" She put all the sympathy she felt into that one word, and Sita turned to her, and her eyes seemed to take in the little details she hadn't seen before. Perhaps it was the tear-stains on Marissa's cheek, perhaps it was the kindness in her voice, but a little of the anger in her seemed to be replaced by something else—misery?

"I don't think you can help me," she said in a tired voice. "Come on, I'll walk you back."

The walk back was as slow as the run that had brought them out had been hectic. Sita seemed to drag herself with the greatest effort. Marissa kept apologizing for the inconvenience. Sita simply shrugged once or twice, and then ignored her.

Marissa suddenly stopped. They were walking along a lonely stretch by a cemetery, and there wasn't a soul within sight. She couldn't bear Sita's silence any longer.

"What did she _say_? She _couldn't_ have wanted to hurt you so much!"

Sita slowed to a stop, and walked back. She raised her head to look at Marissa. Her shoulders sagged; she was struggling with some battle inside her, and Marissa felt utterly helpless. She wanted to comfort Sita, to take away the hurt Helen had caused her, completely unintentionally, she was sure. But just didn't know how. She wanted to hug Sita, but in Marissa's heart, she belonged to Helen. She didn't know whether it was _right_ to hug Sita, even to feel the way she felt about the pretty Indian woman.

Sita looked at Marissa, pain in her eyes. There was something accusatory in those eyes, and Marissa's eyes grew in wonder.

"Is it something about _me?_ What did Helen say?"

"No, not about you. Well, _yes!_ . . . I don't know!" Sita leaned against the parapet wall, the life going out of her.

Suddenly they heard honking, and there was Helen, pulling over in Betsy's little car.

"Marissa! Sita! Get in, both of you!" she said, her face a study in worry.

Marissa turned back to Sita, who had turned away, facing towards the cemetery.

"I'll be fine," she hissed to Marissa. "You go!"

It seemed an age while Marissa's tired brain decided on a path of action. She slowly walked up to the curb, and told Helen that they'd be fine. Helen argued with her. "You have no idea what this is all about, Marissa," she said. "Ask her to get in; I'll drop her home, and ..."

Helen looked very guilty, and Marissa began to understand that perhaps she had misjudged the situation. It wasn't a misunderstanding; Helen had hurt Sita somehow, and she knew it. But Marissa simply couldn't abandon Sita now.

"She says for you to go along," she insisted. "I . . . I'll be fine, Helen!"

"But—you don't know your way around!" Helen protested.

"Go on," Sita muttered, without turning round.

"I'll be fine," Marissa said again to Helen, managing a smile. "I'll see you later!"

"You should have gone with her!" Marissa shook her head. "What're you going to do?"

"I'll make sure you're all right, . . . then I'll call Matt and ask to be taken home," Marissa said, firmly. "If I could use your phone, maybe?"

Sita slowly turned towards her home, and they began to walk together.

"It all began when I got the part of the Princess in _Merit_ ," Sita began. "Merit was played by the famous . . . Sharon Vuehl, you know?"

"Uh huh," said Marissa. "I haven't seen the movie, myself, really."

"Well . . . it isn't that wonderful, really. I assumed Helen would have got you to see it." She sighed. "It seems so obvious, now. I was _such_ a fool!" She shook her head.

"Such a fool about what?"

"Sharon."

"Oh. I see."

"Sharon . . . oh god . . . how can I tell you? I fell in love with her, of course."

"It happens, I suppose," Marissa said, soothingly.

"No, you don't understand! Marissa, it wasn't Sharon, it was _Helen!_ Don't you see? It was Helen all the time!" Sita stared at Marissa in frustration. "You see? Sharon— _Helen!_ It's so obvious!"

Marissa was not certain she was getting all Sita was telling her.

"You're in love with Helen?"

" _Yes!_ Well _no_ , no! Well— _yes_ ; . . . I don't _know_ , Marissa . . . I'm so confused, I don't even know what to think anymore ..."

They walked along slowly, each one absorbed in her own thoughts, until Marissa said, trying to explain the conflicting feelings she was experiencing within herself, "Sita . . . if you're in love with Helen, I—I don't think that bothers me, you know? It makes me feel good, really! I know I should feel upset, but I don't!" Sita gave a short bark of amusement. "But what about Sharon? Is she in love with you?"

Sita made an impatient gesture. "There isn't any Sharon. It was all a fiction. Helen invented the character. I don't know how she did it, but . . . it was brilliant. It was an amazing piece of acting. She _became_ Sharon, a woman who was much younger, with a completely different personality, . . . but now I remember . . . little things . . . the mystique of the woman; it was because I could sense someone else inside there . . . I thought I could bring out the intelligence that was hidden there. But it wasn't struggling to be released; it was _struggling to stay hidden_. I was such a fool. Such a _fool!_ "

Sita was almost in tears, now. Unlike Marissa, Sita would normally never let herself cry on the street. But even her iron control was weakening.

Marissa finally thought she understood. If she had gotten it right, it was one of Helen's preposterous masquerades, and she knew Helen was capable of pulling off something like that. "I can imagine how that feels," Marissa said at last. "It was too bad for her to lead you on, like that," she said, her reproach of Helen evident in her voice. "I'm going to tell her how cruel that was, if she doesn't know already," Marissa said, shaking her head.

"No, Marissa, she didn't lead me on. It was me, all along. She ..."

"Did you sense that—she was interested at all?"

"Well," Sita said, finally a little distracted from her own sense of loss, "are you sure you want to talk about it in such detail?"

"Oh yes, I'm sure," Marissa said at once, a little shocked to hear the eagerness in her own voice.

"Well . . . I think she _did_ feel something—I'm almost sure she did. Yes," Sita said, nodding to herself, as she convinced herself that she had sensed that in Helen. "But it was always as though . . . she wanted me—but she wanted to push me away. At first I thought she felt herself unworthy of me. She—she made me feel so . . . so wonderful, so important, so _valuable!_ So precious!" The last words came out almost in a whisper. "And all the time, _she_ was the great Helen Nordstrom, and I was nothing!"

It was both incredibly exciting and sexually stimulating on one hand, to listen to Sita talk, and also depressing. Sita described the long hours they had spent on the sets and on location, and later in Hollywood, and Marissa realized that, in some ways, Sita may have insights to Helen's character beyond whatever little Marissa had gained in the last several months. Sita was more intelligent, her instincts sharper than Marissa, she believed, and had the soul of an artist. Marissa always despaired when she saw Helen talk with other musicians, or even with Lorna. It was as though they lived in a world Marissa could never inhabit.

"We're almost home," Sita said, slowing down. She stopped, and Marissa recognized the house off at the end of the block. She would never have spotted it if Sita hadn't pointed it out. Marissa looked at Sita inquiringly.

"I can't go in there," Sita said, "not like this! I have to . . . I must think! Where could I go?" She looked about desperately. She began to walk away from where they were, headed back the way they had come. She stopped, indecisively, and looked at Marissa. "You must make your call, and get home!"

"Well . . . there's no hurry," Marissa said, doubtfully. "What're you going to do?"

"I don't know . . . I don't have much with me," she said, looking in her purse. "About forty dollars . . . we could walk to the mall, maybe . . . talk some more . . . thanks for talking to me, Marissa; I feel there's nobody else!"

In the end, Marissa persuaded her to come home with her. Sita was very shy with Matt, but once he left the two girls alone, she felt a little more relaxed. Marissa called Helen.

"We're here at Primrose," she said briefly, insisting that Sita should listen in on the call. "I'll call you later, dear." Helen wanted to know if she could come over and talk to them. Marissa conveyed the suggestion to Sita, and before Sita could reply, she said it wasn't a good idea, and hung up.

They went out to the Summer House and sat on the bench. As they talked about Helen, Marissa could feel Sita's anger fading. In its place, there was a hopelessness that reached out to cut at Marissa.

"If it wasn't for Sharon, I'd have fallen in love with Helen," Sita said quietly. "I just know it. But I _can't_ be in love with Helen."

"Why?"

"Why? Isn't it obvious? Why would I be in love with the woman _you have_ , and everybody else _wants?_ I want to stay sane, Marissa, thank you very much." Sita shook her head. "How can you stand it? All those men, all those women lusting after her?"

Marissa took a long, deep breath, and replied. "I love it, actually!"

Sita and Marissa grew very close. It was a while before Sita came down to Newbury to visit, but Marissa visited her at Lalitha's house often, and sometimes sent Matt to bring her to Primrose.

"You must believe that I wasn't trying to hurt you," Helen said to Sita, when she finally did come to Newbury, after Helen had pleaded for a private word with her. Sita had said there was nothing to talk about, and she had come to see Marissa, anyway. But Helen had persisted, and Marissa had encouraged Sita silently. "I just wanted—the freedom to ..."

"It's all right, Helen, I'm past that now. Let's just forget about it. I'm sure you have, already." Helen was silent. No matter what she said, it would hurt Sita. "Anything else?"

"You'll talk to me?"

"I'm in your house, Helen; I can't very well avoid talking to you, can I?"

After that frosty start, things became a little warmer, and after a week or so, Helen and Sita were talking quite civilly.

Now that Marissa was back, Sita was visiting again. Helen knew that one more showdown was coming, and she longed to get it over with. Telling Sita had driven the last nail into the coffin of Sharon Vuehl. Helen felt she could never again masquerade as that lady. Something inside Helen had changed too much.

One day Sita turned up unexpectedly one afternoon, when Marissa had taken Elly out to show her their little market. It was a rare occasion when Marissa had initiated a trip with someone other than Helen, and she had encouraged it.

"Where's Marissa?" Sita had asked, after she had politely inquired after Helen's health, and talked about the weather for a bit.

"Gone grocery shopping with Elly," Helen replied.

Sita nodded, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

They looked at each other, and Helen held her breath.

The pretty brown eyes looked at Helen, troubled.

"Why are you so—uncomfortable with me?"

"Uncomfortable?" Helen couldn't think of anything to say.

Sita bit her lip thoughtfully. "Helen . . . were you acting _all_ that time? Was it _all_ an act?"

Helen looked away and shook her head.

"Don't ask me that, Sita, . . . it was long ago!"

"It was just two years ago, Helen." All the feelings Helen had laid aside, those feelings she only took out when she was Sharon, they all came back. Once again she was in love with the goddess who sat across from her at the table. "For two years I dreamed of her. It was all a lie, then."

"Not a complete lie," Helen said, weakly.

"No?"

There was so much hope in that one word that Helen hated herself for saying it.

"I _told_ you . . . it was as if I was two people, Sita . . . I could hide my feelings for you when I was Helen. And then, as Sharon . . . I could pretend that you were just another girl in a long string of ..."

"That's not what I got," Sita contradicted her. "She _cared_ for me. _You_ cared for me!" She held her head. "She— _you_ —pretended I was just another one, but I wasn't fooled!"

There was a long silence, and the agony on Sita's face was painful to look at. She was reliving the anger she had felt when she had first learned that Helen had masqueraded as Sharon. That was all in the past, but the confusion Sita felt was all too present. She was still trying to reconcile the experiences she had with Helen while she was yet under the impression that Helen was a wonderful, noble woman, quite distinct from the free and easy Sharon.

Helen was quite off balance. She had met few women with the intense pride of Sita. Sita's pride was of an unusual kind. There was little ego here. She could take criticism beautifully—Helen had witnessed that. She wasn't concerned with the recognition others craved. A lesser woman would have resented the lack of publicity, the relative anonymity she lived in.

But she was too proud to prosecute her suit with Helen. It was beneath her to point out to Helen that since Sharon Vuehl had been clearly in love with Sita, and since Helen had revealed herself to be one and the same with that same Sharon Vuehl, it followed that Helen had been in love with her, Sita. But one had only to look in her eyes, and the accusation was plain.

"I remember when we traveled together last Spring," she said, her voice trembling. "You could have told me then! You made me talk about you, only I didn't know! You made such a fool out of me! You must have laughed so hard! Poor, silly Sita, she doesn't know I'm having fun at her expense!"

"Stop that! This is not you, Sita." Helen spoke quietly. Sita stopped speaking at once and nodded. She dropped her eyes and rose from the table. She walked to the row of windows and gazed out over the street. "Sita, please come, sit down and let me explain!"

Sita clenched her fists and groaned her frustration. "I _know_ your side of the story! There's nothing new there, Helen. But tell me one thing! How could you make me fall in love with you, and then . . . give me up?"

The heartbreak in Sita's voice was hard to bear. Helen wanted to comfort her, to tell her that she had planned to continue a relationship with the young actress, meeting her off and on, never abandoning her completely. But she didn't have the nerve to say it. Only Sharon would have had the nerve to play games with Sita's heart; Helen could never have done it. The things Sharon got away with without much scrutiny, if Helen had done them, she would have come under much greater criticism.

Sita saw Helen glance nervously at the clock. The resolve she had felt when she left home was evaporating. The sight of Helen squirming before her, trapped in her own home, felt very wrong to Sita. However cruel the woman had been to her, she couldn't bear to see her this way.

Even if Helen could set aside her feelings for Sita, Sita could not set aside her feelings for Sharon—Sharon, Helen, what was the difference?—after all, this was her first big love, her only real love. It could go nowhere, but there was no way Sita could be vengeful.

Sita sighed. The silence hung heavy between them.

"I had better get going," Sita said awkwardly, half rising. "I've embarrassed you—I didn't want to do that, you must believe me. I'm not angry any more, I'm just ..."

"I completely understand," Helen said awkwardly. "Please stay! At least until Marissa and Elly get back!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, please!" Helen had stood when Sita had risen, and now they both sat again. They watched each other, trying not to stare.

"I wish I could play the piano, or something," Sita said, wistfully. "Please play something? You must play the piano so beautifully, I'm sure!" She smiled as warmly as she could. She wanted so badly to repair their relationship as well as she could. She couldn't stand this awkwardness.

Helen's warring emotions were reflected on her face. What Sharon would have controlled with ease, Helen appeared not to even try. She looked desperately grateful for the change in the conversation, if a little off-balance.

"Play? You mean, now?"

"Oh, no, not if your don't want to! It was a bit sudden, wasn't it!" Sita blushed. She dropped her eyes. It was all too confusing. She had known exactly where she stood with Sharon. With Helen . . . she would have to learn all over again.

"No trouble, of _course_ I'd love to play for you, Sita, you only had to ask! What would you like to hear?"

"Oh . . . anything!"

They got up and walked towards the rented piano that stood in the living room. It was a baby grand Helen had ordered around Easter one day, when she had thought she'd like to play occasionally, but in the end no one seemed to play it at all, least of all Helen. Only Elly ever played it, and usually standing up.

Helen opened it and played a few notes. Sita could tell that she didn't really want to play.

"Helen, . . . it was a silly idea, really! Please, you can do it some other time. I don't know what came over me; it's a bit presumptuous, isn't it, to ask you to play something!"

Helen only smiled. She sat down, and her carefully concealed annoyance seemed to fade considerably. Sita felt that it was so hard to keep up a feeling of resentment against the woman! Most unexpectedly, her fingers moved over the keys, and a liquid stream of music flowed out of the instrument. Sita was no stranger to the musical arts; the Maunders were a moderately musical family, and Sita had been taken to concerts and recitals with the Maunder children.

