The Day Bailey Devlin's Horoscope Came True 6zmt

THE DAY BAILEY DEVLIN'S

HOROSCOPE

CAME TRUE

~Book #1/Bailey Devlin Series~

by

REBECCA FORSTER

Smashwords edition © 2015 All rights reserved Cover design by Paul Ziomek

All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your digital bookstore and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are purely the product of the author's imagination. Any license that has been taken is for the tone of the story and the enjoyment of the reader.

Contents

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17

Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 The Day Bailey Devlin Picked Up a Penny Novels by Rebecca Forster

For My Grandfather Fritz Boehm

And my mom Annemarie Boehm-Forster

Prologue

My first time? Frankly, it wasn't what I hoped for. Actually, the whole thing was downright disappointing. Now that I'm older, though, I can see that it was partly my fault that things turned out the way they did. My mistake was expecting so much. I was very literal when I was young. I was also hopeful, full of girlish anticipation that, one day, life would magically explode and shower me with wonderfulness. I was going to get all the good stuff because I was an eye-scrunching, breath-holding, hand-clasping believer in the goodness of the universe. But that Tuesday, at seven in the a.m., on a very ordinary morning, I wasn't even thinking that anything life-changing was about to happen to me, Bailey Devlin. That morning, my mom was stirring up one of her famous breakfasts. You know, the kind mothers make in the vain hope that their kid won't be hungry again by ten? This one was the mother lode of a stick-to-your-ribs carb driven repast: left over noodles fried up in Canola oil, scrambled with eggs and sautéed onions. A shot of Tabasco was thrown in for good measure. Mom called this Depression food, and I ate it at least twice a week. My mother wasn't old enough to the Depression, of course, but her mother's mother had been. She was the one who handed down the noodle/egg/onion/Tabasco recipe, and we revered that dish as if it was a culinary treasure discovered in Bobby Flay's underwear drawer. We felt the same way about tomato mush even though that really wasn't anything more than canned tomato soup sprouting a sponge-like lump of saltine crackers in the middle of the bowl. Then there was Melba toast. I'm not talking about the little wood-shaving crackers you get at the grocery. Our melba toast was a Sunday-special dish and it was my all time favorite Depression food. Pay attention. I'm only going to give out the recipe once. Scald milk, thicken with cornstarch, sweeten with sugar. Pour over toast. Melba toast was hot and sweet and creamy. If you toasted the bread you didn't

even notice it was stale. Melba toast actually did stick to your ribs. For a kid like me, an only child of a single mother who didn't have a clue where the next paycheck was coming from, those meals were heavenly. If Mom was cooking, that meant she was home. If she was home, I was loved. I also liked the idea that my breakfast was cooler than anyone else's in school. In those days I, Bailey Devlin, could convince myself that weird and poor really meant exotic and interesting. I believed I was wealthy in experience unlike those poor schleps that grew up in a house with two parents, siblings, and a dog. I lied to myself about my situation because that made it easier to be the one who stood out. I was a little taller, a little smaller in the chest, and a lot more noticeable because of my huge mop of long, curly red hair. Heck, if I could convince myself that I was special in junior high, I could convince myself I loved Mom's cooking. Bottom line, I just loved my mom. What I didn't love was that hand-to-mouth stuff. I was probably five years old when I figured out that I would do things way different when I grew up. I'd have so much money I would pay for groceries and rent at the same time and maybe even have a dollar left over. I would have great clothes that came from a real store instead of the thrift shop. When it came to men, I would find a really good one. My man would be solid. He would have prospects. We would be a team. None of this 'but I love him' nonsense that Mom still drooled out when I asked her why she had married someone who thought 'till death do us part' translated into three years and six months. Mom would laugh when I got mad at the way she talked about my absent father. It made me madder that she looked beautiful when she laughed. Why would someone leave anyone who was beautiful when she laughed? She never had an answer to my questions about my father. She just said my dad would be back one day because he 'loved' us. She kept saying things like he'll get 'it' out of his system. I hoped he would hurry and cough up whatever 'it' was because there were times we really could have used another adult around the house. Even when I was little, though, I knew he wasn't coming back. The idea that someday the front door would open and a dad and husband would walk through was my mom's dream. My own dreams were centered and smart, even for a kid. I dreamed them with my eyes wide open. I called my dreams plans. First, I would go to college and then law school. Once I was a lawyer, I would find a man. I would play the field and weed out the losers. I wouldn't settle just for love. I would have standards. I just hoped I would recognize the perfect man

when I saw him. I mean, there I was that Tuesday morning, twelve and three quarter's years old, and I still hadn't been able to check a guy out up close and personal to see what was what. In seventh grade, most of the boys were shorter than I was and most of them were dumber if you measured intelligence by how often they put together a full sentence without including a reference to any number of bodily functions. Most of them…. Okay. Sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself, and way far away from the point. My first time is the topic. Tuesday. 7:00 A.M. That morning I did what I always did while I waited for the noodle/egg/onion/Tabasco glop to fry: I read the newspaper, front page first. I lost myself in breathless tales of crime and punishment in the gritty city of San Francisco. Those stories made me want to be a lawyer. I would be the Joan of Arc of the legal profession, tying myself to the tree of truth, enduring the flames of evil to fight for justice and the American way – but only until a guy on a white horse told me I had worked hard enough and it was time to go live in a castle if that's what I wanted. Or we could be partners and hang a shingle from the turret. He would say: "Whichever pleases you, Bailey." And I would say: "Thanks tons. I'll think it over." And if the guy on the horse never came I would still be a lawyer, and that would be good too. Lawyers never let anyone just disappear the way my dad did. They knew cops and investigators and FBI agents who found missing people. Lawyers drove great cars, and wore snappy clothes, and were just all around really successful people who probably never heard of tomato mush much less ate it. Plus, all the lawyers I read about in the paper were either strong, good looking men or women who weren't afraid to talk to the press and seemed like they could

have their nails done once a week. Fingers and toes no less. I bet they could even afford to have their own washer and dryer right in their house, and that was really saying something. So I read the front page of the newspaper, then the California section for local news, and finally my literary dessert: the entertainment section of the San Francisco Chronicle. I tried not to read the comics because if I did that I might forget all the important stuff I had just read. I'll be honest, though. I peeked at Zits and the Far Side. In my defense, those comics were smart-funny so I made an exception. What I lived for, though, was Joyce Jillson, psychic to the stars and to me. Reading my horoscope was the one really important thing I did every day. Reading my horoscope (Gemini just in case you hadn't figured it out) made me feel special because deep in my ungainly frame, in a heart that really was bigger than anyone imagined, I believed. I believed that the stars would align one day. Someone named Joyce Jillson would look up into the sky and see Bailey Devlin's future. Joyce would be so excited by what the stars had in store for me that she would scribble down the information and send it to the newspaper. There the editors and printers and the newspaper delivery boy would make sure I got the message. I believed that woman in the photo knew something about the great beyond that I would never understand because she was ageless. In all the years I had been reading my horoscope, she had never changed. Anyone who didn't age had to have a cosmic connection, didn't they? My mother had read me my horoscope since I was two. Horoscopes were my primer, my phonics lesson, and by the time I was five I was reading them myself. On that Tuesday, when I was twelve and three quarters, just as my breakfast was being dished up and put in front of me, I started to read. I read Mom's horoscope first. Sagittarius – Throw yourself into a new venture. Your work life holds enormous promise. Mom put a fork on my dish of noodles. Her eyes, green like mine, were dancing she was so delighted with her horoscope. My eyes never danced. People pointed that out a lot. People would say that my eyes looked for the stuff you were made

of while my mom's eyes looked for the stuff you dreamed of. I would have liked my eyes to dance like my mother's; I would have liked it if people stopped pointing out the difference. Mom sat down and assured me that the darn thing was right on. Her boss at the Curl Up and Dye Salon (Hair, nails and skin care) had promised her that she would be the first one to go to massage school at the beauty parlor's expense as soon as they fixed up the backroom (closet) and got a massage table. Mom would wear a white coat like a doctor. She would burn pine scented green candles and rub down naked housewives to the smooth sounds of Johnny Mathis. Tips would triple. We would be in hog heaven. We would go on a shopping spree. She said we would go look for my dad if the tips were really good. I told her that I would rather put a little something away for all the schooling I was going to need. She touched my hair, told me she loved me, and that I should never change. Somehow that seemed a little off topic to me, but I liked it when she touched my hair and looked at me like that. I let her do it even if I didn't get why the idea of saving a few bucks made her get all sentimental. "Your turn," she said and got up to clean the frying pan. Fried noodle glop always left a big mess. I obliged even though mine seemed to be the same from one day to the next – until that Tuesday. That was the day the thunderbolt of good fortune struck or sounded or whatever thunderbolts did. Bottom line, it was awesome. I started to read, but then I stopped. I started from the beginning again. I read it all the way through silently to be sure I hadn't made a mistake. This was personal. Really, really personal.