Sita knew Helen was a violinist, and she had seen Helen play that instrument. But she had no inkling that Helen was such an able pianist. In fact, she could tell that Helen was a far better pianist than general musicianship would have required. Her legs bent of their own accord, and she sat down to listen. Her heart soared as Helen improvised for a few seconds, and then began a lovely piece by Liszt, one that Sita just happened to recognize. The next minute, Sita's heart took a dive, as she realized that she was falling in love with a woman who was as unattainable as any Hollywood movie star, and more unpredictable than most.

"What shall I play?"

"Oh . . . that was lovely," Sita said, feeling a desperate urge to disappear. "That's all I could have hoped for!"

Helen's eyes brightened. "You knew that?"

"Oh yes!"

"Not a common piece! Nobody ever recognizes it, Sita! You seem to be well acquainted with the classics!"

Sita nodded. "The Maunders liked music," she explained.

Helen played a lot more. It seemed to Sita as if Helen was trying to convey some message to her through the pieces she chose, but of course that was wishful thinking. Her body positively ached with her need to escape battling with her need to stay and listen. Sometime that afternoon Sita realized that she was hopelessly in love. Sooner or later she had known she would forgive Helen everything, but now, she had not only forgiven her, she had fallen more deeply in love with the violinist than she had ever been with Sharon Vuehl.

Helen played, not thinking of anything but the music. It had been years since she had lost herself playing like this, not focused on the audience. Somehow she had managed to forget that it was Sita listening. Those eyes of hers seemed to cut Helen painfully, so she tried not to look at her eyes.

As soon as Elly and Marissa got back, something seemed to snap in Sita, and she left so hurriedly, Helen barely had a chance to say anything. Helen was almost certain Marissa would have suspected something, but one never knew with Marissa. Sita hurried home, having muttered something to Elly and Marissa.

Echoes

Retirement

Presently, just as Diane, Marissa's mother had foreseen, Diane was found dead, presumably of a heart attack, in her sleep, and Helen had to guide Marissa and Matt in settling their mother's estate, for which the old lady—not very old, really; just in her early eighties—had made Helen the executor. Marissa was shocked and broken-hearted, but with Helen's help, she conducted herself with dignity and grace all through the funeral reception, and the cremation.

Helen felt so frustrated and helpless in her inability to comfort Marissa. Marissa was by no means out of her mind in grief; in fact, Helen had done a wonderful job of helping Marissa through the bereavement, but to Helen's tender eyes it appeared that her efforts were useless.

This was the last straw; Helen's invitations to perform had dwindled almost to nothing, and she had almost no work of any sort to look forward to—not even with the Impromptu Ensemble and Chorus, which Helen herself had founded, and whose rehearsal and performance hall (a little church building that Lorna had coaxed Helen to acquire) was actually owned by Helen—except for the monthly filming with the Galaxy Studios. (The _Galaxy Show_ alone was steadfast in its affection and its support for Helen.)

Helen called Betsy in from her extended holiday, and put her to work settling the affairs of the Brooks estate. Conchita called out of the blue, having heard of Diane's death, and began to cross-examine Helen. Helen lost her temper, and invited Conchita to find employment elsewhere.

"I want to retire," she said flatly. "I've had it with everything. Talk to Lorna Shapiro. Talk to Amy. Leave me out of it."

"Helen! Don't be a baby, now ..."

Helen hung up.

Marissa looked at her, shocked. It had taken her completely by surprise. In hindsight it seemed obvious that it had been a long time coming; still Marissa took it as a personal blow that Helen had given up her career.

"You didn't mean that, did you, Helen?"

Helen nodded, her face wooden.

"Retire? You don't mean that! _Give up everything?"_

Helen looked away, her eyes narrowed. It didn't feel as wonderful as she had hoped, to be free of all obligation to the public, to not have to be concerned about how her performances were being received, to not care whether she was invited to perform. There had been a half-dozen violin invitations all year, four conducting assignments, a singing assignment in February she had turned down, and that had been all. She had that many requests in a single month a few years ago.

Marissa was very upset, but she held her peace, and proceeded to go about her business. Helen wanted to know how much it cost her to appear so calm, but she was gone to the little office she had set up in the little tea nook, leaving Helen to her own devices.

Twenty minutes later, Helen's phone rang, just when she was beginning to despair totally about being ignored. It was Becky. With perverse satisfaction, Helen didn't answer. Conchita was in a panic, and Helen was enjoying that fact. She was fond of Conchita—she even loved the woman. But she had made up her mind.

Presently Marissa came looking for Helen to the table Helen was sitting at.

"Becky's calling, Helen, please talk to her!"

Marissa was completely out of her depth. She was not accustomed to resolving conflicts and being diplomatic. She simply would not be forceful about Helen's relationship with her staff. But Helen could see that she was even more upset now, and she was beginning to believe that she was at least partly responsible for Helen's stubbornness.

"I just want to be alone for a while, to get my head clear!" Helen told her. "I'll talk to her this evening, or something."

"I'll tell her," Marissa said doubtfully, and headed off. Helen felt a burning feeling in her stomach as she watched her go. She got up and silently and slowly followed her downstairs. She had an intense curiosity about how Marissa would handle it. Watching her handle the family affairs after the funeral had been fascinating. Marissa had trouble talking on the phone with someone she had never met—it was too hard for her to imagine the other person's face and expression, things that were important to Marissa. But she was frowning into her old standard-style phone, nodding away as she listened to Becky's desperate requests.

"I'll tell her . . . yes, Becky . . . oh. . . . Certainly. . . . But, er, this evening ...?"

Becky seemed to be pushing hard to get Helen on the phone. Hearing a sound, Marissa turned around, and her eyes opened wide. Helen rolled her eyes as the hand holding the phone forgot what it was doing. Helen held out her hand for the phone.

"Becky, it's me."

"Helen, I don't understand. What's Conchita trying to tell me? Why must I hear this kind of thing from a third party?"

"I'm sorry. I'm retiring from concerts. I'm not going to do it any more."

"I see. So we have no income, except from the TV series."

"That's right." Helen had forgotten the _Galaxy Show_ , but of course Becky wouldn't. It was now the _only_ steady income they had.

"Oh come on, Helen; why are you making a permanent decision based on a moment's annoyance with a staff member? This is cutting off your nose to spite your face!"

"I wasn't annoyed with her, particularly, Becky. I wish you'd give me more credit. After all, I _am_ your employer." Marissa drew in her breath sharply and went a little pale, and her eyes widened still further. "Becky, I have to talk to you later. Please don't call back today; I'll call you. Goodbye." Helen was fuming, but she had controlled herself.

Marissa was stunned. This was more rudeness than Marissa could bear. But she couldn't find words to chastise Helen.

"Oh ..." she shook her head, bewildered, her eyes studying Helen's face with shocked fascination, "I could never talk like that to Becky!"

She could never talk like that to _anyone_ , Helen thought to herself.

What had upset Helen most was that Becky had been trying to twist Marissa's arm, and poor Marissa did not have the experience to resist.

"Here's a simple lesson. If you ever find yourself being bullied by someone on the phone, just say: excuse me, and put down the phone, take a few deep breaths, go talk to someone else, get a drink of water—whatever! You _don't_ have to just keep listening, Marissa! _I_ would hang up, but if you want to be as civilized as usual, then ..."

Marissa nodded.

"You're always worrying about me!" Her voice was soft, and there was reproach there, but also gratitude. "I've got to learn to . . . be a little tougher, I suppose. You can't be running over to defend me all the time! I didn't even know you were here, Helen."

Helen pulled her close and kissed her fiercely. Then she held her at arm's length and stared at her, thoroughly bemused. She would have resented how Marissa put her off-balance, if not for the fact that Marissa herself was just as off-balance. She felt desire building inside her, but that was because of the excitement and the extra adrenalin that went with her rash decision. But she was going to stand by it; she would give up professional performance for ever. And this woman was at least part of her reason. She drove Helen crazy in so many ways!

Marissa slipped out of Helen's arms so gracefully, Helen could hardly feel it. Averting her face to cover up her confusion, she picked up some notes she had left on the table, and picked up the phone again.

"There's so much to do," she said, trying to sound busy, but her face still burned with embarrassment. Helen managed not to smile. Marissa couldn't manage most people, but she certainly had Helen figured out.

A little later Amy, then Betsy called Helen. By now Helen had cooled off, and she calmly explained to those two that she was firm about the concerts.

"Fine," Amy had said, "I guess I respect that."

Helen had been touched by her words. She didn't know what she had expected, but this was certainly heartening. Betsy, too, accepted her decision. "You could always change your mind," she said, and Helen could hear the hope in her voice.

"I could, but I'm not gonna," Helen said.

"Not even for charity?"

Helen was brought up short. She said she had to think about it. Conchita called again, and asked if she was responsible for announcing Helen's retirement to the Press. Helen said she wasn't, but she could if she wanted.

That night, Helen's retirement was big news. All the main TV entertainment magazines featured interviews with Conchita, and Marissa insisted on watching several. They had a little TV in the house, bought soon after Diane had died, and Marissa sat at the recommended distance from the screen and stared. Helen had refused to watch at first, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she stood at the doorway and watched, and gradually came closer.

Without exception, the news was received with dismay. There were surveys of people on the street, and many of those interviewed blamed themselves for having tolerated the anti-Helen onslaught of the Holidays. Helen was hailed as a national resource, and the outpouring of love and support for Helen was overwhelming.

"Look at this!" Marissa exclaimed, as Helen turned away. "This woman is _crying!_ Oh, isn't that sweet?" Marissa was emotional. "They talk as if you were a personal friend!" She clearly didn't know what to make of it, but she was strongly affected. Helen said something to the effect that their grief would be temporary, and that life would go on.

The call that Helen did not expect was from Lorna. The call came on Marissa's phone, and it was a while before Helen knew what it was about. Marissa's eyes had opened wide, and she had spoken animatedly but inaudibly for a long while—so long that Helen assumed it was someone she knew personally. That was interesting, since Marissa knew only a handful of people, and Helen thought she would have heard about any friend of hers who warranted such an enthusiastic response.

"Helen, it's for you!" she said finally, and handed the phone over with a peculiar expression.

"Hello?"

"Helen! I hope you don't mind me calling you!" The voice was unmistakable. Helen's face froze. She was afraid to react to that voice honestly, because of what Marissa would feel. Helen still felt the pain of losing Lorna as if it was yesterday.

"Oh, hi, Lorna! How are you?"

"Helen, Becky is so upset about your wanting to retire. _I'm_ upset! Please don't say you're going to do it!"

"Why not? I've just done it!"

"No, no, no, you mustn't. You absolutely must not! This isn't you!"

Helen was furious. She took a deep breath to say something cruel and biting, but she saw Marissa's white face, and when Marissa caught her eye, she shook her head, no. It was impossible to be harsh with her around. Helen covered the receiver and mouthed at her: _Go away! Go on! Give me some quiet!_

Marissa looked at her with such indignation Helen forgot her anger and almost laughed. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, Marissa was smiling. Her amusement must have shown, and Marissa was relieved.

"Helen? Are you there?" the receiver squeaked.

"What?"

"I hope you change your mind," Lorna was saying. "Don't say you're going to retire!"

"Why not?"

"I don't know . . . it's— _wrong_ somehow!"

"Wrong?"

"Yes . . . you know? It feels funny, like ..."

There was a long silence, and Helen sighed. Lorna would rack her brains until she found just the right word, and it could take for ever.

"... like something's not right with the world."

Helen sighed.

"Lorna, . . . I have to do what's best for me, you know. I can't stand the agony of performing any more. I keep looking at the audience and thinking how they hate me. I can't stand it anymore. There. Now you know."

"They _don't_ hate you! Haven't you been watching the news? People are _crying!_ I remember you when you wouldn't have wanted anyone to be so unhappy because of something you did!"

"Well, I guess I have changed." Helen was getting angry again.

There was a silence.

"I'm sorry . . . I had no right to bother you. I have no right to ask you anything, after all, I left you. No one will ever forgive me for leaving the wonderful Helen Nordstrom. And I shouldn't be ..."

"Oh, stop it, Lorna, that's a lot of nonsense, and you know it. Nobody's giving you a hard time because of anything."

"Now I've got you upset. Okay, I'll talk to you later."

"Bye."

"Bye!"

Sita Bares Her Soul

In the next several months, Helen's emotional state steadily declined, though she occasionally came alive to help with various crises. She completely renovated the enormous house in which Marissa and Matt had been born, and which the family had owned for some two hundred years. (Amy and David Powers had decided to get married, and Helen graciously allowed them to have the reception at their little home. Helen was actually pleased that David Powers and Amy Salvatori had found each other, and that little Ruth now had a real mother to look after her. Amy was about fifteen years David's senior, but that did not seem to affect their relationship.) Finally, Helen moved in with Marissa, and brought Betsy in with her, but soon, they knew, Betsy would have to be let go, because there was little or no work for her to do.

Thanksgiving was spent with friends in Ohio, but Helen was in a poor mood, and Marissa could not entice her even to go Christmas shopping. After they returned, Marissa discovered that Elly, who had been an excellent violist, and little Alison, were both interested in continuing violin lessons with Helen. At first Helen refused point-blank. But Marissa cleverly tricked Helen into giving the first lesson, and soon all the children, and Elly, had lessons twice a week, and Alison and James were making steady progress. That was almost the only bright spot in their bleak existence.

It was the week of Christmas. Helen shut out all thought of that evening; it was too harrowing to contemplate. The children were there, she had to think about them, and little Jeannie, and Annie and Gretchen. If she let herself think about music there would be no end to it. (Jeannie was a little 12-year-old girl who spent a lot of time in the big house, with the children.) Helen could not stand the idea of listening to the major musical works that she had enjoyed listening to, and singing, during the season.

Meanwhile, Marissa had arrived at the same decision in her own way. She had decide to talk to Lalitha. One morning, early, she called up the home of the Indian family, and spoke to Lalitha.

"It's me, Marissa!"

"Hello! How are you, Marissa? Is everything all right?" Lalitha sounded worried, because Marissa rarely ever called, and never so early in the morning.

"I need a little advice," she heard Marissa say in that slow, deliberate way of hers. "I'm not sure what I ought to do to make Christmas happy for Helen! You know, music, carols, that sort of thing?"

Lalitha nodded to herself. "Hmm. I know what you're getting at."

"I'd like to play carols and stuff, just to get in the Christmas mood, but I'm afraid that that'll get her started thinking about singing, and . . . everything she's given up. This used to be such an important season for her!"

Lalitha smiled. Marissa was so careful and sensitive to Helen's needs, it made her feel sick with sorrow for all the opportunities she, Lalitha, had missed when they were together. Because Lalitha visited so rarely, Marissa could never guess how sensitive Lalitha was about everything to do with Helen.

"I don't think just simple Christmas music would upset her. It's the big classics, like _Messiah,_ and the _Christmas Oratorio;_ I wouldn't play those at all." Lalitha felt a catch in her throat. It would be inevitable that _something_ would happen to make Helen feel miserable this season. "I'd talk it over with young Gena, Marissa."

"Oh! I was about to ask, what the Christmas Oratorio was! I could ask her, couldn't I!"

Lalitha said yes, and smiled. "Helen is so lucky to have you," she added in a gentle voice.

Marissa thanked her for her kind words, unable to think of anything else to say. Sometimes she felt she was in way over her head in Helen's complicated world. They were all gentle, loving people, but there was so much about that world that Marissa had no clue about ...