Life changes forever with Venus lighting up the part of your solar chart pertaining to intimacy. In-ti-macy. I could hardly breathe.

"Bailey?" Mom's voice sounded so far away that I didn't hear her the first time she called to me. When she asked about my horoscope again I sputtered that it was 'nothing special' and wolfed down those noodles. I didn't lie, really. In a way, there wasn't anything special in store for me. There was just the PROMISE of intimacy. Still, I sure wasn't going to talk to my mom about that. If I did that she would want to know what happened at the end of the day. And, duh, I sure wouldn't want to talk about that. Worse, she might keep me home from school just to make sure I never met my destiny. I sure couldn't let that happen, now could I? I buried the Calendar section under the rest of the paper, told Mom I had dropped a noodle on my old and faded red skirt, and ran to my room where I changed into my new white denim skirt with the blue ticking. All the while I tried to ignore the strange feelings in my stomach. I was near fainting and that, I decided, was only normal since this was it. The day I had been dreaming of. Jimmy Brewster was going to ask me to the seventh grade cotillion. We would slow dance. His arms would be around me and his head would be on my shoulder since he was shorter than me. But I'd still be slow dancing with Jimmy Brewster. You couldn't get anymore intimate than that, right? There was no one more awesome than Jimmy Brewster. He was going places. Everyone said so. Jimmy had won an award – first place at the science fair for testing the effectiveness of over the counter cold medicine. He had worked on that project for two whole winters, putting himself in harm's way every time someone sneezed, taking on bugs no one else wanted with a courage seldom seen in someone his age. He ran for class president and lost by one vote just because he was nice enough not to vote for himself. Just last week he had chosen me to help him hand out the tests in algebra class. He picked up a pencil I dropped in the hall. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but now my horoscope confirmed it: I was going to go on my first real date with someone who was going places. I fairly flew to school and then lounged at the lockers trying to look nonchalant. When Jimmy came down the hall I made eye with him, but he went by me twice without stopping. He was blowing his nose on the first so he might have figured it wasn't the best time to talk about the dance. The second time around, he was pure coolness. He pretended he didn't see me – and I'm hard to miss. The bell rang and I didn't see him again until after lunch.

Jimmy sat behind me in algebra and still didn't say a word. By this time my stomach was in knots. I had never felt anything like it, all that tugging and pulling as if my whole body was just going to fall right into my tummy. This must be the kind of love my mom always talked about, the kind of love my horoscope promised. But I wasn't my mom. I wouldn't wait for love to come to me. If fate had chosen to initiate me into the mysteries of personal intimacy today, I would meet fate head on. When the bell rang and Jimmy didn't say anything, I chickened out. I stood up and started for the door but changed my mind before I got too far. It was up to me to get the ball rolling, right? Isn't that what I decided? What kind of lawyer will I be if I don't stick by my guns? I turned around and smiled at Jimmy Brewster, but he didn't smile back. In fact, he looked horrified. That threw me off what little stride I had. I thought fast, convincing myself that all I needed to do was break the ice. If I talked, so would he. Unfortunately, my lips were stuck to my teeth and nary a word came out. Jimmy got up from his desk, but he did it real slow. He had never looked more handsome or more strange. He was shaking like a leaf as he leaned close to me. There was that tug-in-my-tummy again, and who could blame me for being flustered? He was so close I could smell the peanut butter from lunch on his breath. For just a second I thought he was going to kiss me. My eyes were like microscopes. I saw the little zit on the side of Jimmy's nose. There was a bead of sweat hanging in his hair just above his ear. My heart fluttered when I saw that his eyebrows grew together over his nose. All of it was so endearing that I gave myself over to the moment, completely unaware that the fates were about to screw me big time. "Bailey?" Jimmy whispered. "Yeth?" That came out badly. My tongue had dried out too since I had been breathing through my stuck on smile for a good three or four minutes. "I think…" His tiny Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. I leaned closer, ready for him to pop the question. With a great effort, with amazing courage, he spoke once

more. His voice shook; my stomach lurched. "Bailey." He whispered my name again and this time he added: "I think you're dying." What? He pointed behind me. I looked over my shoulder. I looked over my other shoulder. There was nothing there. I looked back at Jimmy. He pointed lower. He kept pointing. It wasn't until I pulled my skirt around that I saw what he had seen: my brand new, hardly been worn, Salvation Army, blue ticked, white denim skirt was bright red right where my butt had met seat 3b in Mr. Horkan's Algebra class. The goddess of fertility had visited me while we were trying to solve for X. Those pangs and pulls were not the stirrings of desire for Jimmy Brewster at all. I looked back at him. He was right. I was dying of embarrassment. Now you know about the first time my horoscope came true. It didn't happen in the way I had hoped; then again, it wasn't exactly wrong. I mean Venus is the Goddess of Love. I figured love and fertility and intimacy went hand in hand so, technically, my horoscope was cruelly on target that day. I didn't go to the dance that year. Jimmy Brewster avoided me like the plague until we graduated. The days of my young life went on. I still read my horoscope every now and again, and it freaked me out when it happened to be right. Thankfully it was only right about little things like when my horoscope predicted I was in for a big raise. I sure could use it considering I was working my way through law school. Sadly, it was a raise in the rent on my little dilapidated one bedroom apartment that came my way. Still, I couldn't argue the accuracy of my horoscope. Secretly, I still hoped that one-day my horoscope would put my life in order. While I waited, I would order it myself. There was high school and college and yes, law school. I grew older. I grew taller, and most people said I got prettier. Life was busy and love visited me in the guise of a man or two who caught my fancy and won my heart before fading away for one reason or another.

Which leads me to today. In two short weeks I will take the bar exam and I will it because I have worked so hard, and because I'm smart, and because I need a home run so badly. I have lived on noodle/egg/onion/Tabasco glop and I bless my mother for showing me how to survive on nothing, but I want a steak. I have thrown pennies in fountains when I had them, but I'd like to have a dollar to my name. I have figured out my numerology (6) just in case the answer to love and life isn't in the stars. I like to leave all mystical options open. I'm twenty-three now. I've been waiting a lot of years for the big one. I it that I really, really don't believe like I once did. But there are times when I lie in the bathtub with my eyes closed or stare at the ceiling in the bedroom because I feel really alone, that I the first time and all the other little times after that when Joyce Jillson was right. In those quiet, alone times I tell myself this: the first time was just a little cosmic experiment, a celestial joke, a let's-test-Bailey Devlin-day. Maybe all the rest of them were, too, and that's okay. I can take a joke. I like a chuckle just as much as the next guy. But once – just once – I would like to have a star truly shine on me. Eventually, I get out of the bathtub or fall asleep in my bed, and I forget all about stuff like horoscopes and good luck. Life is hard. Life's surprises are just that – surprises. It is up to me to take care of my future. Little do I know how wrong I am about that. There is a storm brewing on my horizon. The Bailey-Devlinmeets-her-destiny moment is coming. When it hits it is going to be a doozy of a day.

Chapter 1

I slam awake at 5:30 a.m. I always slam awake, bolting upright like someone has put a cattle prod to my behind instead of the alarm on my phone going off like it is supposed to. Every morning I have the same thought: thank goodness there isn't some gorgeous guy in bed with me. The jolt would have thrown him over the side. I know this because every time I jolt awake the books littering my pitiful excuse for a bed slide off and hit the floor. This morning Business Law (8th edition), Family Law (5th edition) and Constitutional Law (4th edition), hit the ground like flash-bang grenades. Only the venerable Black's Law Dictionary (used and on sale at the law school bookstore) remains in bed with me. It is too heavy to go anywhere without a helping hand, so I give it a push. It lands with a major thud as I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. My legs don't have far to go since the mattress is on the box spring and the box spring is on the shag carpet of an apartment that hasn't been remodeled since 1962. I put my hands palm down on the edge. My eyes are still closed. It will be a while before they open properly, but I don't need to see anything really. My ritual is deeply engrained in my muscle memory: feet, hands, push, stand. If I don't fall down, then I shuffle forward until my hands hit the faux marble of the sink in my tiny bathroom. Only then do I open my eyes. This morning is a spectacular display of muscle memory. My feet get me into the bathroom without a hitch. Once my palms hit the counter, and my head hasn't flopped forward onto the gold veined mirror that at one time had been rather chic, I open my eyes and groan. My ponytail has migrated to the top of my head, so I kind of look like the courthouse fountain at night when they shine red lights on the spray. My glasses are still on, tilted up on one side of my head. I sigh and take them off, thanking the powers that be for one more day of unbroken frames. I sigh again. I do that a lot but it really doesn't mean much. I mean it isn't like a sound I make because I am lamenting my lack of money, love, time, or food – you know, the stuff most people take for granted. This is just what I do, the way children whine and men fart.

I turn on the water, set my glasses aside, bend over the sink, and splash my face a goodly number of times until I feel the nerve endings in my cheeks start to tingle. The nerves near my ears ring as they spark awake. But when I grab the towel and give myself a buff, the ringing doesn't stop. That's when I realize I didn't turn off the alarm. No matter. No worries. I am awake. I am ready for the day. I fairly bound into the bedroom where I throw on my sweats (mismatched since none of my clothes ever wear out simultaneously), plug my earphones into my phone, trot into the kitchen, and open the magic drawer. The magic drawer is stuffed with coupons that will get me anything I desire at a discount from foot massages to double Big Macs. This is also where I keep my treasured postcards; the ones my mom sends once a month like clockwork. They are full of adventure stories and hugs and kisses, but no news of my dad. I find a coupon for free coffee and stuff it into the kangaroo pocket of my sweatshirt. I pull my watch cap on even though I know it won't stay put on my riot of red hair while I run. I head out, down the hall, past the doors where my neighbors still sleep, and then I almost make an unforgivable mistake. My finger almost touches the elevator button. Before I press it, the door behind me flies open. I look over my shoulder, and there stands Josephine resplendent in all her middle age, transvestite glory. The resident of 2F is dressed in a green silk robe and pink feather boa. Frilly eyeshades are propped above her tattooed eyebrows. She is wigless and her head is shaved to a very proper marine cut that has more salt than pepper in it. "Morning, Josephine," I whisper and offer a sheepish smile. "Bailey, honey, it's too early for that thing. It makes such a racket." "I'm sorry, I forgot you were working last night. I–" The door slams. She doesn't want to hear an apology; she wants to sleep. Impersonating the great female talents of history at a hip bar every night is exhausting work. I turn on the music and head down three flights of stairs as I listen to Johnny Cash sing about a burning ring of fire. I pick up speed and by the time I hit the ground floor I'm looking like friggin' Rocky. I bounce from foot to foot as I look inside the mail slot. Nothing – again. Not even a darn flier. I need to talk to the postman. God help him if I missed a card from Mom.

Then I don't care if I'm the last person on earth because I've hit the San Francisco chill and come alive. I leave all my woes behind me. I don't wonder where my mom is now in her never ending search for my father. Blithe spirit that she is, she believes it is her karma to be with him and damn it if she isn't going to search every corner of God's green earth until she finds him. I don't worry about my student loans. Someday I'll be able to buy anything I want without a coupon, thank you very much. I don't worry whether or not my old Renault will make it another five thousand miles without giving up the ghost. I don't worry about studying for the bar, the mother of all exams. I am flying and free and happy because I am running – not away from anything – but for the sheer joy of doing something I want to do. Two hours later I'm ready for work and wishing that I didn't have to go. I want to stay home and hit the books. Still, a girl has to eat, and in order to do that a girl has to work. In order to do work, a girl has to get her car out of the parking space that is no bigger than a postage stamp. Last night when I parked it looked like a good fit for my tiny car, but now some idiot has parked a van behind me and it's going to take all the skill in the world – and time I don't have – to maneuver out of the space. I toss my stuff onto the enger seat, get behind the wheel, and put the key in the ignition. The little baby starts up, but she doesn't exactly purr like a kitten. In fact, the engine sounds more like the chain-smoking Mr. Grotsky in 3A. I throw the gear and put my arm over the back of the seat intending to inch backwards, instead I hit the gas and bang into the bumper of the van. "Darn." I feel bad, but it is what it is and I was there first. I inch forward turning the wheel so hard the little tires grind. Reverse. They grind again. Forward. Reverse. It's hard to see behind me. I'm careful, really I am, but I do hit the van again. Not hard enough to hurt anything I'm sure – then I'm not so sure. "Hey! Hey! What are you doing?" Since my windows are rolled up, it takes me a minute to realize that someone is yelling at me. In my rearview mirror I see a man coming toward me. He has come from behind the van. I whip my head toward the side mirror and I see him from the waist down. It's quite a lovely view. His jeans fit nice. His legs are long.

HisHis hand is pounding on the top of my car! "You hit my van!" He hollers as he pounds. I roll my window down a smidge. Instantly, my nose gets so cold I look like Rudolph. I know this because it's been that way since I was a kid. I don't want to roll the window down too far in case he's a maniac and tries to reach in and throttle me. "You parked there! You blocked me in!" I raise my voice a little because that's what attorneys do. I learned that early on at school. It's a gift. State your position like you're always right and pretty much people will think you are. In this case, it doesn't work. "That doesn't give you the right to hit my car." He bends down so he can look me in the eye while he argues. He is gorgeous. No two ways about it. Seriously. Gorgeous. Long hair, blue eyes, long lashes. He has a tattoo on his forearm but it's flowers not a naked girl. I would assume he was a sensitive guy if he wasn't getting in my face. "Is there any damage?" I ask. He storms back to look at the bumper. I watch in the side mirror. He's as nice from behind as he is from the front. He comes back again. "That's not the point. The point is–" he starts to say, but I don't have time for the point. Since there is no damage, I wave him away. "I have to go to work. If you'll move your van back then we're all good." Darn, I am getting so smooth. He looks confused like he isn't sure what to do now that he's not getting the apology he expected. "Go on. Just move it back." I flutter my fingers again. He huffs, throws back that gorgeous hair of his, and he puts his hands on his

very slim hips. Then… Well, then he goes and moves the van back enough inches for me to swing out. I do that, make my customary U-turn and, as I shoot by, I see another man get out of the back of the van. He's not as cute as the first one. I also see why the goodlooking one was so upset. That van is his livelihood. Someone has lovingly painted JAZZ BOYS: WEDDINGS, BIRTHDAYS, FUNERALS on the side of it. The two men look after me. I wave. I hope that makes up a little, just in case I see the good-looking one again. Which I wouldn't mind if he were all calmed down and all this studying was done. Then I forget him because that's what a real woman does when she has places to go and things to do.

Chapter 2

It takes me a good long while to get to work from where I live. My neighborhood is pretty much the creepy basement of the gorgeous mansion that is San Francisco. I love the city and have already picked out a modest Victorian with a view of the bay for when I am a high priced lawyer and can afford such digs. I don't want to do anything to jeopardize those plans, so I do my best to be a cautious, law-abiding citizen. That's why I'm so unhappy when a cop pulls me over because the steady old Renault is smoking from the exhaust due to the heroic effort it is making to get me where I am going. Assuming the officer is reasonable, I tell him my story. I tell him that I am doing my best to keep body and soul and car together and that was why, honestly, he should cut me some slack. Because I am a law abiding citizen. I repeat this as he writes me a citation. Perhaps, I was a bit forceful. Perhaps, I sounded hysterical. Perhaps, I forgot all the persuasive skills I have learned as I plodded toward my lawyerly destiny. Perhaps, I argued. Yes, I'll it it. I did argue. But dammit, that did not mean I deserved a ticket; a full-fledged ticket that I can't pay even if I learn how to spin straw into gold. On top of that, when I get to the pay-by-the-day lot I have to feed my last dollar into the machine. AND I have to step over the bum who sleeps near the exit of that lot. AND the darn cable car almost clips me even though I am dodging it along with about ten other people. Eventually, I merge into the crowd of about a thousand people who are trying to get into the courthouse building. I stand in line and wait my turn for the scanner. Of course, when it is my turn the darn metal detector goes off with a shrill that makes it sound like Godzilla is crawling out of the bay. "It's my chastity belt," I say to the deputy. This is a guy who sees me almost

every day of the week and should really know who I am by now. He isn't amused. A female deputy pulls me out of line, wands me, and nothing. I've told him a million times: it's the machine. Of course, the machine doesn't do this to everyone, so that leaves me to conclude that the darn detector has something against me personally. Finally, I gather my purse and the books I've brought with me to study during downtimes and make a dash for work. That's when I run into a man with such force we sort of spin around. He grabs me by the shoulders and rights me, so I end up facing the correct direction. "Look where you're going," I snap. I'm usually pretty nice, but the pressure of living my current life is getting to me. I snap at almost everyone these days. "Sorry. My fault entirely…Bailey?" My shoulders slump. It's Jeffery. Jeffery, the lawyer in the nice suit; Jeffery, the lawyer who is ever polite; Jeffery who would say it was his fault that the San Francisco earthquake took out the city a hundred years earlier. "Sorry, too," I mumble. I mean it. He's so nice and I am sorry for being angry with him. "I'm just really late for work." "Me, too. Judge Ramirez." Jeffery smiles as he hangs himself with an imaginary noose. "It can't be that bad." I laugh despite myself. "You'll understand when you the bar," he assures me. "How's that going by the way?" "Good." He makes no attempt to move on. I add, "I have a study group now." "Yeah? I had a study group once." Now we're into a heavy conversation but it ends like all our conversations do – with one of us saying goodbye too quickly. Usually, it's me. This time he beats me to it. "So, I'll be seeing you." "Sure," I say.