She went up to Gena's room and knocked on the door and poked her head in. Ignoring Gena's red face she backed in and turned around, giving Gena time to get respectable.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Gena ..." she began with a worried frown, but Gena smiled that wonderful smile of hers, dispelling any doubts that she was welcome. Marissa's face relaxed and she sat on the edge of the bed as Gena made room for her. It seemed natural to lean over and give her a good morning kiss on her cheek.

"What's on your mind, Aunt Marissa?"

It was hard to keep her mind on the problem. Gena's soft speech reminded her so much of what Helen must have been when she was a young girl, so soft, so sweet, so bright and eager! Marissa picked up the hand that lay on the coverlet and squeezed it affectionately.

"I'm worried about your mother," she said quietly. "I want to have some nice Christmas music in the house," and Gena's eyes brightened at once, "but I'm afraid that if we have the wrong kind of music, she might be reminded of—all that unpleasantness, and . . . you see what I'm getting at?"

Gena's grin had disappeared, and she nodded, as her blue-grey eyes searched Marissa's face thoughtfully.

"Yeah," she said slowly, "like, the _Messiah,_ she sang that before Queen Elizabeth, you know."

Marissa's eyes grew wide. " _Really?"_

"Uh huh," Gena nodded, her eyes focused inward on that wonderful memory. "Yeah, that was a big deal for her. It must hurt to like, have fallen from there."

"No music at all, you think?"

Gena shrugged. "I don't know . . . Who can we ask? Elly isn't here ..."

"Tommy?" Marissa was fond of Helen's strange sister, but had rather a low opinion about her wisdom."

"Yeah . . . we _could_ ask Tommy. She smart about those kinds of things, though she really doesn't care!"

Marissa sighed and sagged.

"Come on," said Gena getting out of bed. She was completely nude, but she grabbed a wrap and tied it in place and tugged at Marissa's hand. "Let's go invade her room!"

Marissa blushed bright red.

"Er, Gena, maybe we should wait until a little later..."

Gena grinned. "I'll do a safety check first," she said, her eyes gleaming.

Gena knocked, poked her head in, and turned back to grin at Marissa, saying it was safe.

Tommy looked exhausted, but Gena woke her up, and Tommy squinted at her visitors looking sleepy and confused.

"Jeeze, guys, what time is it . . . _seven!"_ She yawned hugely, looking very grumpy. "What's the emergency?"

Gena sat on the edge of her bed, and explained the problem. Tommy became still and listened seriously.

"Shit," she said, clearly frustrated. "She's too sensitive."

"So ..."

Tommy shrugged. "Yeah. No _Messiah,_ no _Christmas Oratorio,_ no serious music like that. That's what I'd suggest."

Gena turned to Marissa and nodded.

It was forbidden to watch TV on Christmas Eve. They left all the presents to be opened on Christmas morning at six, and went to bed. Then it was Christmas, and the house was full of music, and even Helen had to smile. She and Marissa had made love tenderly that night, and for once Helen's mood was almost good. She came downstairs and watched silently while Marissa supervised the opening of the presents. It was her very first time, and she did it with a merry grace that left Helen envious. The children kissed Marissa thoroughly, and Helen knew she was enjoying herself.

For a few sad minutes Marissa cried over the memory of her mother. Helen held her tenderly; what else could she do? Matt came over and Marissa hugged him and clung to him for a moment. Helen could see that Matt was equally upset, but Marissa's grief was actually comforting to them both. But it was soon over; Marissa wiped her face, and turned back to the shouting gang of kids. Annie was enjoying the chaos, with James seated on her lap, where he had perched himself to inspect a book he had been given.

"Another book," he said, glumly, "I got ten of these, now."

"The same book?"

"Naw, but I got ten books, all right. I can't be reading so many books," he said impatiently.

"Why not?"

James shrugged. "I used to read 'em," he said, "but they're too much work."

His gruff voice carried, and Helen was in stitches across the room. Annie had a big old grin on her face, and Helen just couldn't keep a straight face.

"Well," said Annie, her face serious once more, "I think I might have an emergency present in my room, Jim."

"What?"

"I said, I might have a present for you in my room."

"An emergency one?"

"You heard that, didn't you!"

"Well, yeah. You have one? For me?"

"Could be!"

"Let's go look!"

In contrast to the previous year, it was a wonderful Christmas morning. The day was bright and fine, the sky was a beautiful blue, seldom seen in Philadelphia at that time of the year, and Helen and Marissa had put together a wonderful breakfast. There were a stream of 'yum's as the kids tucked in, and Gretchen, Helen, Marissa, Matt, Betsy and Annie looked on. Even Tommy was in a good humor, making jokes all the time, while Gena laughed politely. Early that morning Gena had been calling on the phone, and Helen smiled with pleasure at her daughter. (Gretchen was a family friend, who was very fond of Helen, and had come looking for her a few days before.)

Gretchen had arranged for the younger folk to go to a Christmas celebration with the Impromptu Chorale and Orchestra. Lalitha had talked it over with Helen and convinced her to let them go. "Stay home with me, or Annie, or someone. Let the others go," she had advised, and Helen had decided that was the best thing to do. Accordingly, they piled into two cars, and were gone until early afternoon. Peggy and Bridget had been given the week off, but Helen stayed home with Lalitha.

By the time everyone had returned, Helen and Lalitha had a light lunch ready for them. It had been wonderful, they reported, a full service of carols and readings, just like a Christmas special, and Helen had smiled and said she was glad. Gena had hugged her and whispered that she was the best mother in the world. Allie had given her a hug, too, and later Erin.

Nothing had happened to mar that wonderful day by dinnertime. Late in the afternoon, Peggy and Bridget and their families had come to visit, bringing presents to the children, in spite of Helen having told them not to. But James and Allie were great favorites of Peggy and Bridget, and of course there were presents under the tree for Jeannie and her brother Michael, and baby Eileen.

Everybody hugged Helen. Wearing a colorful dress with a full skirt, and seated on the piano stool, Helen drew everyone like a magnet. Jeannie came to her and gave her a great big hug.

"Merry Christmas, Miss Helen!"

"And the same to you, Jeannie! Was it a good Christmas?"

"Oh, yes! I got a lot of stuff! And thanks for your present, Miss Helen!"

"What present?"

"Oh, the coupons, Miss Helen! I guessed it was you!"

"No, it wasn't me!" Helen denied, eyes wide, but Jeannie only grinned.

Finally, Tommy came over, eyes shining.

"I didn't expect it to be this much fun, Sis!" She sat next to Helen, her arm round her sister's waist. It felt good to have Tommy so close, her presence so comforting.

Marissa was walking around, slowly and deliberately, but she was everywhere, talking to everyone. She had her own unique style, Helen thought to herself.

Jeannie came running up. (Jeannie was actually a niece of Marissa's maid, Peggy. But of late, Peggy's family had become more family friends, and Jeannie spent a lot of time in the Brooks home, playing with the kids.)

"There's a call for you, Miss Helen, it's a lady."

"They didn't give a name?"

"Uh-uh!" Jeannie shook her head.

Helen stood and walked a little distance away.

"Hello, Helen Nordstrom here."

"Helen, it's Cecily!"

"Merry Christmas! Tell Norma I send my wishes!"

"She says to tell you Merry Christmas too! Helen, there's a wonderful program on Public TV, it's a montage of performances of _Messiah_ by all sorts of groups and soloists! It's starting at eight, and one of our boys, Ted Humphrey works for PBS and says it's going to be really wonderful! I'll tape it for you, if you're busy!"

"Oh, er, we're ..."

"Oh dear, did I get you in the middle of something? I'll hang up, then!"

"No, we've just got a bunch of friends here, that's all!"

"I'll talk to you later, then! Remember, eight O'clock!"

"What was that all about?"

"Oh, apparently there's a program on Public TV—a montage of _Messiah_ performances." It was rather tacky, really, Helen thought. It could only insult those who got left out.

"Really?" Tommy was clearly interested. Helen had really hoped they would not listen to the _Messiah_ at all that holiday season. It was the last thing she needed.

"What's up?" Gena wanted to know, and Tommy told her. Now Gena's face was all excitement, too. Soon Sita and Lalitha heard, and there was a general buzz about getting to the TV by eight o'clock. Helen saw Lalitha and Marissa trying their best to dissuade the movement, and she realized that there had been a conspiracy to make sure that only the most innocuous music had been played all season. It made her feel both grateful and embarrassed. They were treating her with kid gloves, and it was an awkward feeling.

Meanwhile, people came by to talk and wish her a happy holiday season. People from next door came by with a plate of cookies, and Marissa made up a plate for them of her own. It was a warm, pleasant evening again, and everyone almost forgot the pesky _Messiah_.

Peggy and family left, leaving only Molly and Jeannie behind. Trish and Suresh were seated in a quiet nook, kissing. Helen, Sita and Marissa got supper ready, and everybody ate supper.

"What's the big hurry?" Marissa demanded, as the kids wolfed down their food.

"Eight o'clock, _Messiah!"_

Helen slipped upstairs and lay on her couch. She felt betrayed. She couldn't believe that Tommy and Gena would be so insensitive as to watch that TV program, when she, Helen, had retired from the opera and recital stage under such a pall.

"Helen?" It was Marissa. "Come down, sweetheart; we decided not to watch TV. It was a bad idea."

"No, it isn't," Helen said, stubbornly. "It's just bad for _me,_ that's all."

Lalitha and Sita appeared, asking her to come join the festivities downstairs. They were going to sing carols again. Helen felt rage building up inside her. Marissa took her hand and waited, and the rage faded, leaving only a sour taste in her mouth. Somehow Helen found the strength to walk downstairs, dragging her feet, one step after another.

At eight, Helen snapped, and led the way to the TV, and turned it on.

The overture was played by an East German group, and sounded warm and smooth, perfect. The little church was lovely, and Helen closed her eyes, making her brain forget all it knew, only feeling the music.

It was an exercise in humility. She had retired, but the world went on. And there was much good music in it, music that she had no hand in. It was an innovative idea, to get ordinary people interested in major musical works. Everybody liked 'The Best Of' lists. The Best of _Messiah_. It was a natural, she supposed.

The tenor solo that followed was a Brit, a young fellow Helen had never heard. He did a wonderful job. Helen had hoped it might be Sir Anthony, but this young fellow was up to it. To her surprise, the aria that followed was indeed sung by Sir Anthony!

Helen felt a mixture of joy and letdown; joy because a performance that she had been associated with, and a man she knew, had been honored —a dubious honor though it was— by being selected for this program. On the other hand, Helen had hoped that she herself might have been chosen for one of the solos.

Schooling her face into impassivity, Helen took a seat at the back of the little group, as Gena excitedly told them all that this had been from a Royal Command performance in which her mother had sung the soprano solos. Heads turned round to Helen for confirmation, and she nodded solemnly.

Soon after the aria, another face and voice was smoothly faded in, without missing a beat, for the next recitative, and then Lalitha and Trish exclaimed at the top of their voices, "It's the Church! It's us! Look!" Sure enough, the performance of the previous year, the one Helen had not been allowed to participate in, of the Impromptu Chorus and Orchestra, had been selected for the signature opening chorus of the Messiah, "And the glory of the Lord."

On and on it went. The group soon forgot Helen in its fascination with the variety and quality of the soloists and choruses and the venues at which they had been taped. Soon after the shepherds scene, Helen awaited the aria "Rejoice, O daughter of Zion," one of the most brilliant in the whole work, and the one in which she thought she had sung the best. But a younger soprano, a beautiful girl in her late twenties or early thirties, sang it, and beautifully. Helen felt her whole body fill with fury, and hate for the unfortunate woman.

Slowly rising from her seat, Helen slipped away.

Marissa had been watching Helen surreptitiously, and saw her leave the room. She did not yet, at that time, have an insight into everything that went on in Helen's mind. She only had a vague intuition about what Helen might be feeling in response to any given happening, and now she knew that Helen was utterly depressed, and she also knew that she could not help. To her relief, she saw Sita hurry after Helen.

Helen sat on the front steps and rested her head on her knees.

She admitted to herself that she had believed herself to be the greatest soprano alive. It was unforgivable conceit, and she felt that this was how life taught humility to those whose arrogance was so great that they believed in their own infallibility. In ancient myths, the gods always taught these lessons. In modern times she knew that each person brought it on him- or herself. She felt so crushed that she was beyond tears.

She heard a sound, but she pretended not to. Someone was coming out to sit on the steps with her. That someone had put her arm around Helen. For a moment she gathered herself to shake the arm off with an angry, convulsive movement, but she held herself still. She was so filled with anger that she didn't even care who it was.

But there was no sound, only the soft touch of the hand. It didn't smell like Marissa, but Helen was too paralyzed to make an effort to look, or even acknowledge her companion.

Through the door, she could still hear the music, clear enough to recognize the numbers. She wanted to go back and listen, but she was too filled with shame. In a sense her singing had been too personal a thing for her to keep up. The violin was not quite so immediate; it wasn't your own breath. You spilled your heart into the thing, but it was the singing of a dumb being; yourself, but not yourself. A rebuff was tolerable, just as a rebuff at a masked ball was tolerable. But when you sang, you were too naked. When the audience loved her, it was possible to go naked in front of it. Helen had done it, and she knew the excitement of being naked in front of a live audience, showing them your naked feelings, and being accepted. But it was heartbreaking to be told that you weren't wanted anymore.

There were oohs and aahs, as each new singer began to sing. Suddenly Helen heard the recitative that preceded the lovely double aria for Alto and Soprano: He shall feed His flock/Come unto me, and to her acute disappointment, she recognized the voice as that of a well-loved German contralto, Martha Plotz. Helen knew her slightly, and was happy for her. There were other contraltos, but Martha was good, and she was singing well.

Helen raised her head, feeling her nose all stuffed up, and she felt a tissue pressed into her hand. With a soft laugh, she turned and looked at her companion—it was Sita, of course. She should have known; she recognized the perfume now.

Helen blew her nose loudly and thanked Sita for the tissue. Then Helen realized that Sita's eyes were full of tears. She was crying silently, and finally a sniff had given her away.

"Why are you crying?" Helen asked softly, in wonder.

Sita only shook her head.

Suddenly Helen cocked her head. Unbelievably, they had faded into the aria sung by Martha, Helen's own rendering, from two years ago!

"It's me!" Helen whispered, unbelievable joy pouring through her. She turned to look at Sita, and saw Sita smile through her tears. Helen put her arms round Sita and hugged her in silent joy. Sita snuggled against her, smiling still, her tears forgotten for the moment. Inside, Helen felt a confusion of emotions, pleasure that her aria had been chosen, amazement at how they had managed to fade the two entirely different performances together.

"Mama! Mama, it's you! Come and see! Come on!" Allie was going nuts.

"It's all right, darling, I'm just sitting here, okay?"

Allie checked out where Helen was, gave her a quick hug, and hurried back to watch the show.

Helen felt frustration that she hadn't been watching to see the merge take place, that Marissa hadn't come out, and a sweet pleasure at the soft feel of Sita in her arms. If she had decided to become Sharon Vuehl permanently, she could have had Sita for the asking, a wonderful, intelligent, gifted, beautiful woman. She hated herself for breaking the girl's heart, as she surely must have done, and hated herself more for accepting the girl's comfort and her love on this Christmas night.

"Why were you crying?"

"Because . . . I can't stand how unhappy you are, Helen! It's been all year, and I feel _so bad_ for you!"

Helen could hardly stand it. She had known Sita was a tender-hearted girl, but she had assumed that once she had learned who Helen was, she'd get over it. Surely her indignation at being played for a fool should pull her out of any sorrow she felt for Helen's plight? But no, she was sobbing in Helen's arms, her whole body racked with her sobs.

"Well," Helen said, groping about in her mind for a suitable thing to tell her, something comforting. "I've had my turn . . . I guess I can't ask for more! There, there, now, I feel a lot better, Sita; you should feel better, too!"

Sita stopped sobbing obediently, and dried her face with the tissues she had brought. She turned her face to Helen and gave her a watery smile. "Don't mind me, Helen," she said, "I don't think I'm completely out of love with you yet, that's all!"

"With me?" Helen was aghast.

Sita dropped her eyes and shook her head. Her voice changed. "You wouldn't understand," she said in a low voice, almost a whisper. Helen regarded the sleek, straight hair she had pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck. How she had loved to kiss the top of her head! "I was so much in love . . . I can't believe I'm still alive."

Helen shrank back. Sita raised her eyes to look into Helen's. Indeed she had never taken Sita seriously enough. As Sharon, she had been tortured by her desire for Sita, but she had never thought about it from Sita's side. She had assumed that it was a childish crush that a young woman would have on a very charismatic personality. But from Sita's words she knew now how intense her love must have been. Women had killed for less than this.

"But you don't hate me," Helen said. Was it a hope, or just a statement of fact?

Sita shook her head, and finally bestowed a little smile on Helen. Helen reached out a hand to her, but her smile evaporated, and she solemnly shook her head, no. Apparently there were limits to what she would take from Helen.

Marissa came out looking for Helen, and Sita ducked back inside.

"What was that all about?" asked Marissa.

"Oh . . . I ..."

"She looked as if she had been crying!"

Helen nodded and shrugged.

"Won't you come in?"

"In a little while," Helen promised, and smiled.

The Fading of Sharon

It was Easter time, and Janet was visiting from Minnesota. It was Spring Break for the little people, and it would be the following weak for Elly, who of course went to school in Philadelphia.

On Saturday, Amy called saying that the hospital in Ohio was in financial trouble, and the nurses were about to strike. Hospitals all over the country were in trouble, and were beginning to explore new kinds of financial structures; most of them were changing into for-profit hospitals, with strict limits on how much _pro bono_ services they provided to low-income patients, and patients without insurance.

Helen sat down and began the process of checking the one source of discretionary funds she had: Sharon Vuehl. It was a complex process; she had to cover up her tracks very carefully. It had been patiently explained to her why she simply could not confess to being Sharon Vuehl, without running afoul of the tax codes of both Canada and the US. Sharon had paid her taxes, and so had Helen, but not enough for a person whose income was their two incomes put together.

By around lunchtime, when Janet finally got up and came downstairs, most of Sharon's small fortune had been given away to charity. Helen idly wondered what Sita did with all her money.

Minutes after that was done, Helen was slowly pacing up and down the hall, wondering what was happening to her. All the things she had come to rely on were gradually disappearing one by one. Now Sharon's money, several millions, had all gone, just like that, in the space of half an hour. She couldn't even _think_ of not responding to the hospital crisis. It was a great hospital, carefully and frugally managed by trustees who were absolutely honest and intelligent. The medical staff was excellent, highly idealistic, and gave much of their time for free. Amy had been happy there, and many of the young physicians and surgeons there were people she had trained and influenced herself. It was her legend that had drawn them there, and for several years she had been the _de facto_ medical superintendent, since her boss had begun to slow down due to ill health.

Catastrophe

Helen Crashes

That summer, _Galaxy Studios_ made a feature-length movie out of the event of the _Voyager_ encountering a planet that was borderline inhabitable; studying it, sending an investigating team, and eventually leaving a group of colonists on the planet. It was decided, in the story, not to commit all the resources of the _Voyager_ to that planet, because it was not viable enough.

While filming the movie, Helen found herself unable to relax due to her runaway libido. Usually her friend Annie would help her out, but Annie had found a new friend, and Helen was at a loose end. Helen arranged to meet a call girl, Melanie, with whom she had a great time, but it was incredibly expensive. The next night she was just as unbearably lusty, but unable to afford another night of Melanie, she went out to a club, picked up a model, Jana, and brought her to her house, which _Galaxy_ had bought for her, but which she had never used. Jana adored Helen, and once Helen revealed who she was, Jana, being familiar with Helen as a musician and an actress, declared that she was Helen's slave! Over the weeks of filming, Jana got a minor role in the movie, and built up a relationship with the young star, Amanda, who played a young clone of Cecilia, the character played by Helen.

Our story continues in the early fall. Helen had come up to Seattle for the monthly taping for _Galaxy_ , and had been filming all Friday night, but she was experiencing an intense headache, which was not going away.

"I'm really tired," Helen said in a low voice to the director. His excited face calmed at once, and he called for a five-minute break.

"Are you all right?" he asked Helen, solicitously.

"I'm a little hungry," Helen said, embarrassed. "I—I'd like a snack, if I may!"

"Of course you may!" said Frank, the writer, who had been talking with Amanda, glancing at the director. "If she doesn't eat regularly, she'll get in trouble, Rich; it's the diabetes!"

Rich's mouth formed an 'O' of understanding. Helen hated when her health intruded into their filming. They called for a fifteen-minute break instead. Snacks were brought out and passed around. Helen felt better in seconds, but her headache came back. She tried to ignore it, but she just couldn't. Amanda and Jana watched, upset, until a couple of minutes later it went away. Helen's expression was a little worried, but that was supposed to be in the script anyway. These were worrisome days for Cecilia.

While the shooting went on, Jana could see that Helen was fading. She kept glancing at Amanda, to see whether she would pick up on it. Perhaps she did, but she wasn't sharing with Jana.

They had a kind of relationship. It wasn't entirely sexual, though Jana wanted it to be. She was pretty sure Amanda wanted it too, but for whatever reasons, it seemed to be stuck just outside a sexual relationship. They were very close, and rapidly becoming more so. But still, Jana could never take Amanda for granted. She felt on firmer ground with Helen; she felt comfortable saying things to her, doing things with her that she could never do with Amanda. Amanda would someday be a big star. With Helen . . . Jana was over the star business already. But when it came to Helen's safety, Jana feared for her as if her health was as important as that of the President.

Every scene was worse. Finally, Helen caught herself, and Jana knew that she was giving it an enormous battle. For the last few scenes which went on until nearly one in the morning, Helen seemed to have made a remarkable comeback.

"She's faking it," Amanda said, finally.

"She's been doing that for several scenes," Jana said, drily.

Amanda turned to look directly at her.

"If you knew, why didn't you say something?" she demanded, hotly.

"Me? I am nobody! What can I say?"

Amanda only groaned. She marched up to Rich and said something in a low voice. Rich looked at Helen in alarm.

"Helen, are you all right?"

Helen's face froze for a second, as she looked at Rich and the others watching her. Then her control crumbled, and her eyes glazed over, she held her head and sat on the closest chair. That ended shooting for the night.

Hospital

Amanda and Jana sat with Helen in the back, holding a cold compress to her head. Was it something she had eaten? Pollution? The weather?

"I'd really like Doc Thompson to look her over," Amanda said, worriedly.

"He's out of town," Joe growled. "There's Doctor Simmons. He's okay."

But Amanda shook her head and said no, she wasn't going to let Simmons see Helen. She wouldn't say why, but she claimed to have her reasons.

"Helen, do you have a doctor?"

"Huh?" asked Helen. She was barely able to pay attention to what they were saying. They had to ask her several times before she told them no, she did not have a regular physician in Seattle.

Joe managed to pick her up, all sweaty, and climbed the steps. Amanda had got Helen's keys from her purse. But before she could unlock the door, it was opened from inside by someone. A pretty girl stood there, beautifully dressed, looking anxiously out the door at them. Then, seeing Helen in Joe's arms, her eyes went wide.

"Helen!" She stared at them, and understanding came to Jana's eyes, as well as jealousy. So this was the woman, Melanie. "What's happened?" Melanie asked.

They explained that Helen had sort of collapsed after shooting was over. She had said she had a headache, and then her legs had given way.

"Please, come in!" She hustled them inside, and Joe laid Helen on the sofa. Helen was looking rather green.

Amanda and Melanie sized each other up —or rather, Amanda did; Melanie's eyes were taken up with Helen.

Melanie bent close to Helen.

"Helen, is there anyone in your family we could call? Shall we call, uh . . ."

"Marissa, right?" Jana contributed. Melanie gave her a grateful glance.

"Shall I call Marissa?"

Helen only nodded. Her face showed considerable pain.

Soon they were talking with Amy Salvatori. Amy's confident tones had them calmed down quickly. But Amy wanted Helen taken to hospital right away. "No need to panic yet," she said. "But she needs to be taken to hospital—without much publicity, I need hardly tell you, do I? —-and given a head x-ray, or preferably a CT-scan. She's had a brain tumor, an enormous one, taken out some years ago."

Melanie told them what she had heard, and Amanda, Jana, Melanie and Joe looked at each other, their jaws hanging open. They said they'd do that, and exchanged phone numbers and hung up.

Joe picked Helen up once again, and they rushed to the big hospital with which the studio had a relationship. Melanie began to feel embarrassed once she began to think about what they were doing, but she was sure she could hide behind the others.

When they arrived, Helen was still barely conscious, but unable to talk. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, and when they wheeled her out to the computer-tomography unit, she was allowed to have her friends around her for a few seconds while they got ready. Jana pushed Melanie forward, and Melanie, blushing, took Helen's hand. Helen squeezed it gently, and her eye leaked a tear. Then they had to leave. By then, Amy was talking directly to the doctor in charge.

"I hate it when they throw everybody out," Amanda said, fiercely.

"Me too," agreed Melanie softly.

"Hi," Amanda said, hurriedly, "I'm Amanda, and this is Jana, and Joe. We all work out at Galaxy," she explained.

"I'm from security," Joe added.

Melanie smiled and nodded. "I'm—Melanie," said she. "I'm just a friend. She'd just left the door open for me, that's why I happened to be there!"

Amanda nodded slowly. The girl seemed to be a decent sort; nicely brought-up, and Amanda grudgingly approved of her. She glanced at Jana who was watching Melanie like a hawk, and she frowned. Jana was so awkward sometimes.

"I think I have spoken with you," Jana said, sounding a little funny.

"Yes, I think I have," said Melanie smiling smoothly.

The scan was done already. The doctor approached them.

"Which one of you is in charge of Ms. Nordstrom?"

"Why do you ask?" asked Joe smoothly.

The doctor shrugged, frowning. "It's just informational; there's a tumor, and we're going to try and take it out. But I think you should know . . . it's very risky. Very risky indeed. But we can't leave her like this. The tumor is hurting her eyes."

"Shit!" swore Joe. "Is it around the eyes?"

"No, no; but it's leaning on the eyes. It looks as though it's a compact mass, nicely differentiated from the surrounding tissue. But of course, you can't really tell until you go in."

"Of course," said Amanda, while Melanie simply turned white.

They had to go to a waiting-room. Helen was hooked up to fluids in no time, her clothes taken off, everything was handed to Melanie, and she was hauled off to surgery, and the girls and Joe sent to a waiting room.

Somehow, Melanie found a bench and sat down wearily. Nothing she had done in her life had prepared her for this. Joe was calling his office, Amanda and Jana were calling someone they knew. Melanie sat alone. She had no work on Saturday, as far as she knew. She was completely free to agonize over Helen. Jana came to sit next to her, and to take her hand. She was grateful, in spite of the presumption of the kid. She overlooked the fact that Jana was touching Melanie's leg, something she rather disliked. A clerk walked up to them with paperwork, and Jana thrust it at Melanie.

It was two in the morning. The surgeon had had to be called out of bed. The surgery went on and on. It was almost five when Helen was reeled out of the operating theater, straight out to Intensive Care. Melanie began to cry softly, and Amanda looked within inches of tears herself. Jana alone was too worried to cry.

"Look," said Joe, "I've gotta go home. Shall I leave the car keys with you?"

Melanie looked up at him, and his heart skipped a beat. Jeeze, the dame was a looker. Helen sure knew how to pick them.

"Could you take me to Helen's place? I have a car there!"

They all piled into the Galaxy car and drove back to Helen's home, and Joe left them there and went back to the studio. The girls piled into Melanie's car, and went back to the hospital.

She regained consciousness and found herself in blinding light. There were confused memories of dreams, vague visions in which she had been paralyzed.

The light was really unbearable, and she slitted her eyes to see better. They were all strangers. She could not recognize any of them. Oh god, what had happened to her? She was panicking inside, but her body refused to respond. (But her breathing became irregular, and the nurse monitoring her adjusted the sedative slightly.) She searched the faces again for a familiar face, but there was none. Perhaps she should smile at them; she was at their mercy. She tried a smile, but it didn't work; her muscles were refusing to respond.

She could blink. There, she had just blinked. And again. It was a minor achievement, but it cheered her a little.

There were things she had to do, she just _knew_ that. She should be somewhere, doing something. Her body stiffened. She felt a touch on her shoulder.

"Just relax, Miss Nordstrom," said a high, young female voice. The face of the owner of the voice swam into view. It was a mild face, cheerful, competent. A _nurse_ , she thought. Of course; I'm in hospital. Miss Nordstrom. The panic came back. She couldn't make sense of that name.

There was a commotion, and some of the unfamiliar faces made way for new ones. These were all women, and a little boy. They looked worried, all except the little girl, who looked happy.

She blinked again, to reassure herself that she could still do it. The older girl came round and smiled at her.

"It's Erin!" she said in a sweet, soft voice.

"Hi Erin," she whispered back, "it's good to see you!"

The relief of the family was pathetic to see. James grinned at his mother and gave her a peck on the cheek. Marissa hugged her and kissed her, as did Janet and Lalitha, all crying with joy. They made way for Amanda and Jana, who pulled Melanie forward for a quick kiss. But the three of them weren't convinced; and neither was Amy.

"Do you remember where you are, sweetheart?" Amy asked gently, once the excitement had settled down a little.

"I'm in hospital," Helen said slowly, her voice sounding rusty.

"Do you recognize everybody, love?"

Helen shook her head. "No," she whispered.

"None of us?"

Helen looked at them, and the stricken looks on their faces was unbearable. The older girl, in particular was shocked.

"You said my name!" she cried.

"You look ..."

"... like someone you know?" Helen shook her head. "Familiar?" That was it. She nodded, yes. It was not a big lie, was it? At least Erin was slightly mollified.

Gradually, the excitement turned to despair. It was clear that Helen could remember absolutely nothing. Not even her own name. Fortunately, she could speak and see, but some words eluded her. She began to get agitated, and they decided to send everybody away until she could rest and gather her thoughts, such as they were.

Tommy—Tomasina—was Helen's and Little John's half-sister. Shortly after Helen had been introduced to Elly (Old Elly, or Grelly, to distinguish her from Little Elly, who was Janet's daughter, and in fact Grelly's grandchild), the old lady, learning that John Nordstrom had slipped into depression after Helen's mother had died, decided to pay him a visit. Tommy had been the result of that visit. Grelly's husband Tom had still been alive at that time, so Tommy's name is Tommy Krebs.

In the summer, Tommy, bored with staying at home in Illinois, fixed up an old motorbike that was in their garage, and rode into the Chicago suburbs, and was taken home by a lovely young thing in a bar. Very soon, this girl, April, and Tommy were an item. Tom and Elly had been an item until the previous year, when they had broken up. April and Tom had moved into an apartment together near Tom's school at the beginning of the Fall.