"Maybe at lunch?" "Yeah, I like lunch." I roll my imaginary eyes thinking that was the silliest thing to say. Everyone loves lunch. Duh. Then I realize he may be asking me to lunch, but there's no way to find out what he really means without putting myself in a majorly awkward position, so I say: "Okay, then. Good luck today." He smiles. I fail to see that it's a nice smile that brightens up a handsome face because I'm already walking. And he's walking. And we're kind of walking together until he veers off to do lawyer stuff in front of Judge Ramirez. I peel off the other way to serve the court behind the counter of Sandwiches & Such, the courthouse shop that, luckily, carries aspirin. After all this bumping into men this morning, I've got one raging headache.

* * *

There is a line in front of the counter. People are juggling their purchases, tapping their pumps and wingtips, and hoping that they will get their lunch before hell freezes over. I'm stocking the shelves, wanting nothing to do with what's going on over there. Mira, the owner's doe eyed, dark eyed, sixteen-yearold daughter is taking an order from a young cop with broad shoulders and a tight bum. If I can hear her flirting everyone else can too and it is a pitiful display. "Extra mustard?" Mira bats her ridiculously long and natural eyelashes. "I made it myself. Very spicy." "Careful," the cop says. "I might have to come back for more." "I'll serve, you protect," Mira coos. I do a lot of eye rolling and sighing in my job and this day is no exception. Despite the skirt below her knees and the blouse buttoned up to her chin, Mira's assets are pretty darn noticeable. The cop obviously hasn't looked her square in the face, though, or he would see that she isn't even a speck on the horizon of legal. I finish putting the napkins in the dispenser and am about to intervene

when Mr. Hassan Balmati – as he likes to introduce himself – comes out of nowhere, swoops down on Mira, and hijacks the transaction. "Mira!" He moves her aside firmly, and Mira's perfectly shaped brows pull together in a Lolita expression of petulance. I'm sure I hear a harrumph from her. I'm equally sure I hear a collective sigh of relief from those in line. Mr. Hassan Balmati smiles that marvelous smile of his; the one that is so sweet it spreads across his face like a sunrise. When he smiles for real, he looks like a TeleTubby and that is super cute. Then there is Mr. Balmati's forced smile. That one makes him look like a Walking Dead TeleTubby. That is the smile he is smiling when he goes for the cop's throat. "I'm sorry, sir. So hard to get good help. I don't know what I was thinking hiring a mere CHILD of SIXTEEN YEARS." Yes, capital letters can be heard in Mr. Balmati's voice. "Even if she is of my own loins. My own dear DAUGHTER, you see. OF SIXTEEN YEARS." He draws blood with that one and then presses on the wound as he hands the man his sandwich. "There you are, sir. I would believe there is nothing more here that you want. Is that not so, sir?" "Yes, sir," the cop says. "I mean no, sir." The officer is gone in a flurry of gut-wrenching embarrassment. The line is moving. Mira waves at the uniformed blond God through the glass wall, but he pretends not to notice. Mr. Balmati continues with his litany of bows and thank yous, and then the last of the paying customers is gone. I cross my arms, lean against the condiment station, and get ready for the fireworks which, in Mr. Hassan Balmati's repertoire, is really more of a sputter of sparks. "Mira, my daughter! I will not tell you again…" I would never have known what he wouldn't tell Mira because he's talking in Arabic, but Mira translates simultaneously. I doubt, though, that her translation is exact.

"No flirting. No joking. No dating customers. No dating anyone until I'm eightyfour and a dried up old prune…" I'm pretty sure he didn't say dried up old prune, but I am sure Mr. Balmati said all the rest of it. Mira, a true drama queen, is a good daughter really and she gives him his due reluctantly. "Yes, papa, I know. I am sorry." "Mr. Balmati." I interrupt as much for Mira's benefit as mine. "We're down on milk." "Very good, Bailey. I shall order some," he says. He is about to continue with his lecture, but there is a paying customer to be tended to. She wants to buy pantyhose and Mr. Balmati does the honors. As he takes the package, he raises his eyebrows and his faces pulls into an expression of sincere concern as he looks closely at the lady. He lowers his voice, but we all hear him say: "These are the ones you wish to purchase, madam? You are sure?" He uses his hands to point in the general direction of her lower half and mimes the circumference of the equator. "They could be difficult. For the breathing, I mean, madam." She leaves without buying anything. Sometimes Mr. Balmati is his own worst enemy, but he doesn't know it. He sets aside the pantyhose and turns smoothly back to Mira. She has popped up onto the back counter, and is swinging her legs, and wrapping her beautiful long black hair around one hand as her father gets it out of his system. "All I'm asking, my daughter, is that you take living more seriously. A pretty face is not enough to succeed. I have listened to Mr. Trump–" Mr. Balmati gestures to his prized possession, a framed and autographed picture of The Donald that hangs where most people would put their business license. "I have followed his glorious example–" Mr. Balmati puts his hands together and bows like he thinks The Donald might just open his mouth to speak if he pays enough homage. When The Donald just looks back, Mr. Balmati keeps going. "And now look at me! Owner of my own establishment. In a house of justice, no less. I give you all this knowledge for free and do you listen? No!"

"Papa," Mira whines. "I don't want to be like Mr. Trump. I don't want to be in a courthouse. I want to be like Kim Kardashian!" "If you were Miss Kim Kardashian you would still be here in the courthouse everyday with one thing or another." I have heard every word of this exchange a hundred times, so I busy myself by going in and out of the back room with stock and such. I try to tune them out by mentally reviewing what I studied the night before, but it's impossible to concentrate. Mr. Balmati takes my arm as I come out of the storeroom with an armful of pens and legal tablets – both are bestsellers in this little store. He swings me in front of Mira. "Why can you not be more like Bailey?" Mira blinks at me as if he has just asked her why she can't be more like a potato. She is appalled. "Papa, look at me? I'm not meant to actually work." Mr. Balmati throws up his hands. I would take exception to what the teenage queen has said except that I know there's a kernel of truth in it. Some of us are meant to work…and work…and work. That's fine. Really, it is. It's just that it would be nice to have someone to work beside or for. I wouldn't expect that guy to drop on my head, you understand. The perfect man, the one who will make me laugh, will make me think, will pitch in when times get tough, well, he isn't low hanging fruit. Still, I'm hoping to find him someday. I'm almost dreamy thinking about all this when Mr. Hassan Balmati throws up his hands and screeches. "Mira! Do you see the time? Please, Mira, tell me you have made the sandwiches for the judge's meeting that I must take to them at this very moment." Mr. Balmati's hands land atop his nearly baldhead. Mira shoots a frantic look my way. Before Mr. Balmati has time to rent his garments, I am in and out of the back room with a round tray piled with the most perfect sandwiches. I am beaming. I ed the order and made them in record time while Mira read me last week's People Magazine complete with editorial asides. "Here you go–" Before I can point out that I cut them all on the angle the way he likes us to do,

Mira hops off the counter and takes the tray from me. "Of course I didn't forget, Papa. Look here." She holds up the tray. "They are prefect." "My wonderful daughter." He coos at her as he takes the tray. "You make me have less regret for not fathering a son. Bailey, do you see my good daughter?" Mira knows better than to let me answer that. She puts her hands on his back and pushes. "Go, papa. It's bad business to be late. Mr. Trump would say so." He's out the door, listing from side to side as he balances the big tray of sandwiches just above his substantial tummy. When he is gone, Mira laughs, looks at me mischievously, and hitches her skirt way past her knees. She pops a few buttons on her blouse and shakes her hair out. She's got the Kardashian moves down pat. "Thank goodness he's gone," she breathes. "But I'm still here, you're still young, and he'll be back." I pull her skirt down, button her buttons and head off to do my work. Behind me Mira is hitching up her skirt again. You can only do what you can do. You gotta pick your fights. You gotta just… I forget what lecture I was giving myself because someone in the hallway outside the glass wall has caught my eye. People are everywhere: lawyers talking to clients, regular folk trying to navigate the corridors, clerks, Fed Ex guys, security people, but I'm looking at Jeffery. I'm thinking he really is a nice looking man with his thick dark hair and his sincere, warm, brown eyes. He was probably a Boy Scout when he was little. He looks so smart that I would bet he was at the top of his class in law school. I don't know him well, but we've seen each other enough over the last year for me to know that he is curious about me. I'd like to say the feeling was mutual. Okay. I'll say it. The feeling is mutual, but what in the heck am I going to do about it? There is barely time in my life to breathe much less date. Not to mention that I work in a sandwich shop and he's a junior partner in a big law firm.