Shortly after Janet had come to visit Helen at the Seattle hospital, she called Tommy (who was her half-sister, of course), and told her the news, and Tommy had been extremely worried.

The phone rang again. Suddenly, Tom and April both remembered the call of the previous night.

April grabbed the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello, is Tom there?"

"Just a minute, please." She handed it to Tom.

"Sis?"

"Bad news. She's completely lost her memory. It's California all over again."

Janet sounded tired and depressed. She didn't sound fearful, thank god. Tom didn't think she could handle one sister sick and the other one in a panic.

"The children? The farm? Annie? Can she talk?"

"Yes, she talks. Her vocabulary is mostly there, except she couldn't get the word 'familiar.' She seems to remember general knowledge. But she didn't know her name, and anything about herself. Oh Tom, I can hardly stand it!"

("What's up?" April was asking. Tom motioned for her to be quiet.)

"How are the kids taking it? And Marissa?"

"Marissa's taking it really well. Well . . . I'll tell you later. Things are complicated."

"What other thing?"

"Later, Tom. Listen. They're having her get a sudden attack of something on _Galaxy_ tonight, and they're showing some stills of Helen from the hospital. Just don't be shocked."

"How _could_ they? That's _terrible!"_

"Why?"

"Why . . . it's an invasion of privacy! She doesn't know what they're doing, it's like capitalizing on someone dying, or something! That's disgusting!"

"It's not disgusting. She's lived a very public life, the only people who care about her and care for her are the fans of that show. They stood behind her through all sorts of bad weather. It's their way of making an honest plot development that lets them write her a vacation until she gets better!"

"But they could have used a stand-in, couldn't they?"

"They are. This is just for the fans."

"Oh."

"I've told John, but now I have to find Gena. She was impossible to track down last night."

"I think I can do it. Johnny could do it."

"Will you? Call me on Helen's phone."

"Will do. Bye, Jan. Give her a hug for me."

"I will," said Janet, her voice unsteady.

"What's all that about?"

"You know I have two half-sisters?"

"Yeah, Janet, and the other one."

"You know _Galaxy?"_

"Yeah, what about it?"

"You know Cecilia?"

"Yes . . . Oh, don't tell me—Cecilia is your _sister? Cecilia?"_

April's eyes were as big as saucers. But Tommy was not smiling. She told April that she had just undergone surgery, and was a total amnesiac.

April held Tommy, as Tommy began to weep. Her heart already softened by her feelings for April and Janet was wounded terribly by the cruel fate of her favorite sister. It hurt even more that April would never know the beauty and the wonder of that old Helen, with all her memories and her brilliance intact. And it meant a lot to Tom that April should know her. Helen was part of who Tom was, and Helen's amnesia hurt Tom far more than Janet could imagine.

"Now you'll never know her like she used to be!" Tom sobbed. "She won't even recognize me! She won't care, she won't understand anything! She was the most wonderful sister ever!"

April's face was covered in tears, too. It was too much to take in all at once, that her lover's sister was a celebrity, and also that that same sister had just completely lost her memory.

With instinctive tact, April let Tom cry herself mostly out. Then she ventured a few words of comfort.

"I know a lot about her," she said softly.

"You do?" Tom sniffed.

"Uh huh. I know she's a singer, and a conductor, and, like, a cellist."

"A violinist!"

"That's what I meant, a violinist! Sorry. And she plays the guitar too, I bet."

"Yeah, she does. And she was beautiful. Then she had this terrible accident. Then she sort of grew old while I watched. It was awful. But she's still beautiful, and I love her to _pieces!"_

April nodded. It was like knowing royalty.

"She really was beautiful," she nodded.

Tom dashed the tears from her face, and told her about the plan to show shots of her from the hospital on the show. "I don't like it at all," she said firmly.

"I heard you talking, and I just couldn't figure out what it was about," April said, wonderingly. "I think it's a great idea."

"She'd hate it, if she knew!"

"Uh-uh." April watched the show religiously every chance she got. "I know her better than you, and she wouldn't. She'd do anything for her fans!"

Tom looked at her shocked. It was her first exposure to a fan who thought she knew Helen better than Tom did.

"You've got to be totally nuts. She's my sister, and I know how she would feel!"

But April was firm. She raised her chin high, and she stood by her opinion. It was not the money, she said. The studio could easily piece together some footage of Cecilia being hospitalized. Heaven knew they had done that any number of times. What they were doing, the stills from the hospital—it was a kind of homage, just in case Helen never made it back on the show.

"I don't want to argue, because you're upset," said April quietly, getting out the cornflakes. "But you'll agree with me when you see the show."

Tom quickly ate breakfast, and got started looking for Gena. She finally found her out at the Gustavsons' place in California, where they had gone for the weekend.

(A couple of summers earlier, Helen, Amy and the kids had spent several weeks at the beach, where Helen had made friends with Marcus Gustavson, an enormous boy, and Kristen Robinson, a sweet girl, and somehow all three had gone to the same college, and had formed a triple. They had stayed together for more than two years, so the family assumed that it was a stable arrangement.)

"Oh, my God!" said Gena, shocked. "I guess I was in denial; I thought it would never happen!"

"I guess you were ahead of me, then, kid. It took me completely by surprise."

"She didn't recognize Allie?"

"Uh uh."

"She won't know me, either, then." Tom rolled her eyes. She said nothing; it was hard to imagine how Gena thought of Helen. Tom would never have guessed that an adopted child could adore her foster-mother like Gena did. "I have to go out there," Gena said, her voice trembling. "I have to make her remember us!"

The blood froze in Tom's veins.

"I . . . you ..." Tom fumbled for the right words to say. "... By all means go, hon, and . . . is Krissy there, too?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, maybe you could take them all. But Gena, time is what she needs, baby. You could terrify her with your demands. Be gentle, be . . . I don't know what to say. You're a wonderful kid; I know you'll know what to do when you get there!"

There was a long silence.

"Tom, I can hardly recognize you!" Gena choked. "You've been so changed by this! Did you know that? You're the old Tom! You're back!" She was crying and Tom could hardly bear it. It wasn't just Helen, it was . . . a lot of things.

"I don't know if I'm back, kid, but ..." she glanced at April, who was at the table studying a fashion magazine that had just arrived, oblivious to everything else. "I'm in love, and I think that makes a big difference!"

April heard that. She looked up, studying Tom's face intently, her face a mask of concentration. Tom smiled fondly at her.

"Have you and Elly got together again?"

"No . . . we've both found—other people. She's happy, and I'm happy."

"Oh, I'm so glad, Tom. It wasn't going to work out."

Tom could hardly believe her ears.

"What makes you say that?"

"Just intuition. You competed too much."

Tom sighed. "I guess I have to agree. Anyway . . . there are lots of changes that I have to tell you later. So, you're it. You get to call Little John. I'm calling Elly."

"What's all that about falling in love?"

"I just lied," said Tom, rubbing her breast.

"What were all the photos for? Is there something I don't know about?" asked Helen.

Janet sat with Helen, taking her turn. They had decided to rotate, so that she wasn't bombarded with too much information all at once. Already Marissa and Annie had taken their turns. Janet had decided to talk about their history together only if Helen asked. Marissa and Helen had held hands, and Helen seemed to find comfort in it. Marissa had been tearful, but had found her calm soon enough. Janet had spied on them from outside, and finally gone away, satisfied that Helen was literally in excellent hands. Now it was her turn.

"You—are an actress. Can you remember?" She smiled and shook her head, and Helen smiled back. "You know what an actress is?"

"Kind of, yeah," Helen said. "A stage actress?"

"Television. See that, over there?" Helen glanced at the TV, now switched off, and nodded. She frowned, and Janet could see her fighting to reach memories that probably lurked just out of reach. They were there, Janet thought, only access was again being denied. "Well, you're a regular on a weekly show, the Galaxy show, and with you having lost your memory . . . they wanted to show the fans a few shots of you in the hospital. Your fans love you very much. And so do we!"

Helen gripped her hands together and her eyes brimmed with tears.

"Do I have a history of this? Of losing my memory?" She sniffed. "You act as if this isn't the first time! The short, older girl, what's her name ..."

"Amy!"

"Yes, she . . . I guess she's a doctor, or something?"

"Yes, an orthopedic surgeon!"

Helen shrugged. "Well, she . . . I get the feeling I've let her down. Like, I did this on purpose, or something!"

"Yes, well, she . . . it was she who assisted with your surgery the last time. It was twelve years ago! She's fought for your health many times, Helen. You mean a great deal to her. You're an old, old friend, and she gets mad when you're sick, and _you_ get mad when _she's_ sick!" Helen smiled. "At least I made you smile!"

Helen looked away, embarrassed.

"Tell me about the children," she said, so quietly, Jan could hardly hear her. "I know Erin is mine, but what about the others? And who are those pretty young things that were here when I woke up?"

While Janet patiently told Helen all she wanted to know, Helen in turn, was studying her. What struck her most of all was the great restraint of the tall brunette. She never got real excited, and she never got really down. She was always in control, a kind of control that was an essential part of her. There was passion there, yes, but she had it carefully disciplined.

There were a thousand questions to ask, but she had to get to them in turn. Steady, steady wins the race. No: it was _slow_ and steady. And there was no race.

Three adopted girls, and her own boy, James. God, she had not even touched him yet. And then, the big one: _where was her husband?_

Was he dead? Were they divorced? What had driven them apart? If she could not remember their differences, could they get back together, for the sake of the children? Oh god, who would look after the kids while she was sick?

"What's the matter?" Janet had sensed her panic. "Just ask me, Helen. Everything is under control. What is it?"

"Who—how—how are the kids managing while I've been sick?"

"What do you mean, managing? They're with Marissa, out in the lobby . . . oh, I see. Helen, you're an actress, and by the way, also a music professor at a small college. In any case, you will be paid a slightly reduced salary while you're unable to work. And of course, Marissa has her own job. She works in a library. And I will help, and . . . is this making sense, dear?"

Helen was frowning, and her eyes were bright. Her eyes were bright all the time, as if she was on the point of tears. She was fighting frustration with all the strength she had—Janet had known her since she was a teen, and she knew all the signs.

"Where is my husband?" she said. The words were said quietly, but with a desperate urgency that made Janet gasp. "What are you hiding?"

"There's no secret about that," Janet said, quickly. "You never married; the children are yours. Money is not really a problem."

Helen closed her eyes in gratitude. It was painful to learn that she was alone in the world, except for the gentle Marissa. But it was good to know that money was not an immediate problem. But Helen knew that sooner or later, it would be.

The more she knew, the more questions there were. There were so many, she didn't know which to ask first. The obvious question was the hardest to ask: was she homosexual? Why were there no men anywhere around her? And the question she had to ask herself: did she still feel like a lesbian? Who was she supposed to be in love with: which of these half-dozen women?

She had to think. She was certain she could get some answers from inside her head, if only she thought hard enough.

_Music_ professor? Oh God. There was just no way she could ever do that again. She didn't know a single note.

C! That was a note! Wasn't it?

"Vitamin C!"

"Yes, vitamin C! What about it?" asked Janet, endlessly patient, annoyingly even-tempered.

"I was thinking: I don't know anything about music anymore! I thought C was a note, and then I remembered: it's a vitamin, isn't it!"

"It's a note too," Janet said, smiling. "Don't try too hard; the last time, it was a long, difficult road. You didn't remember some things for several years!"

"Oh, shit!" Helen blushed. Janet only grinned. "Janet, what do _you_ do? What day of the week is this?"

"It's Saturday. I teach high school. I have to be back Monday, but . . . I could be back next weekend. Or you might go home, and I could come to Philadelphia, if you would like that! But Marissa probably wants you to herself, and I don't blame her!"

"Is . . . is she . . . were we, the two of us ...?"

"Yes, Helen. You were very much in love. But I think she understands; things are going to change. Things may never be the same as before."

Helen sighed.

"You're a very understanding person. You must be a great teacher, too!"

Then Janet did a strange thing; she began to cry silently.

"I could never be as understanding as you, Helen! You are the most wonderful person I have ever met, and . . . this is just a tiny thing I can do for you!"

"Are _you_ in love with me too?" Helen asked softly, reaching out to touch Janet's hand, her eyes upset.

"That was a long time ago," Janet replied in a tear-drowned voice. "We're not in love any more, dear. But I do love you very much!"

They were silent, their hands touching lightly, Helen studying her companion, trying not to stare, but unable to avoid it, and Janet dabbing at her eyes, and smiling through her tears.

"Janet, I . . . I'd like to talk to the kids, please. I kept them waiting too long!"

"Yes, of course! You're the boss!"

The kids trooped in a little later, and stood on one side of the bed, looking worried.

"Tell me your names again, kids," she said, giving up all attempts to be tactful. "I only remember Erin. You, young lady, what's your name?"

"Allie, Alison," she said, looking on the brink of tears. "I was adopted, with my sister Gena! Do you remember us?"

Helen made room for her on her bed, and beckoned the little boy into her lap. He looked almost the most miserable of the three. Helen managed to include the tow-headed Erin in the group. Erin's eyes were leaking, and Helen felt sorry for her.

"It doesn't matter whether I remember you," she said softly, "I love you, and that's the main thing! And _you_ are ..."

"James," said he. "James John Jeffrey Nordstrom Gibson."

"Whoa, what a mouthful! Say it again!" He did. That told her something. Gibson must have been the name of the fellow who fathered him. What about James, John and Jeffrey?

Awkwardly at first, then increasingly more comfortably, Helen reacquainted herself with her younger children. They were delightful, all of them, except that Erin held herself a little aloof. No matter how she tried, Erin seemed to be suspicious. On the surface, she was pleasant and sweet, but it was as if she didn't trust Helen. It was the one discordant note in an otherwise harmonious reunion.

"Do I seem very different?" she asked. She felt freer to ask them things than the adults.

"You just talk different!" Erin said, unexpectedly, grinning. "I don't know why!"

"Really? Very different?"

"Yeah, like . . . Midwestern!"

"Oh. Where am I from?"

"Well, you were born in Chicago, or Michigan, or somewhere, then you grew up in Kansas," said Erin. Somehow she seemed to have thawed from one second to the next.

"Yeah, Grandpa Nordstrom's farm," said Allie.

"He's dead," said John, cheerfully. "He died, oh, last year, or sump'n'."

"Year-before-last, Jamie. Remember? We were still in Westfield. And Mama was going to the Oscars. You were invited to the Oscars. That's when we learned that you were di-betic. You know that?"

"Yes! Golly, I bet they forgot that!" Erin's eyes were wide in dismay.

"Oh, is that what these pricks are for?" Helen showed her finger, which had been stuck several times.

"Oh! Oh, yeah; they must be doing it through the tubes, then."

"I have to take pills all the time? Or is it injections?" Helen was not happy.

"Pills," they reassured her. "Just pills."

"Uh huh. And your Mom's dead, too. Her name was Sylvia." James seemed to simply love making dismal announcements. "You know what?" asked James.

"No, what?" The kids stared at him.

"We're s'posed to be moving, you know. We just rented this house, see, and you and S'resh were to be fixing it up. Now," he shrugged, "we might have to just move in the way it is. It needed some paint, and stuff," he added.

"Who's S'resh?"