"Bailey." Mira is at my shoulder. She has noticed Jeffery, too. "He's not interested in that lady he's talking to, he keeps looking over here. I think he's coming in again to see you." Mira, ever romantic, thinks Jeffery is dreamy. More importantly, she thinks he's rich. I think he might be too and that gives me pause. I wonder if I could be serious about someone who doesn't know the value of a coupon? "That's his boss," I tell her as I get back behind the counter. The lunch rush is over so I'm thinking I have some time to read the constitutional law book I brought with me. Mira gets back on her favorite perch, the counter behind the real counter. This time she takes The National Enquirer off the rack and pages through it. I open my book, put my elbows on the counter and my palms over my ears because it's a sure bet Mira is going to start talking. "I hope when you're a lawyer you get movie stars for clients, Bailey." "I hope I have clients," I mutter. I find it amazing that no matter how hard I concentrate Mira's voice can still pierce my brain. I find it harder to believe that I can't resist answering her. I give up on the hands-over-the-ear strategy and pick up the knife on the cutting board next to me. I hope the rhythmic thump of blade against wood will do the trick, but it doesn't. I can hear her even when she whispers. "Bailey. Bailey. Jeffery's coming. Fix your hair." I look up. Jeffery is coming this way. Two hot bright spots punch up on my pale, redhead skin just under my sprinkle of freckles. "When have I ever fixed my hair?" I am sure I deliver that line so it seems that I am above caring. What it really means is 'what in the heck am I going to do with this mop of flaming curls even if I have a thousand mirrors?' "Then fix your boobs. He's going to ask you out this time. I know it." I look at my chest. It's a reflexive action. I can see my toes past my chest for

goodness sake. I'm still a girl, though. I can't help doing something, so I duck and look at myself in the shiny cash . A blurry Bailey looks back. I lift a hand to flip up the collar of my blouse but end up knocking the knife to the ground. It clatters and skitters and ends up under the counter. I bend to pick it up and do what I always do when I'm nervous: I talk. "If Jeffery wanted to ask me out, he would have done it a long time ago. He's a nice man. Successful. And–" "And so-o-o cute–" Mira adds the obvious. "Yes. He's cute, but…" I grunt. That knife is further under the counter than I thought. When I come up for air I am clutching the knife in my left hand and Jeffery is standing in front of the holding two boxes of Pepto Bismol. He smiles this beautiful smile and his eyes sparkle. I know the sparkle is for me, and I don't know what to do with the butterflies it stirs up. That makes me cranky but he's determined to make me smile. One of his hands flies up in mock terror as he looks at the knife. "I give up." "Funny," I say and try not to smile. I do a little. He is beyond cute and sweet. I could probably eat him alive and he'd thank me. He hands me the boxes of Pepto. I am very methodical when I ring up his purchase. I want him to think I am professional. "You should take better care of yourself," I say. "I guess I need someone to take care of me." He's flirting. I know it. I just don't know what to do with it. "Women don't do that anymore. We're liberated." I'm an idiot. After law school I'm going to enroll in charm school. "Are you too liberated to go with me to a banquet? I'm the keynote speaker. It's kind of fancy, and I thought since you're going to be one of us soon you might like to see what you're getting yourself into."

There it is. The invitation. A date. I can feel Mira thinking 'I told you so' behind me. And this isn't just any date. This is an affair. A lawyerly affair. Wow. "I'll think about it," I say, and hold out my hand for his money. Mira swings her foot and connects with my rear end. I shoot her a withering look. I know I should have said yes, but I didn't and now I have to save face. "I'll definitely think about it." "I'm going to take that as a yes unless I hear different. Two weeks from Saturday." Then he forgets the invitation and fumbles with his briefcase. He pulls out an envelope and hands it to me like it's a dozen roses. "I brought you something." I look inside. There is a ream of paper. "Those are contract notes from my bar review course." He points to the heading on the front page. For a second our fingers touch, and I wonder if mine are as warm as his. "Thanks, but my study group is past that." I want to kick myself for being ungrateful, but Mira does it for me. I'm getting a little tired of her kicking me, but it is the look of disappointment on Jeffery's face that really changes my tune and I try to look sorry. "We're on wills and trusts." "My specialty," he says, happy to have another moment. "I have a great book. I could bring it to your place." "How about tonight? Her group is studying tonight," Mira chimes in. "I have a client meeting tonight," he says. I assume he is going to beg off, but instead he has an idea. "I could drop it by before dinner if that's okay. Another associate is driving, but I don't think he'll mind the detour." "Sure. Tonight would be great." I say just as Jeffery's boss walks into the shop. She's exactly the kind of woman I want to be some day. She doesn't give me a second look. Okay, maybe I don't want to be exactly like her. Still, she is a cool and successful cucumber and I have to ire that.

"Jeffery," she says. "Get a move on." He winks at me and whispers 'see you tonight'. Then he grabs his bag and they leave together, but not before I hear her say: "That better not be a date. If you want a personal life, work for the D.A." So that's how it is. I'm a little disappointed, but just a little because Jeffery throws one more smile back at me before they go out the door. I pick up the knife again and start tapping a little tune as I plant the tip of it in the cutting board. Then Mira ruins everything. She reminds me that I am lame. "Bailey?" "Yes?" "He doesn't know where you live." I turn to look at her. She rips a page out of the magazine. She's written my address and phone number on it. I'm not usually crazy, but this is an exception. I dash into the hall after Jeffery, waving the piece of paper in one hand, forgetting the tool of my trade is in the other. "Jeffery! Hey, Jeffery," I call. He turns around. His boss turns around. The big security officer by the scanner looks up, and I hear him bellow: "Knife!" People scatter. I open my mouth in a huge 'O' of surprise as I screech to a halt and look for the perpetrator. I don't have to look too far because the bad guy is me. I see the sandwich knife in my hand at the same minute the deputy hits me hard in a tackle that sends us both to the floor. His hand is on my wrist. I drop the knife. The deputy who wands me every morning has his knee on my midsection. Beyond him are two other deputies, their drawn guns pointing at me. Beyond them I see spectators. Specifically I see Jeffery and his boss. Jeffery looks horrified and worried; his boss looks annoyed. I wiggle the piece of paper in my hand.

"I forgot to give you my address." My voice is so small I'm surprised he hears it. His boss rolls her eyes. She now looks royally disgusted. Note to self: do not apply for a job at Jeffery's firm. By the time it is all straightened out, it's almost quitting time. I'm sore from where my butt hit the floor, and I'm almost sure that I am the biggest dork in the entire world. I drag myself back to the shop where Mira meets me. She puts her arm around my shoulder. "It's okay, Bailey. Hardly anyone noticed you being stupid." I keep moving. I get my purse. I don't want to talk about it. I want to go home. I want to take a hot bath and start the day over again with just my books and me. I want to relive those hours before my pride was wounded. I'm literally a couple of feet from the door and when Mira calls after me. I'm tempted to ignore her. Instead, I turn and look at her with sad dog-eyes. Even my hair feels sad. I'm almost sure it is less red than when I got up this morning. "Look Bailey. Look at this!" Mira waves one of her magazines at me as she hurries over. She sticks it under my nose. I am looking at a face I recognize, but it takes me a minute to put the woman in the picture in context. It is the forever-young-Joyce Jillson who honestly must be about a hundred and ten years old by my count. Not that it matters what she looks like or how old she is. She's reaching out to me just when I need it most. "Look what your horoscope says for today." Mira reads, my eyes follow along with the words, and my lips move. A knock on your door. Open it. The man who will change your life forever is there. Embrace him or suffer the consequences. I'll be the first to it my heart stopped cold when I read that. I mean cold, like my transmission fell out while I was doing seventy on the freeway. There isn't even a flicker of a beat in my chest. You know how people say you have gallons of blood pumping through your body? Well, it is all gone after I hear that. Nada drop. Breath? Forget it. I am twelve again and there is that feeling in the pit of my stomach, but this time I know it isn't my period. This time there is no vague

point of horoscope order to be considered. This is specific. This is talking to me. This is the real thing. Mira looks at me, hoping this will be enough to make me forget my humiliation and the fact that I have a big loser 'L' on my forehead. That is so sweet. Her expression is also the wake up call I need. I start breathing again. I will not add gullible to my loser label. While I don't believe the horoscope, I do appreciate the effort Mira made. "Thanks, Mira." After I give her a little hug I walk out of the shop. I can still hear her yammering on about Jeffery coming over and how I should be prepared. Head down, unable to look at the smirking deputies, I exit the courthouse. When I get to my car there is a ticket on it. Two in one day. That has to be a record. The stars aren't even blinking in my universe much less aligning in it. I toss the ticket in the back of the car with the other one and drive home intending to stick my head in the toilet and flush.

Chapter 3

"Chinese. Ten bucks off." I call the deal out to the three people sitting in my living room. Actually, it isn't really a living room anymore and those people aren't my guests; that room is a study hall and they are my study partners. I'm not sure I can even call them friends, because all we've done for the last three years is study together. Shirley is really pretty in that hard assed, angular way some women are. She says what she means and means what she says. She responds succinctly to the suggestion of Chinese. "Yuck." Nicholas, poor guy, is fat. There is no way around this description. He is totally round and wears horizontally stripped polo shirts that only accentuate the breadth of him. Actually, I honestly can't tell where his neck ends and his head starts, but he is super nice. He isn't real good at standing his ground, so he won't be a litigator. He is dynamite when it comes to analysis, though. Nicholas will be fabulous as a contracts lawyer. He is not a fan of Chinese either. "No thank you, Bailey." Jack is the last. He is the youngest of us. A real brainiac. He has made it through law school at age nineteen. He doesn't seem to find much joy in study, but he does find great satisfaction in it. Come to think of it, that might actually be the same as joy. It would be hard for me to know since both joy and satisfaction have not visited me for a good long while. Exhaustion I'm familiar with. Jack is quick and decisive. "Next." I start coupon shuffling again. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm an irable human being, bouncing back from a day in which the entire San Francisco police force seemed to be vying for the opportunity to give me a ticket

and courthouse security decided I was going postal. I'm not that irable, I'm just practical. A hot bath brought me to my senses. There was too much invested in my quest to become a lawyer, so I had to move on. I barely made the grade to get into school, I am hocked up to my ears in tuition debt, and if I quit now it is a sure bet I will still have that debt. So I rallied, the study crew arrived, and we put our noses to the grindstone. None of us have any money but we are hungry, so I am doing my part to help. "Pizza. Two large. Fifteen bucks. That's less than four bucks a piece if we don't get–" I am about to tell them we could all drink water with our pizza since that is free but just then a blast of music rattles the wood floor beneath my feet and drowns out my suggestion. It comes straight through the ceiling of the apartment below and it ticks me off something awful. This isn't the first time it has happened since I got home. "What is that?" Jack squawks. "New neighbor," I answer. I stomp on the floor, wishing the landlord had put that ugly shag carpet in the living room too. One major foot stomp just doesn't do it. The guy downstairs answers with a trill and a flourish, so I jump up and down with both feet. I am rewarded with blessed silence from the clown with the sax. I toss the coupons back in the drawer. "We'll eat later," I say. "Yeah, like after the bar exam. My stomach is one big knot anyway," Shirley says. "Mine is one big hole," Nicholas complains. "I can't think when I'm hungry." I'm hungry, too, but I'm tired of trying to please everyone. I re the group. I'm crossing my legs, lowering myself down onto the floor where we've set up shop when there is knock on my door. This knock is followed by a collective groan from the group. I, on the other hand, am like a prairie dog. My head goes up. My nose twitches. I Mira and Joyce Jillson and the prediction that there would be a knock on the door – not a ring of the bell but a knock – and the man

of my dreams would be standing on the other side. "What is this, Grand Central?" Shirley grouses. "Bailey, we've got to hit the books. Come on." That brings me down to earth and I almost laugh at my silliness as I get off the floor and go to the door. "It's Jeffery, a lawyer from work. He's dropping off a book and he'll be gone." Shirley snorts a grudging harrumph of approval. "We can use all the help we can get," Jack agrees just as the person on the other side knocks again. This time it is really loud which I think is strange. Jeffery didn't strike me as the kind of man who would be impatient. Still, it's kind of nice thinking that he is impatient because he can't wait to see me. He may not be the man of my dreams, but I'm not taking any chances just in case he is. I pull my ponytail tight and lick my lips. I crack my neck, put a smile on my face, and pretend he didn't see me tackled in the hallowed halls of justice as I tried to rush him with a knife and my phone number. I open the door. My smile falters. This is not Jeffery. This is no one I know. This is a really old man standing in the hall in front of my door. His walker is firmly planted on the worn carpet and there is a porkpie hat on his head. There is a hopeful smile on his face. His eyes look huge behind glasses that are held against his head with an elastic band. Behind him is a woman who is just downright scary. She is twice as big as me and that makes her three times bigger than the sweet little old man. I look at them both but mostly at her. In a corner of my consciousness I a suitcase, a large envelope, and a badge. A badge? She pushes it over the old man's head and into my face as she identifies herself. "Mrs. Wilson. Cactus Rose Home for the Aged." "Ohhhhh," I say. The end of my ponytail tickles the back of my neck as I nod.

"You want Mrs. Hawkins. She's downstairs. 1D." I start to close the door. Time's awastin' and I have things to do, but this lady has other plans. For a big woman, she's fast. She puts her meaty hand against my door. "Hey." I figure this is a pretty direct objection and she'll stand down. She doesn't. "You are Bailey Devlin, are you not?" "She's a beauty ain't she, Mrs. Wilson?" The old man sends a twinkly smile my way. Then he pulls his mouth to the side and stage whispers: "A little slow on the uptake though, poor girl." "What?" I pull back and wrinkle my nose. I know when I've been insulted. Well, I'm almost sure I know. "Quiet Mr. Sullivan!" the woman barks. The little guy shrugs. "You two work it out while I take a load off. It's been a long trip, and I'm not as young as I look." With that, he plows right through me, leading with his walker. I am so stunned that I don't try to actually stop him, but I object heartily. "Hey, you. Don't go in there." It's too late. His walker sounds like thunder on my old wood floors. I see my study group scramble to grab up all the books. I'm not sure if they do this to make sure he doesn't trip or if they are worried he'll destroy them. I whip back to the woman in the plaid jacket, skirt to her ankles, and tennis shoes. I'm sure she was a drill sergeant in another life, but I will not be intimidated. I look at her. I look back at the old guy. "What are you doing?" One of my hands flutters at him like that will make him stop. I look back at the woman and demand: "What is he doing?" I take a moment to wonder whose hysterical voice I'm hearing. Then I realize it's mine, but Mrs. Wilson is unmoved and unimpressed. She holds that envelope out to me one more time.

"Pay no attention. He's headstrong," she assures me. I am not reassured. "Here are his suitcase and his history. You'll sign here as conservator for Mr.–" "Seymour L. Sullivan," the old man calls in a reedy voice. My head feels like someone plopped it on a lazy Susan. I'm spinning around trying to follow whoever is throwing in their two cents. I hear the grumbling of the study group to boot. "Who?" I ask, but then I whip back to the woman in the doorway. There is even a more pressing question. "His what?" Mrs. Wilson shoves the envelope into my chest. "His conservator."

Chapter 4

The study group doesn't notice the fire spitting from my eyes or that I have faded from redhead-pale to absolutely bloodless. Nobody notices me because they seem to be enraptured by the little man sitting on my couch. I think Nicholas is starting to drool because he is mouth-breathing as he listens to this guy talk. "Knew a big fella like you in the war. Can't which war, but I him. Sure I do. Big fella, like you." He tires of commenting on Nicholas's bulk, and becomes curious about the books everyone is holding. "Whatcha studying there?" "The law," Shirley answers. The old man nods. "I know a thing or two about the law. Been on the wrong side of it many a time. Why I …" That's it. I have heard enough. I step out into the hall. The big woman towers over me – and I'm pretty tall – but I don't care if she is The Incredible Hulk. I am incensed by this intrusion, and I don't want whatever she's selling. "Shame on you." I waggle my finger at her. "Shame, shame using old people to do…Whatever it is you're doing. You want me to pay you to get him out of here?" She doesn't even blink, this woman with a neck the size of a fairly mature tree. "Ample notice was given that Mr. Sullivan's annuity was running out. You could have declined conservatorship by g any one of the many letters that were sent." "I never got any letters! I'm twenty-three years old. I–" Just then I hear the ding of the elevator. This place is beginning to feel like a clown car. How many people can come out of that elevator before it is empty? The answer is at least one more. It's Jeffery. Smiling Jeffery. Handsome Jeffery

all decked out in a dark suit and a shiny blue tie. He comes out of the elevator bright-eyed and bushy tailed and carrying that book just as he promised. He only has eyes for me until he has eyes for Mrs. Wilson. "Bailey?" He has assessed the situation as one that is not comfortable. That's why he gets the big bucks. "Jeffery." I hope I don't sound like a damsel in distress. "Are you all right?" I was kidding myself. I obviously did sound like a damsel in distress, because he's walking a little quicker now and his brow is all pulled together. I start to talk. So does the woman in the plaid jacket. Me: I was having my study– She: Mr. Sullivan, sit down. Your walker is making too much noise– Me: This woman says– She: Here, you look like a reasonable person. Mrs. Wilson whips the envelope out of my hands and shoves it at Jeffery. Polite man that he is, he takes it. I hope he stays out of the way of anyone serving subpoenas. "Bailey, what's going on?" Jeffery asks as the migration pattern turns and instead of people flooding into my apartment, they are flooding out. Shirley is first. Her case is packed and her jacket is on. "Sorry, Bailey, we're out of here." She's almost out the door when I throw my arm out and block her. "Hang on. I'll take care of this. Give me a minute." But of course, I didn't have a minute because once a day starts going down hill, it is like that proverbial snowball. It picks up everything in its path until it is this gargantuan mass of ice and debris coming down on your head. The last of my snowball doesn't come out of my apartment; it comes through the stairwell door.