"He's Auntie Trish's husband, and baby Grace's dad. You know Aunty Lalitha? The pretty Indian lady?" asked Allie.

"Oh, yes, what about her?"

"S'resh is her son. He's a guy," James added, to make it perfectly clear. "It's an Indian name."

"S'resh," Helen said the name to herself.

"No, it's _Su-resh_ ," Allie corrected, and Erin nodded. "Auntie Trish is just careless how she says it. But she's so cute, nobody minds!"

"You like them, don't you!"

"Uh huh! And Baby Grace is the cutest of all! She's not really a baby, she's James's age, and about half his height," she laughed.

"So tell me, what other stuff do you guys do?"

"Are you going to watch _Galaxy_?" April asked, her eyes wide in question.

"Oh. Yeah," replied Tommy. Before she finished unfolding her length from the chair, April had skipped to their little TV, turned it on, and taken possession of the remote control. She sat a few inches from the screen. She wanted a larger TV, but since this was all they allowed themselves, she at least wanted to fill her field of view with the screen.

"Get away from there!" Tom cried, and April jumped with alarm. She looked back to see Tom's face contorted with fear. "Who knows what those rays are doing to your eyes? Do you know how much radiation comes out of that thing?"

April scooted away in alarm. It took just a second to make sense of Tom's outburst. This was no time to argue with a girl whose sister had just had a brain tumor removed.

April settled near Tom on the floor. In spite of her boredom, these days were among the happiest she had ever known. And though Tom prided herself on being cruel and mean-spirited, she was gentle and considerate and consistent.

They had to wait a few minutes until _Galaxy_ came on.

The opening titles came on over the familiar music, but it had been modified dramatically to have the feel of a stately march, rather than the bold, brassy challenge to the unknown that it had always been. This was the music they had played when in an earlier episode, a shuttle had collided with some space debris and exploded, killing three young girls.

The episode began normally enough. April cued the recording program, which digitally recorded everything but the commercials.

There was Helen, working out in the high-gravity gym on the ship. The set was constructed like a portion of an enormous cylinder, (or perhaps it was done with a camera illusion). Other scenes followed, and there was Helen settling a fight. Then there was Helen watching while another girl taught a circle of children the songs Helen had taught them a couple of years ago. All the actors were either impossibly beautiful, or impossibly intelligent, April thought. Tom should be in the show, she thought; she qualified on both counts, as did Helen. She could hardly take her eyes off Helen; she noticed detail that she had never noticed before, minute scars, the way her lips expressed her feelings when she was off her guard. It was interesting how Helen didn't just _act_ , she made herself _feel_ what she was supposed to feel, so even things that would not show on camera normally added to the realism of the scene. Those things could not possibly be in the script.

Then they saw Helen heading 'home', which in the show was a small suite of rooms. There were a guitar and a keyboard packed away in a storage area, a tragic reminder of the mental damage Cecilia had sustained in the story already. The present Cecilia preferred highly rhythmic recorded music, which she exercised to.

"That's so weird," Tom said, bemused. "She hates aerobic music."

"Yeah baby, work your butt," said April, snapping her fingers and bopping her head.

Suddenly there was catastrophe. They showed Helen stumble, and collapse against the bed.

"Oh god, thank goodness, imagine if there was a sharp edge!" exclaimed Tom, aghast. "How—how could they ..."

"It isn't her," said April quietly. They were both watching intently. There was nothing to show that it wasn't Helen, just the fact that it couldn't have been her.

It took a long time for the fall to be discovered, several hours. Then the injured woman was rushed to what served as a hospital on the ship, a well-equipped medical center.

The ship's news announced that Cecilia had been injured by a fall, the cause of which remained unknown. "That's all we are being told," said the announcer, a regular on the show. "These photographs have been released, and we present them without further comment."

The photographs showed Helen, dressed in the traditional white of the Seattle hospital linen service. Her eyes were slitted, and followed the camera with a faint touch of mistrust. There was a slight frown on her face, and her head was bandaged. More than anything, the expression on the face was one of restrained confusion, bewilderment, reproach. A group of young people watching the news in a youth clubhouse exclaimed, "Oh Cecilia!" just as Tom and April groaned, " _Oh Helen!_ "

Suddenly, a face appeared. It was a man, his name appeared below: Stephen Burkett.

"Dear fans of the _Galaxy._ Though I know we make it hard for you, you must always bear in mind that _Galaxy_ is just a show. It is a reflection of everyday life, removed to another setting, a more exciting, interesting setting. The reason many of you—and us—prefer to live there in our imagination, is because we try hard to make it that way. Remember it is only a show, not something actually taking place on a space ship somewhere.

"But sometimes, the real world interferes with our world of the _Galaxy_ , which is its prerogative. This is such a time. Our beloved Helen Nordstrom, the actress who plays Cecilia, also a brilliant violinist, teacher and musician, and one of the great human beings of our times, has fallen gravely ill. Our story has been re-written to accommodate her illness. We want to assure our fans that our concern extends beyond mere considerations of plot and economics. Helen was not only a creative force at _Galaxy_ , she was a beloved colleague, and a respected and admired member of our board. On behalf of you, we have extended to Helen's family our sympathies, and we will extend our support to them in their time of need.

"Any messages you send to us will be conveyed to Helen's four children, and the several friends who constitute her family, including our own Ann Nordstrom, and the actors who are a second family to Helen on the set, who are concerned and worried. The show will continue, but with permission from our sponsors, future episodes will contain brief updates on Helen's condition.

"Remember, Helen is alive, and physically in good to excellent condition. Everything points to her illness being temporary. Therefore it is not appropriate to indulge in a retrospective at this time. Please keep your messages supportive and positive. Do not send condolences, I want to make that clear. I know she is watching this broadcast, and I send Helen our best wishes for a quick recovery!"

There was a group shot of the cast, holding a big banner that read: "Helen, we love you, GET WELL SOON!"

April turned to her friend, uncertain how to react.

Tom just stared at the screen, her mouth hanging open.

"Well!"

"So what do you think?"

"'Send your message to: For-Helen@Galaxy.net, or call in at 1-866-get-well.' How many will they get?"

"Hey, at least one," said April, waiting to shut off the recorder. "I'm gonna write. I'll say, I know this real dumb girl, Tommy, and . . . Ouch!" She slapped back at Tom, who had aimed a kick at her.

"Did you see the look on her face?" Tom asked, her eyes wide.

"Yeah," said April.

Helen Back at Home

Earlier that year, while Helen had been filming alone in Seattle for the _Galaxy Show,_ she had felt almost unbearably horny one evening, and located a very high-priced call girl called Melanie. Helen and Melanie had had a wonderful time, which cost Helen a great deal of money, but it turned out that Melanie was so taken with Helen that she contacted Helen privately, and they began meeting outside the business set up of Melanie's management company. Over several months, their relationship became very close.

Melanie, as we have seen, was present when Helen was taken into hospital, but she had been rudely chased off by Dr. Amy. But Maryssa had had sympathy for her, and though Helen could not remember meeting her, they had kept up a phone contact, and kindhearted Melanie had consoled Helen when chemotherapy resulted in her hair beginning to fall out.

Helen's physical recovery from the surgery, and the process of getting her settled back in Philadelphia was all extremely difficult. Helen had begun, earlier that year, to teach part-time at a community college, but now nobody could even consider sending her back into the classroom.

As James had let drop, they had indeed planned to move into a rented home, because Marissa decided that it was time to give up the enormous Brooks home, and let her brother Matt and his new bride live in it, with the girl's parents. Peggy was upset, but Marissa insisted, and the move was accomplished, with the help of everyone at the Brooks home, as well as Lalitha, Sita and the gang.

Helen asked to work in the instrument factory (not realizing that she actually _owned_ the factory), and to ease her in, they let her work on recorders (a sort of flute) at home, with Sita. Helen, Marissa, Erin, Alison and James all lived in this spacious rented home, with their piano, and Lita, a lovely old Malamute, who had attached herself to Helen several summers ago.

The chemotherapy had resulted in drastic hair loss, and Helen had prevailed on Sita to help her cut all her hair off, to prevent it falling off all over the house.

Helen had been seated with Sita, working on a recorder. She had picked up the art of making recorders very quickly, the first days following her return from Seattle. Trish had watched her closely, on pins, thinking she would hurt herself with the sharp-edged tools she used. It was mostly done by hand-tools, except for a few tools such as low-speed lathes which were powered. Helen's big hands almost had an intelligence of their own; they never slipped, and seemed to know unerringly, what to do.

But today she seemed restless. Sita had been worried initially, and saw that her worry communicated itself to Helen, and made it worse. She had concentrated on her own work, speaking softly and soothingly, and Helen had calmed down. But she was restless, and made occasional trips to the bathroom; she was studying herself in the mirror.

There was a soft knock on the door. Sita did not respond until she heard the second knock; that was her habit, living in an area where kids tended to knock on the door just for fun. Sita put down her tools carefully and looked about for Helen. She got to her feet and walked to the door.

Outside stood the most beautiful girl she had ever seen.

Sita could see her startlement, but she recovered well. The clear, dark grey eyes studied her face, and Sita blushed involuntarily.

"I'm looking for Helen Nordstrom," she said in a clear low voice.

Sita frowned. What was she to do? On the one hand, Helen had been a celebrity, and part of Sita's job was to keep fans out of Helen's hair. On the other hand, Sita's upbringing rebelled against being rude.

"Please come in. I'll—I'll see if she's available."

The girl, who looked to be around seventeen, smiled unexpectedly. After all these months, Sita's speech still sounded defiantly British, and not only British, but educated.

Sita led the way in, and motioned the girl to a seat. Her hair hung loose, a glossy chestnut. Her skin was like alabaster, her dress impeccable, her feet tiny. She sat on the edge of the chair Sita showed her, and they looked at each other with equal interest on each side, tempered with equal politeness.

"Would you like a drink?" Sita asked charmingly, and the girl said, maybe water. Sita brought her the water on a tray, and went to look for Helen.

"There's a girl to see you," she said in a low voice.

Helen frowned. "What's she look like?" she whispered back. "Where is she?"

"In the living room! A really pretty girl, about seventeen, grey eyes, short ..."

Helen shook her head, frowning. She turned to the mirror one last time, and brushed away a few hairs from her shirt. "I look a mess," she mumbled, fussing with her clothes.

"Oh you look fine," Sita said, picking off a hair Helen had missed. She wanted Helen to make a good impression on the girl. She couldn't say why.

Helen went into the living room cautiously.

"Melanie!" she cried, running forward and kneeling near her chair. "You're here already!"

The girl looked from Helen to Sita and back. She did not want to be introduced, but it seemed strange to talk while the Indian girl looked on.

Helen got to her feet lightly.

"Melanie, this is Sita, my friend, and Lalitha's sister! You remember Lalitha!"

"Yes, I remember Lalitha; I met her in hospital. You look alike. Just a little!"

Helen laughed. " _I_ think so! Sita, this is my friend Melanie. She's my best friend, after Marissa, of course!"

"Hello, how d'you do?" Sita said smiling, holding out her hand. "How d'you do," replied Melanie with a bright smile, as she shook Sita's hand.

"I kinda guessed who she was," she said smiling at Helen. "She's the one who cut your hair!"

"How did you know?" Sita asked, with a puzzled smile. "You must talk to each other, then?"

"Yeah," said Helen, "I called her right after. Isn't she cute?"

"Now, Helen," laughed Melanie, "you can do better than that!"

Helen tugged at her hair, and a clump came off in her hand. The other two held their breaths as her face convulsed, but she gave them a watery smile, holding out the little tuft of hair. "It just comes right off!" she remarked.

Sita watched Melanie's face as it showed the intense pity the girl felt. Melanie looked completely confused. Sita understood that her presence had complicated whatever plans Melanie might have had. Somehow Lalitha seemed not to have mentioned Melanie when she talked about the events in Seattle.

Melanie held out her hand for the tuft of hair, and Helen laughingly put it in her hand.

"I wondered if you'd like to—go out, but," she said, and quickly continued before they could interrupt, "we could do it another time when you don't have visitors!"

"Oh, don't mind me," Sita said quickly, smoothing her skirt and reaching for her bag. "I'm just keeping Helen company! She's all alone until the kids get here," she explained.

"Wait, don't go," said Helen and Melanie together. Sita could not help the shadow of a scowl crossing her face. She hated how in tune they were. _Where_ had the girl come from?

Melanie looked from one to the other. "Let's arrange to meet, say this evening? Or tomorrow?"

Helen nodded, bewildered. She had been ready to go with Melanie, but she could easily see that Sita was hurt.

"We have some shopping still," Helen said, awkwardly, apropos of nothing, and saw Sita brighten.

It was close to Christmas, and Sita had been put in charge of Helen's Christmas shopping, to restrain Helen's rather reckless shopping habits.

"But I can't go out, looking like this!"

Melanie and Sita spoke together, saying of course, she could. "You could wear a scarf," said Sita, "Or a wig!" said Melanie.

Between them, Melanie and Sita rigged a scarf for Helen. She had complained that the wig Sita found in her closet was too uncomfortable to wear. They left a message for Marissa, called Trish to tell her where they were, locked up the house, and left for the shopping plaza Helen and Sita had planned to go to on their next trip.

Sita shyly took charge of the expedition, and Melanie watched them with their complicated system for keeping Helen's spending under control. It was very clever, and it was working. Before her eyes, she could see Helen learn to curb her generosity. Gradually, without her noticing it, Melanie became a partner, looking for things, helping to choose, suggesting alternatives. She began shopping for herself. She had not bought her father a gift in a long time, but she wanted to do it now.

As the morning turned into the afternoon, and they ate a pizza crowded in with lots of women and children out Christmas shopping, Melanie realized who Sita was. It had taken a long, long time, but suddenly, in a bookstore, before Sita could steer her away, she saw the poster of the immortal movie, with Sita in an inset. She looked a lot younger, and the makeup did make a difference, but it began to fit. Most of all, the voice.

Sita smiled ruefully at her, and Melanie indicated, with a smile and her eyes, that her lips were sealed. And she conveyed too, somehow, that she was deeply honored.

"Does she know?" Melanie asked, when Helen was busy studying a toy that she wanted to get for Allie.

"She used to," Sita said. "How good a friend are you?"

Melanie bent her head. "If you mean, can you trust me—yes, I guess you can."

"She's led a double life, you know. Did you know that she was also—my co-star?"

Melanie nearly dropped the cup of coffee she was sipping from.

"That's impossible! They're completely different people, different . . . different personalities!"

Sita only nodded, a half-smile on her lips. With a finger to her lips, she indicated that Melanie was to keep it to herself.

"I didn't know at the time. That operation was—the death of Sharon," said Sita. "I'm kind of a widow," she added. Melanie seemed to draw things out of her almost against her will. She was the kind of person you poured out your heart to, and Sita could not help herself, starved for intimate companionship as she was.

"Were you two ...?"

Sita shrugged. "A week here, a week there. That was all. The rest of the time, of course, she had to be Helen." Melanie nodded, wide-eyed.

"And she doesn't know. And no one knows!"

"My sister knows," said Sita. She sighed. "She was a goddess, you see," she explained. "She could keep an army satisfied, be all things to all women. The way she is now, she has trouble enough being the mother to her kids."

Melanie nodded slowly. Certainly she had seen it firsthand.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," she muttered.

"What _are_ you doing here?" Sita asked, smiling.

"She called me, after the hair," she replied. "I'm a sort of shrink, I guess. At least, I play one on the phone!"