That door is ripped open by the babe from the JAZZ BOYS van. "Who lives up here? Who?" "Now what?" I throw up my hands. Shirley makes her move, scurrying out of the apartment and into the hall. She goes past Jeffery but turns to watch whatever fireworks are coming next. Or else she's waiting to see if Jack and Nicholas follow. Or else she just wants another look at the ticked off guy with the longish hair and the jeans that fit just so. That guy comes right at me. "It's you, isn't it? What's with the banging on stuff? First my van and now you're whacking the floor. I wasn't even playing my horn. What do you want, you crazy…" That's when gentleman Jeffery makes his second mistake: he touches the man's shoulder to stop him. Then he tries to reason with him. That is Jeffery's third mistake. His first mistake was getting off the elevator. "Excuse me. You can't talk to her like that," he says ever so politely but snowballs can't hear. They just keep rolling along. "Back off," the man in the jeans shrugs him away. "I'm talking to her." Jeffery persists. His hand is on this guy's shoulder. I am thinking he shouldn't squeeze so hard, and as I think that I notice the saxophone my snowball is holding. It's a thing of beauty, all shiny and big, and made of really hard metal and it has some sharp edges. The long haired man is now so annoyed that he turns really fast, brings up his arm – the one in which his hand is holding the shiny, metal saxophone – and tries to throw Jeffery off. Instead, that sax connects with Jeffery's nose. Everyone hears the crack. Mrs. Wilson gasps. Nicholas and Jack let out a groan. Shirley cringes. I cry out, and Jeffery howls as he falls to the floor. That's when I go for it. Nobody is going to hurt Jeffery on my watch. I push that foxy babe of a sax player into the wall. "Look what you've done! You're a brute! A brute! His hands are up, but he's smiling down at me.

"Brute? That is too cute." I back off. What am I suppose to do with that? Nothing it seems. This guy moves me aside and is now hunkering down beside Jeffery who has his head back as blood pours out of his nose. "Sorry, man," says the sax guy. "Let me look." "Don't you touch him," I warn as I run for Kleenex. The only thing I find is toilette paper and I drag half a roll behind me before I to tear it off. I give Jeffery a good ten feet of the stuff. It covers most of his face when he puts it up against his nose. I put my hand on my hips. I've had enough. "Listen to me. Everyone!" Surprisingly they do. "You with the sax. I wasn't pounding on the floor. He was." I point a finger at the old man in my living room, the one with the thumpy walker. "You!" I point to Jack. "Get this man…" I point to Jeffery, "some ice out of the freezer!" "And you!" I take aim at Mrs. Wilson. "You're not going anywhere until you tell me who that is." I'm pointing at that little old man again and everyone's eyes follow as if something might have changed in the last three seconds. Mrs. Wilson sighs mightily. "That, Ms. Devlin, is Seymour L. Sullivan. Your grandfather." "My what?" Everyone sticks their heads back through my doorway to look at him. Inside my apartment the old man with the Coke bottle glasses raises his little hat and says:

"Howdy-do, granddaughter."

Chapter 5

Mrs. Wilson is gone leaving the old man in my living room. I suppose I could have refused him like a package I didn't order, but I didn't. A woman in tennies and an old man who is positive that this is where he belongs have outmaneuvered me. Jeffery is gone. The man with the saxophone got him downstairs where the man who was driving to the client dinner promised to get him to a hospital to see about his nose. Seymour L. Sullivan is still here, sitting quietly on the couch, hands in his lap, hat on his head, and his walker ready to take him anywhere as long as it isn't out of my apartment. That leaves Shirley, Jack and Nicholas, but they are on the move, too. In fact, they can't get away fast enough. Jack and Shirley are waiting impatiently by the elevator. Nicholas lingers in the doorway trying to politely explain what I already know. "Sorry, Bailey. We just can't afford to miss a minute of study time." "Come on, Nicholas," Shirley calls. "We're going to my place. Now. Get a move on." In Shirley's voice I hear the future. She will make a darn fine lawyer because everyone will do whatever she says just so they don't have to listen to her impatient voice. Her impatient voice is awful. Just as awful as my martyr voice. "Go," I say to Nicholas. I put my hand lightly on his arms. Those arms were wrapped around a tower of books. I am sadder to see the books go than him. I need those books, but I need a little empathy, too. I assume the touch of my fingers is perfect, the lilt in my voice pathetic, and that my expression of courage in the face of immense suffering are on point because Nicholas' eyes sort of melt. He is going to cry because he thinks I am going to cry. It still isn't enough to break him. I send him on his way with a brave wave.

I walk back inside, but this place is no longer my shoddy apartment. It is the Coliseum and I am not the one going to be sacrificed to the lions. I am the lion. I shut the door. I lean against it and eye my adversary. He looks like an elf. He still has that insipid smile on his face and that little hat on his head. I stride toward him with measured steps, hands clasped behind my back. I pivot at the sliding door that leads to my little decaying balcony and retrace my steps. My eyes never leave him. My presence fills the apartment. I do this a couple of times until I stub my toe on the coffee table and trip up a little. That kind of breaks the mood, but I bring it right back to home plate when I demand: "How old are you? Exactly!" I'm crouching, pointing a finger at him, daring him to mess up. "Ninety-two last August. Yep, ninety-two." His dentures click. I pace a little more and twirl again. I point another finger at him. "What's my mother's name?" "Rosie Devlin. I don't blame you for using her name what with your dad taking off and all." He looks around. "Nice place you have. Kind of like a closet, but nice." I squint. I purse my lips. I broaden my shoulders. I won't be fooled by the looks of this man or his advanced age. "Stay on topic," I gripe. "How long were you in that Cactus Rose place?" "Don't know for sure." He seems to honestly be trying to . "Ten years?" "Why didn't you have them take you to my brother's house?" "You have a brother?"

I'd have to work on my cross-examination skills. "No." I wait a beat and then ask: "How long have you known about me?" "We have plenty of time for questions, granddaughter." He says this like he's the one calling the shots. Hah! "Don't call me that, and don't tell me about time. I'm going to take the bar exam in two weeks. I have a job. I have no time. I have–" "You have a nice young man," Seymour points out. "He didn't look so good when he left but he was nice and polite even with all that blood all over his suit." "He's not my young man," I grumble even though I think there might be some truth in that statement. I just don't want to get personal with this man. "Look, here's the thing. I don't know you…" I'm going to try to reason with him, but he's fidgeting and not paying attention. He pulls a face, and that really makes me mad. This is serious. I try again. I modulate my voice and settle my facial muscles in an attempt to look reasonable and powerful all at the same time. "You weren't around to help me when I needed someone, so you can't expect me to…" The old man can barely sit still. That rubber band around my ponytail seems to be getting tighter because my head is bursting with pain. "What is wrong with you?" I am ticked and I can't help it. The least he could do after all this is listen to me, but he keeps jerking, and moving, and it's distracting. "I want to go," he says. Every bone in my body softens and that includes my heart that, in the last hour, has calcified. "Go? Why didn't you say you had somewhere to go? Oh, my gosh. I'll get my keys. We'll be out of here in a jiffy." I think I actually skip into the bedroom. It is a mess. I haven't touched it since

the morning so the books are scattered and the sheets pulled half way off the bed. None of it matters because he has somewhere to go. Then I hear that despicable sound: the thump, thump, thump of that walker. The tennis balls on the two front legs do nothing to dampen the noise. I whirl around. The sound is close. Too close. He's at my bedroom door. I throw out my hands. "Whoa, don't come in here." "I'm not. But I've got to go," he insists. "And I'm doing my best to see that you do," I answer. "No, I've got to go. You know, pee. I can't do it by myself. Come on now." He starts to thump toward the bathroom. I rush after him. "Oh no. No. No. No." I'm objecting, but he's not listening. He's also not stopping. "The call of nature, granddaughter. I can get there under my own steam, just can't stand up while I do the deed." He's in the little bathroom. My little bathroom. I'm at a loss. I thought I could handle anything. But this? This? "Hurry, Bailey. I feel it coming." "I'm not going in there with you." I turn my back. I cross my arms. "I'm not. No sir. Un-uh." I am shaking my head like a lunatic, when I hear a crash. I have no choice but to go in. I pray that I don't find him fallen on my bathroom floor. Thankfully, it is only the plastic cup I keep on the sink that is rolling around. I pick it up and put it on the counter. Seymour has set his walker aside. He stands in front of the toilet and has managed to unzip his pants and shimmy his underwear down. Thank goodness the back of his shirt is long enough to cover his bum. He is swaying. That isn't good. He inclines his head. "It's okay. I'm family," he assures me. "You're not family unless I say you are," I inform him.