"You're very lucky," Sita said. Melanie could see that the admission took an effort. "I'm not a very forthcoming person, you know! Confession to strangers is not a hobby of mine!" Melanie nodded graciously. "But I'd give anything to be you."

"I imagine so," Melanie smiled, tiredly. She could not tell Sita enough for her to know exactly what she was wishing for.

Another Christmas

Lalitha and family were, by now, quite accustomed to having Lorna in and out of the house. At first they went to great lengths to keep Helen away from there. But it quickly dawned on them that Helen had little or no recollection of Lorna at all.

"When they met, there was hardly any reaction," Lalitha mused. "Lorna was all upset, though."

Lorna shook her head. "I just can't believe it still," she said, her eyes staring into nowhere. "Here I was, almost shaking, and she just lay there, quietly confused, like, oh hi, nice to meet you."

"Oh, she was shocked and—just stunned, is the best I can say. She was just stunned for hours. She just watched everyone. Then Janet talked to her, and later I talked to her . . . she talked back very cautiously. Very grown-up."

"She was on her guard," Lorna said. "She was in the Principal's office."

"At least," said Trish, clearing her throat, "she wasn't in the Great Principal's Office, you-know-where!"

"You mean, she was shocked because she had just escaped death? No, I don't think she realized that."

"She _still_ doesn't. Life and death are not what she worries about. She's just worried about the children and the dog, and where will the money come from."

"And tinsel on the floor ..."

Sita, Trish and Suresh studied Lalitha seated on the sofa, cuddled against Lorna. It was as though those two had been together for ever. All the dreams Sita had had, about seeing her sister with Helen, looking into each other's eyes, surrounded by the children, the house filled with music, they had all evaporated. Lorna and Lalitha were such a natural pair, it was impossible to see anything else. It made Sita feel deeply, deeply a failure. Sita watched Lorna just touch Lalitha's hand, and Lalitha swung round to look at her. Lorna indicated Baby Grace with just a motion of her chin, that incredible, ballerina chin, and Lalitha looked round, observed the little girl's antics, and looked back up into Lorna's eyes, her own eyes shining with pleasure. It was the kind of thing couples did, the kind of thing Sita had envied her whole life. Across the way, Trish and Suresh were doing it.

"I'm going for a walk," Sita said, getting to her feet.

After she had left, Trish sighed.

"If only someone would take her out," she said, sorrowfully. " _Such_ a nice girl!" She shook her husband's long-suffering arm. "S'resh, don't you know _anybody?"_

It was their one sorrow, that Sita was unhappy. Sita was usually cheerful, but her family was certain that it was just a front.

"At least she's over Helen," they said, consoling themselves. "That was the problem for a long time!" Lorna had been told about Sharon Vuehl, and to their horror had confessed that she had known all along.

"How _could_ you?" they had exclaimed.

"I loved her!" she said simply. "When I was in love with her, nothing seemed to matter except that she should be happy! Even now, I can't stand it when she's unhappy," she mourned. "She's got some kind of grip on my brain!" They laughed. They knew the feeling well.

Vicky's Problem

While Melanie was visiting Philadelphia, she and Sita had gotten to know each other. After she returned to Seattle, she kept in touch with Sita, and figured out almost everything there was to be learned about Helen, Lalitha, Sita, and Marissa. Meanwhile, she had also met Vicky, who worked for the East Coast branch of the same company that Melanie worked for (and who had actually set up Melanie for Helen). Vicky had gotten to know Helen much earlier, and had heard nothing about the surgery, and the tumor, because she knew none of the members of Helen's family, at least none that she could talk to, to obtain information. She was appalled when Melanie revealed what had happened to Helen. Melanie felt deeply sorry for both Sita and Vicky, and boldly decided to connect them.

She called Sita at home one day, and got her to call her back.

"I have a Christmas present for you," she said, playfully.

"For me? Oh dear, I haven't anything for you, I'm afraid!" Sita's voice was pleasant, clearly pleased to hear from Melanie. "What have I done to deserve all this attention?"

"Oh, just being yourself, and caring and attentive to Helen, and so good to me when I was visiting!"

Sita laughed, a little embarrassed. "It's not the usual kind of thing I do," she said.

"After Sharon Vuehl, I would have thought anything like that would be a bit tame!"

Sita sighed. "That's true, I suppose. But it was all in the imagination, in one sense. It's all gone."

"Well, that's what my present is about. It's an evening with a friend of mine. She's a nice girl, talented, intelligent, educated. She's a professional escort, and she does little projects like this." She quickly proceeded to elaborate on the particular services Vicky provided, making it sound as glamorous as she could.

Sita was thoughtful for a while.

"Is this the kind of thing you do, too?"

"Yes."

"You're a professional escort. Not an actress."

"Yes. I'm sorry if you don't approve!" Melanie could hardly believe she had bombed the plan.

"Oh . . . I try not to judge," Sita said, sounding a little too smooth. "Is there some reason it's another young lady, and not yourself? Wouldn't it have been more— _personal_ if you had offered to entertain me yourself?"

Damn the woman, thought Melanie.

"I'm a little tied up here, at the moment, and . . . there are some other reasons, too. I just think you'll enjoy yourself. Sita, she's not a sleazy, slutty kind of girl who you'd hate to be seen with, I'll promise you that. If anything, she's classier than I am. You'll definitely like her."

"Melanie, _think_. What advantage is there in my getting to _like_ a professional escort?"

"Because ..." Melanie could think of no reason she could give. There were many, but none that Sita would buy. "Because I think you two will be good company for each other, and she's too pig-headed to try to meet you on her own time. There. I've shown you all my cards!"

Melanie was stunned that Sita had made her do that. It was something special about Sita. She was a very unusual woman.

Meanwhile, Sita had been thinking fast, and she had thrown in her mental towel. She yearned for the pleasure she had known at the hands of Sharon—Helen, as it turned out—and Melanie. She felt far more sexually hungry now than she ever had, and was further from being able to satisfy it. Helen was safely incarcerated in the emotional safe-boxes of Marissa and Melanie, further out of Sita's reach than ever.

"What do I do?"

"I'm going to send you a cell phone," Melanie said, exulting. "It's going to be on 'vibrate' setting. This way, you can call out, and get calls without the rest of the family knowing."

"You're very thoughtful!"

"Then wait for instructions! I'm sending the parcel to Helen's address."

Sita thanked her and hung up.

The very next day, there was a parcel for her delivered to the house in Newberry, which arrived when Sita happened to be there. She discarded the packaging, and took the phone to Helen. Together they figured out how it worked. Helen was all excited, that she could call Sita anytime she wanted, privately. Sita looked at her, amused. What was there to call about, between them?

Late that night, the phone rang. Sita hurried outside, dressed in her thin nightie, and took the call in the yard, shivering in the cold. Everyone was asleep but her.

"Hello, Sita?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"My name is Victoria," the female voice said. It was a rather neutral voice, clear, quick, intelligent, confident. "Melanie arranged for me to call you. Can I meet you sometime tomorrow evening, and take you out to dinner?"

It was easier said than done. Sita had to invent all kinds of things just to get away from the house and be left alone. Vicky was perfectly agreeable to her complicated plans. She said sometimes things were awkward, and she was just very used to odd arrangements. She seemed perfectly cheerful and very friendly.

Finally, Sita was ready and waiting at a rather expensive restaurant close to where she lived. A tall, dark-haired girl walked in, wearing a dark green coat, spotted her, and came over.

She was handsome, high cheekbones, sculpted, expressive lips, wide-set, level black eyes, a tiny nose stud, straight black hair cut like a boy, and a brilliant smile. She was tall and wide-shouldered, but delicately boned. Her mouth was expressive, with a just a touch of pride to it.

"Sita? I'm Vicky!" she offered her hand, long-fingered and smooth, with short nails, and Sita shook it. The girl laid a $10 note on the table, and helped Sita out of her chair.

She had reservations at a classy nightclub, a place with good food. Sita enjoyed her meal, and the conversation. Vicky had the kind of intelligence that was interested in everything, and Sita found herself describing her work, her early acting days, in short almost everything except _Merit_ , and things to do with Helen.

Vicky claimed not to have any college, though Sita knew the contrary to be the case. But her keen intelligence was such that she could keep abreast of anything Sita happened to talk about, learning very fast, anticipating lines of thinking, totally absorbed in Sita, not her face, not her figure, but her words and her thinking. It was very flattering. Not even Helen, and certainly not Sharon—considering her for a moment as a distinct individual—was ever so attentive.

They went dancing. Vicky was apologetic, but, she said, she loved to dance. It didn't matter that Sita couldn't dance, and hadn't danced very much, Vicky was delighted just to take her dancing. It was a quiet place, with a nice clientele of other relaxed couples who liked to dance, who left Vicky and Sita to themselves. After forty-five minutes of dancing, Vicky said she was satisfied. "I don't want to keep you out dancing against your will," she said, smiling. Sita was having a good time, but dance really wasn't her thing, and she said so, smiling. Vicky said that was fine. They could go to a jazz club, or just go somewhere and talk, or whatever else Sita wanted to do.

They found themselves walking back to Vicky's car, and Vicky took Sita's hand.

"How well do you know Melanie?" she asked. The question was asked lightly, but Vicky could not hide—and perhaps wasn't trying to hide– a certain edge in her voice.

"Not very well at all," Sita said. Trying to talk American was getting a little hard. Bit's of her British dialect kept creeping into her speech. "Why?"

"You surely know what I do for a living," Vicky said smoothly. "But you know, this doesn't feel like just another job."

"Is that a compliment? Do you compliment all your customers?"

Vicky nodded, accepting the reproach gracefully. She did something with her head that seemed to say, well, there were compliments, and then there were compliments.

They got into Vicky's car, and drove out to a very posh apartment building, and parked.

"Will you be offended if I talk about myself?" asked Vicky, gently. "I don't do this to everybody. Only to—very special people."

"Sure," said Sita, feeling awkward. Vicky was very emotional, though still in firm control of her behavior. She couldn't imagine Vicky falling apart easily.

Vicky recounted the events of the previous several months, and how she had fallen in love with one of her customers, how the woman had found someone else, and how Vicky had gone looking for love in all the wrong places.

"I was at the point of getting out of this business. Not because it is shameful. No; I think it is beautiful. Everyone wants to have sex. To have sex with a beautiful partner, a man or a woman. And that's basically what I do. This job is for women who are so self-sufficient emotionally that permanent relationships are unnecessary. But you don't know what you are, until you try it," said Vicky. "When you fall in love five times in four months, you know ..."

"You mean four. Four times."

"Well," said Vicky, "that was until tonight." She looked directly at Sita, her eyes large pools. "She _knew. Somehow_ she knew! It was a setup."

Neither of them needed to mention names.

Sita took a deep breath, and turned to face Vicky. Her vibrant voice had been caressing her ears for almost another hour. "Vicky," she said, "you're crazy. I'm not your type! I . . . my background, my life, my work . . . my family . . . none of it fits! And worst of all, I... I'm in love with someone else."

Vicky breathed out almost a sob of despair. "Oh!" she whispered, and held her head. "This was not kind!" she said, tears pouring from her eyes. "It wasn't kind, no it wasn't kind at all!"

"I'm sorry! I just came along ..."

"I'm not talking about you," said Vicky in a hoarse whisper. "I'm talking about Melanie! Oh, she has betrayed me!"

Vicky collapsed on the steering wheel in a puddle of tears. Sita sat in her seat, bewildered. They continued like this for a while.

Vicky stirred herself, and began to clean off her steering wheel.

"Come on up," she said, smiling weakly, "I'm going to pull myself together! It'll be fun to watch!"

Sita followed along, feeling stupid.

It was a pleasant apartment, rather severe, elegant, masculine. There were lots of books, not just for show, but evidently books she had read. There was hardly any clutter, and the kitchen looked unused. Vicky hung up Sita's coat and her own, and excused herself.

Sita sat on the sofa, while Vicky headed for her bathroom to clean up. She came back presently and sat near Sita. Her large black eyes looked at her, slightly red.

"I'm all better!" she smiled. Then she sobered. "I would like to make love to you," she said in a whisper. "If you would like that. Not because of the money—I'm going to give that back . . . here, I haven't cashed the check. I'll tear it up ..." with a quick motion, Vicky tore up the check that she had picked up from a folder on her desk. "Not for the money, but because—I want to!"

She knelt beside Sita and took her hands in hers. Her black eyes looked up into Sita's face expectantly.

"I want to, very much," Sita said honestly, moistening her dry lips, "but you're not ready. You're upset, and I'd rather talk with you, help you sort things out, if that's humanly possible, than complicate things further," she continued. "You don't need sex, you need a friend, Vicky! I don't think you're cut out for this line of work."

Vicky flinched at the words, and Sita wondered if she had been too harsh.

"Well, that seems obvious now." She began to take off her shoes, slowly and deliberately. "I have – other problems you won't understand, and need not worry about," she said quietly, leaving her shoes neatly aside, and proceeding to take off her necktie and her lovely ivory blouse. She stood in her skirt, stockings and a scrap of sheer lace that was her bra. Her breasts were just two soft swellings on her chest, her nipples showing erect through the sheer fabric. She sat on the floor near Sita, not too close, gazing up at her face. "Look at you, so calm, so collected, so concerned!" She rubbed her arms. She stood to walk to the thermostat, and turned up the heat just a little. "75, just in case you change your mind," she said, and smiled.

"So, what is your day like?"

The question caught Sita by surprise. Taken off guard, she gave an honest reply, explaining how she divided her mornings between working on some piece of wood or other, and keeping an eye on a sick friend. "She's got kind of a mental problem, but she manages very well."

"This friend," Vicky asked, "has she lost her memory?"

Sita looked sharply at Vicky. "Maybe," she said cautiously.

"Is this friend . . . the one you're in love with?"

"Probably not," said Sita, feeling stupid.

Vicky groaned in despair.

"Let me make love to you. No strings attached. Just . . . for being so sweet, and listening to me! I'm a pro, I can handle this. I want to show you how good it can be. My god, here we are, in my room, I want this, _you_ want this, we're consenting adults, why not?"

"When you say no strings ..."

"I mean it. I owe it to you."

"And you'll drop me off, and no hard feelings?"

Vicky looked stunned. "I'm not a jerk," she declared. "I may be oversensitive, but I don't take offense where no offense was offered!"

"All right," said Sita. She stood to undress, but Vicky quickly stopped her. "Let me!" she said.

Even the undressing was part of making love. Every touch was an act of worship, a reverent homage. It was not pretense, and it was not because of Sita's exotic beauty. It was achingly clear that Vicky was utterly infatuated with Sita.

She made love with feather touches, touches that were frustratingly light, touches that left Sita unsatisfied, wanting more. Vicky's sensitive lips only brushed the fur on Sita's skin, leaving the skin untouched. Then Sita's impatience got the better of her, and she took control, and they rolled on the floor, on the heavily padded, but short-napped rug, forgetting all restraint, indulging in everything that they wanted, long to have done to them. Sita told Vicky what she wanted, shyly at first, but increasingly more insistently. Vicky held back, too, but Sita's passion unbuckled Vicky's inhibitions.

"God, you are so passionate! I love the way you make love to me!" Vicky exclaimed, as they paused to regain their breaths.

"Do you have sex every night?"

"Almost. But not always like this!"