"Then you better say it," he warns. "Hells bells, granddaughter. It's almost time." He starts to list, and I do what must be done. I stand behind him. I put my fingertips on his shoulders. He is a little bitty person. I think his bones must be hollow. We stand in front of that old toilette with barely an inch between me and the back wall and me and him. I keep my head turned as I try to think of pretty thoughts. That proves an impossible task. I shut my eyes and wait for the sound of an old man peeing in my toilet. I wait. I wait. I wait. I guess at his age it's not as easy as it should be. We wait so long that I am getting tired. I'm thinking maybe he's mistaken. I'm thinking this would be a good time to suggest that he pull up his pants, and we get out of this room, and go back to a place where we can pretend to be civilized. I'm thinking all this and that's when two things happen: I turn my head and he starts to pee. When he's done he looks up and smiles. I know this because I am staring at our reflection in the gold veined, cracked mirror. I'm not smiling back. I appear to be in shock. He looks down. My eyes follow. It's like his eyes are magnets. I can't help myself. He looks up again from behind those coke bottle glasses. I look up, too. Our eyes lock. His are filled with regret. "It used to be bigger," he says wistfully. Somehow he manages to get himself all zipped up. When I rouse myself he is thumping out of the bathroom, and I am back in my bedroom making sounds of disgust and disbelief while Seymour L. Sullivan starts in on another story as he settles into my living room. When I finally manage to pull myself together, I do what any rational, soon-to-be-officer-of-the-court, champion of the underdog would do. I run for help.

Chapter 6

I run down the hall and knock on Josephine's door. I pound on her door and that's when I see my watch. It's late. She's gone to work. I whirl around and punch the elevator button, but someone has called it on the bottom floor. I can't wait for it. This is apocalyptic and darn serious, so I dash for the stairwell. Behind me, I hear the elevator door open just as the heavy fire door in the stairwell closes. I burst out of the stairwell on the first floor. If I haven't had a heart attack by now it's never going to happen, and I was pretty sure I was going to have one in that bathroom. I pause in flight. I sniff. I calm myself. I lick my lips. I calm myself. I pull at my ponytail. It has somehow fallen off the top of my head and is sticking out like a fire hose just north of my right ear. I pull my sweatshirt down and my pajama pants up. I make a note to replace the elastic in my pajama pants. I have my clogs on and I stand tall in them, shoulders back. I don't want to – I won't – look desperate. That resolve lasts all of ten steps before I fly down the hall, make a fist and whack the door of 1C, the apartment right underneath mine. I knock, and knock, and knock. I go at it like a woodpecker that has no other job in the world but to bang its head against a piece of wood. My knuckles are getting raw. I'm panicking. I raise both palms to slap at 1C but then a miracle happens: the door opens. It opens like a normal door would. You'd think with all the knocking and noise the guy inside would figure he should hurry, but he figures no such thing. Everything inside 1C goes at the saxophone guy's pace. He leans against the door, his hip thrown out, his arm laced up the side of it. There is a little crack in his upper lip where he's been kissing his saxophone. His pretty eyes land on me. He inclines his head and smiles a smile

that would melt the polar ice caps. Then comes that caramel voice. "Well, if it isn't Thumper."

* * *

His name is Ethan. We get that out of the way before he opens the door a little more. I am rendered speechless by what I see. The apartment beyond is girly. I mean, girly. Like pink girly and frilly girly. There's a fairy picture on the wall. I expect to see a longhaired waif of a girlfriend sitting on a cushion, her pouty lips all glistening with cotton candy gloss. I don't see her. In fact, there is no one there but him. "I'm house sitting," he explains. I raise my chin as if to say I wasn't really curious in the first place. He, in turn, raises a beer can. "Want a beer?" I shake my head and follow him into the apartment. I wouldn't have thought him much of a gentleman until I realize he's picking clothes and stuff off the floor so I won't trip over anything. The clothes are pretty much what I would expect: jeans and t-shirts and tighty-whiteys, but colored ones. The 'stuff' is what I'd expect too: a couple beer cans and some fast food cartons. Stuff. "I had a couple buddies over." He sits down on the sofa and picks up a guitar. On the television is Guitar Hero. I've obviously interrupted something very important because he plays a riff that is much quieter than his saxophone. Over the riff he asks: "So, what can I do for you?" I open my mouth to speak but he is into his video game again. "Hang on! Power chord." He does his thing, and I can't help but notice – really, I can't – how fine a figure he cuts with a musical instrument in his hands. Nice long fingered hands. Nice

muscled forearms. Nice chest when his shirt opens as he works his guitar. He finishes. Smiles at me like a kid who pulled a hockey stop on his bike in front of the shy girl in third grade. "Now, really, what can I do for you?" I explain about Seymour. I explain that it appears that my mother put my name as next of kin after my father put her as next of kin on the nursing home paperwork. I explain that I didn't know about any of this. I explain what he already knows: the woman who brought him is gone and there's nothing for me to do that evening except keep the old man. I couldn't exactly put him out on the street, after all. Then I go on to explain the rest. "And I'm a girl. I can't be…you know…" "Helping him pee?" Ethan teases. If I could have slapped my own hands to keep from wringing them I would have. Instead, I rip them apart and put them by my side where they knot into fists. This guy is making me work for it. Okay. I can do that. "Exactly." I say. "But he's a man and you're a man–" "Nice of you to notice." I also notice his lovely laugh. Not too deep, just nice. Still, it's not nice enough to make me relax. I have things to do. I've lost an entire study night – and may have lost a study group – I have work in the morning. This is a serious situation. "Well? Will you help me?" "I don't know. I have a gig tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep." "Come on." I'm wailing now, shooting my pleas at him like a burst of Silly String. "I don't know what he's doing up there." Ethan eyes me from under long lashes. Oh, those blue eyes. "What's in it for me?" He licks that little crack in his otherwise perfect lips, the one that means he's worked hard for his sweet music.

"I…I…Well…" I should be able to give him a quick comeback. How will I ever do well in court if I'm so easily thrown off? But this is not court. This is a man I don't know. I'm in his apartment (well, someone's apartment), and he's standing up and coming toward me. OMG! The cad. Sex for a neighborly deed? Really? That's what he wants? That is insulting enough, but it is even more insulting when it turns out that is not what Ethan has in mind at all. He swoops up the trash bag he was been filling and hands it to me. "I assume you know where to dump this?" he says and then goes back to his video game leaving me holding the bag. I drop it. "Hey! Hey! I'm not going to take out your trash." I am firm even though he has me over a barrel. A girl has to have some pride, but that's another girl because I have almost none left. I am still begging him. "Come on, Ethan, this is an emergency. I'll scrub this whole place later if you'll just come with me now. Will you do it?" "Do I have to give him a bath?" I must have looked sick right then because he shuts down the video game, comes over, and puts his arm around my shoulder. "Come on. Let's see what the old guy needs before you throw up." We go into the hall and when we see the elevator is now on the second floor, he takes my hand and we go up the stairwell. For every three steps I go up, I come down two and tell him to hurry. He smiles and laughs like he is having the time of his life. I'm exhausted by the time we get upstairs. We walk into the hall just as the elevator door closes and whoever had come up is now going down again. For a second I consider how ships can in the night. Bummer that Seymour's didn't keep on going before his landed in my port.

* * *

I pull some old sheets out of my linen closet that really is just the closet where I put everything in my house except clothes. It also happens to have linens in it. It is late, and I have to make up the couch for my 'grandfather' who really isn't a grandfather at all. He has never bounced me on his knee or given me a nickel just because. Now I am way too big to bounce and he doesn't have two nickels to rub together much less one to give me. I knew I must have had grandparents, but my mom said they were all gone in a way that led me to believe they were dead. Bottom line, I didn't know he existed. When my mom talked about family it was either about her and me or about my dad: handsome, free-spirited, the only person other than me who she loved more than life. And I loved my mom more than anything, so when I was grown I understood when she skipped down her own road in the hopes of finding my father. The last message I had from her was a postcard from an old mining town in Colorado. She hadn't found Dad, but she did find a man who kind of looked like him except he was taller and a little skinnier. Still, he was pretty much like my father, and that was nice, and he was going to help her look for Dad. I make a mental note to look for that postcard before work in the morning. I need to track her down and let her know that my universe has imploded… She needs to know that I need her… She needs to come home… "Ninja Turtles?" Ethan reaches for the sheets I am clutching to my chest like armor while I try to formulate a plan to get myself out of this mess. It is a futile exercise since I don't think my mom will come home just because Seymour L. Sullivan is here. She would tell me to embrace the experience. "Garage sale." I hand them over. He takes them back to the living room. I peek around the corner and see that Ethan already has Seymour dressed for bed. He's all neat in his little pajamas, sitting on the coffee table, his hat in his lap as he watches Ethan shake out the sheets, tuck them onto the old couch, and plump the pillow he has put in the case. When that is done he puts his hands on his hips and says:

"Alright, buddy. Bedtime." "Sorry to put you out!" Seymour yells. "No problem," Ethan yells back. I have no idea why they were yelling at one another, and I don't want to know. I go back into my bedroom. The walls are thin. I can still hear them talking but now their voices are lower. Of course I am curious about what they are saying, but I don't want to give the impression that I care. Still, I wonder if they are talking about me so I sneak back out into the little hall and lay against the wall. My ears have probably grown ten times their size as I strain to hear. "Better?" Ethan asks. The old man answers: "I hear you now. Sorry to put you out." Not a word about me. I look around the corner again as