"You know how good you are," Sita smiled, her eyes soft with the glow of a satisfied woman. "It's been a long time since I was done over so thoroughly!"

Their naked bodies felt good against each other.

"Was Helen this good?" Vicky whispered.

Sita caught her breath.

"No," she said honestly. "But . . . when you feel the way I did ..."

"I know," said Vicky, "I know."

They stopped talking to kiss, to do the things that Sita loved when Helen did them to her. With her graceful, thin, angelic body, Vicky felt as though Sita could do anything with her, as if she was incapable of resisting, as if she was a toy—a loving, adoring toy, which could be passionate at times, and brilliant. It was intoxicating to have that kind of power, after so many years of sexual impotency.

Smoothly Vicky took control again. This time it was slow and easy nearly all the way through, until just before they finished together. Vicky looked triumphantly at Sita, who lay replete by her side, and her skin glowed with her pleasure.

"I have an offer," she said.

"Yes?"

"I'll do you once a week, every week. On Sunday afternoon. Or any afternoon. For absolutely free!"

Sita laughed. "I'll do you for free, too!"

"Does that mean yes?" Vicky asked, eagerly. She straddled Sita's leg, and began to rub her hot, moist sex up and down Sita's thigh.

Sita became serious. She pulled the other girl down onto her body, and held her so she could look into her face.

"You said no strings."

"No strings," said Vicky, her pupils dilated, her breathing shallow. "Please say yes!"

"But—aren't these _strings?_ You want an ongoing relationship! That's a string if I ever knew one!"

Vicky's breath came labored now. Her face was a grimace of pain. She managed a smile that looked horribly fake.

"Think of me as your pet rock," she said. "Does a pet rock have strings? Think of me as your rubber doll! Think of me... as a hopeless cousin, on whom you've had pity! Imagine yourself a drug lord, and you're giving me a few pills . . . just to keep me alive!" Her eyes snapped wide open for a second, before she controlled herself again.

"Do you take drugs?" Sita asked presently.

"Not anymore," Vicky said.

"Be honest," Sita said. "You're asking me to have a relationship with you; I just want you to be honest with me."

"So it's yes??" she asked, excited. "We have a deal?"

"Do you do drugs? Have you taken drugs? Do you do drugs now?"

"A drug," Vicky said, "one specific drug. I've given it up! I've given it up. You can depend on that."

"When did you give it up?"

"Yesterday. Last week, really!"

Sita gently pulled herself free, her face showing her disgust. "I've just had sex with a drug addict," she muttered, to no one in particular. She began to pull on her clothes.

"What are you doing? What are you _saying?_ Look, half the people you _know_ are like me! You don't know, you can't see, but they _are!_ Look, Sita, I've _given it up!_ I've done that _for you!_ That's wonderful! What more could you want?"

"I am nothing," Sita said solemnly. "I have some savings, not much of an income, a poor family, no car, no house. All I have is pride, Vicky. As long as I have a choice, I can choose to keep company only with drug-free people. I don't ask much of life," she said, with an edge, "but at least I can do that much."

"Can I see you again?"

"Well, no! I can't make it any plainer, really. I hope you enjoyed what happened here. You've certainly spoiled the memory of it for me!"

"Sita! Wait, I'll take you back! It's late!" said Vicky, as she reached for her clothes.

"I'll walk, thanks. It isn't far."

Vicky sank to her knees, utterly crushed.

Sita walked home with a determined stride. There were clouds overhead, threatening to rain, but she walked slowly, past Helen's old neighborhood, seething inside. She felt taken advantage of, lied to, imposed upon. It particularly hurt that the beautiful girl was a prostitute. She had been _so perfect_ at first, before she went to pieces. She was like someone's Galatea, a dream creation, but she had a soul, an intelligence that deserved so much more than just to have men paw her, releasing their foul seed in her. Sita didn't realize it, but her steps slowed. Finally, she found herself at the corner church, an ancient church that was about to close down because its congregation had died out over the years. Every hour its bell chimed, performing the only service the neighborhood would allow it to provide.

Sita stood at the corner, and pulled out the phone. Melanie had made an elaborate plan, now it became clear. She had taken pity on the lovely Vicky, and on Sita's forced celibacy, and brought them together.

The niggling doubt at the back of Sita's mind made its presence known in Sita's conscious thought. Would Vicky kill herself?

There were only two numbers saved on the phone: Helen's and Vicky's. Sita thought furiously. Her anger was gone, now, but there still was a kind of indignation. She had little or no patience with drug users. They had their fun, she had always thought, and any suffering they brought on themselves was deserved. The more they suffered, the happier she was. Child molesters, wife beaters, cheating lying politicians, deceitful clergymen, gangsters, and drug dealers and users. They were all scum, and the only violence in Sita's heart was reserved for them. But try as she might, she _could_ not sort Vicky into that group of people. Her image kept sliding over to where she had put Helen, and Sharon, and Melanie, Marissa, Gena and Trish, the sweet women whom Sita admired and loved.

The hoarse voice that answered her was struggling to sound pleasant. But it sounded as if it came from the edge of death.

"Vicky here."

Sita took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Will you call me?"

"Sita!" There was a long pause. "You're feeling sorry for me."

"I have a deal for you," Sita said. "For a hundred dollars a week, I'll talk to you on the phone!"

"Every day?"

"Once a week. I have the phone, I may as well use it, I thought!"

There was another long pause.

"Where are you?"

"At the corner church."

"Praying?"

"No . . . just outside. I'm not . . . a Christian," she said. "Anyway, not a real one."

"We can't talk like this," Vicky said. Her voice had lost it's slight animation, and she sounded dull. "You must go home . . . that's a dangerous corner."

Sita laughed. "It's really quite safe," she said. "The bad section is a few blocks away! We've sort of taken this part back, as it were."

"Go home," she insisted. "Call me when you get home."

"I can't! I have no privacy!"

"Just send me text. You know how?"

Sita sat outside, on the kitchen steps, and learned the ins and outs of text messaging.

You are wonderful,

came the reply,

I understand everything. Before you say it, I know it. I see me through your eyes. Believe me

Sita was moved.

What do you see? What am I feeling?

Desire and disgust. More disgust.

Fear

Because I want to kill myself. You can see that.

Don't do it. We have a deal. I need the money.

Kinder to let me go. Can't live like this

Like what

I need someone to love. Take care of

Get a dog

Be my dog. For the love of God, let me love you!

When youre clean. Til then, this all you get

There was a pause. Then:

I want live! You cant stop me loving you! Oh god, Im crying Im so happy! Cause I cn txt to u, yr wrds look so good on my screen! Warning—I mk lv 2 u in my hrt. I lv U, I lv U, I lv U ntl I die!

These other women, Y didnt U change f them?

I dnt know. I lvd them enuf. I know—bcos I hadnt hit bottom. Sita?

Yes

I M totally in lv w you.

Well, then, U know what to do.

Yes. Good nite N sweet drms

Good night, vic

Sita felt her life suddenly change. She had a secret friend again! Everyone noticed that she was happier, more cheerful, smiled more.

"You have such a nice smile!" Helen told her often.

Every night, usually very late, past 2 or 3 in the morning, sometimes, Vicky would text to her. It was supposed to be once a week, but from day one it had been impossible not to do it. It was only at night; Sita ignored her phone until bedtime.

Y didnt you reply this afternoon?

I was away at Hlns

So thats the way it S.

How can you say that?

Im sorry. I shudnt say mean stuff abt her

Say what you feel. B ready for N honest response.

Wl, she has you, and her girl and Melanie. I just get to borrow you @ nite.

Have you met her after?

No

So you dont know

Know what?

Why dont you go drop in on her?

R U crazy?

Do they know you?

Only she knew

SO, pretend to be from the phone company

What do I do?

Just go look in the basement come back up The older kid lives there now, but shes out a lot

As it happened, Sita was there when Vicky turned up, in jeans and a denim jacket, with a walkie-talkie clipped to her belt. When Sita opened the door, they stared at each other, non-plussed, then Vicky asked whether the Lady of the House was in, blushing slightly.

"Helen," Sita said, "someone to see you."

The dog, Lita, was barking dutifully, and Helen quieted her gently. Helen headed to the door, curious as always about every visitor. "Why, hello!" she said pleased to see a pretty girl. "Come in, please!"

"I'm from the phone company," Vicky said, looking at Helen's head. "Could I, uh, look at your phone terminals in the basement?"

"Oh, certainly," said Helen, courteously. "I'll take you down!"

Vicky dragged it out as long as she dared, studying the terminals, and approving of the work that had been done on it.

" _You_ did this yourself?"

"I had help." Helen admitted. "My friend Suresh helped. He's the nephew of the lady upstairs. He's very intelligent."

Vicky smiled at her, studying her as if she would never get another chance. "That's all I really need. I hope you weren't busy!"

"No, I was, er, just doing a little carving, is all!" She smiled flirtatiously. "Is it hard to become a phone lady?"

"No, just some technical courses, and a lot of experience!"

"Are there lots of girls doing it?"

"Yes, about half!"

"I bet you meet a lot of people!"

"Oh, yes; after I finish here, I go to check a few older homes out that way," Vicky gestured, vaguely. "Do you like the neighborhood?"

"Oh, yes indeed!" Helen nodded vigorously. "There's a lot of kids here," she said. "They usually play in our back yard, 'cause it's the biggest!"

"That's kind of you to let them!"

Helen smiled, pleased at the compliment. They went upstairs, and with a last, lingering look and smile at Helen, Vicky went out, and walked up the street.

A little later, she heard footsteps behind her, and she looked around. Sita had run after her.

"Helen sent you this," she said, breathless. It was a bag full of little muffins.

"Is she watching?"

Sita looked back at the house, and said, "No, she'd come all the way out if she was."

"She'd lost _all_ her _hair!"_

Sita snorted, as if it was common knowledge. Vicky looked shocked. "All that lovely hair!"

"I suppose you ran your fingers through it all the time."

"That's not what we did," Vicky said, after giving Sita an odd look. "We were not lovers."

"Hmm. I wonder why I don't believe you?"

Vicky took a deep breath.

"Thanks for bringing out the eats," she said. She inspected the bag, and smiled at Sita. They were quite close in height; Vicky was an inch taller, maybe. "Muffins!" she said. "Did she bake them?" Sita nodded. "Thank her for me!"

"I will," said Sita, feeling like a jerk. Perhaps they had not been lovers, after all. What right had she to complain? "It was good to see you!"

"I'll—I'll text you," Vicky said.

I tried to stay off the drug

Vicky wrote.

I made it through four days

Wonderful! Keep it up!

No, I went back last nite. Sita-I must get help.

Oh god, youre back on the drug?

Just last nite. Don't shout at me!

Promise me you'll get help!

Will you come with me?

After a great deal of thought, during which Vicky kept texting her, asking if she was still there, Sita agreed. With her upbringing, it was impossible for her to refuse.

They did it right after New Year's, in the afternoon around two. Vicky was a mess, but she was incredibly encouraged and strengthened by Sita's presence with her. She insisted on going to a treatment center in a suburb of Baltimore, an hour away.

[Note: the way treatment for narcotic addiction is set up varies from locality to locality, and over time, too. It might be quite different from what is described here.]

Sita was with her at the interview, and when she signed permission for the treatment. Sita signed as a friend who would share some of the responsibility for Vicky, and as a secondary contact. Often, the worker told them, their patients could not bring family members, for obvious reasons, and the friends were often the main engine for seeing them through. "She has to take the main responsibility," the kindly woman made it clear. "But we believe that our approach, enlisting a special friend, has advantages over other methods! So Sidney, we're glad you're here!"

"Sidney isn't my real name," Sita said gravely.

"But _you_ know who you are. This is all for reasons of personal commitment. I know you are committed. But when things get harder, sometimes it's hard to remember that you decided to do this voluntarily."

"Oh, I imagine so," Sita said, bleakly.

The woman cocked her head on one side. "Excuse me for saying this, but you have an interesting accent! You must be from the West Indies, or somewhere like that?"

"India," said Sita, briefly.

"India, of course! You speak beautifully!"

"Thanks," said Sita. She looked at Vicky inquiringly, and Vicky shook herself out of her daze, and they left. She had to go back in two days' time.

Sita's family only knew that Sita often disappeared in the afternoons on mysterious errands. Of course, they knew better than to pry into them. In fact, she was out in Baltimore, with Vicky.

The team was committed to an infinitely slow recovery program with Vicky. Sita had explained that Vicky was a part-time worker in a very tricky job that involved a great deal of application of her interpersonal skills.

"Is it some kind of sales job?" they had asked, and Sita had said yes, more of a service job, though. In the end, they had agreed, and Vicky was put on initially a high enough dose of the substitute drug that her effectiveness was not compromised. There were numerous means used to monitor her, blood tests, urine tests, and a rigorous regimen of counseling, diet and exercise.

For Vicky, it was a difficult time. The euphoria she usually felt had always been moderated by her knowledge that she _was_ using a potentially destructive substance. Now that she was using a three-quarter dose, the reduced effect of the drug was compounded by the knowledge that it _was_ reduced. On the other hand, the fact that Sita was actively involved in the program excited her. Depending on her thoughts, her mood swung back and forth alarmingly.

At night, they text messaged back and forth for a while before falling asleep. It was all in a day's work for Vicky, but Sita's day began earlier, and Vicky was beginning to realize that she could not impose on the long-suffering woman too much.

Their trips back and forth twice a week to the rehabilitation center were the only times they saw each other. They started out calmly enough, after the initial rush of pleasure at seeing Sita. Then Vicky got gradually more agitated, until she was a mess when she dropped Sita off. She begged for a kiss, a hug, but Sita was firm.

Sita saw this as stubbornness on her part. A hug or a kiss could not hurt anything. She knew her feelings for Vicky were becoming very strong; all she needed was to have the sense of being able to see Vicky as she had seen her that very first evening, that first sight of her, without the feeling that it had all been a sham; she had been on drugs the whole time.

On Valentine's Day, Sita got flowers from Vicky, a huge bunch of them.

"I can't take these home," she told Vicky, after thanking her.

"Take them to Helen's house and put them in vases," Vicky advised.

"They've given each other flowers, too. The place is dripping with roses."

"Well, throw them out, then," Vicky said, feeling annoyed. Sita was constantly putting her down. It was as though in Vicky's dreams, Sita was far more pleasant than she was in person. But Vicky forced herself to lighten up. They were stepping up the rate of reduction of the drug, and it was getting harder.

"All right," Sita said evenly, "I suppose I could take them home."

"You do so much for me," Vicky mumbled, "I was out of line."

"A couple of flowers would have been plenty, Vicky. One flower says, I love you. Two flowers say: what? I love you a little more than the minimum."

"A dozen roses. I always wanted a dozen roses. Dammit . . . someday, Sita, you must give me a dozen roses. Make a woman out of me!"

"I'm sorry, Vicky. I was so wrapped-up in . . . other things, I guess; I didn't think that I could _give_ roses instead of just _getting_ them."

"I guess that makes sense," Vicky said, sighing.

"I would be very honored and—grateful—if you would see your way clear to ... keeping these in your apartment. I didn't suggest it at first because it implied some kind of attitude of belonging. We're still not there, as you know; we're barely friends, Vicky. Maybe someday I'll . . . leave a change of clothes there, and we'll both get very excited!"

Vicky's smile was like the cat who had got the cream.

"I'll do anything for you," Vicky said, her eyes glowing. "Anything!"

<<< Not the END, literally. >>>
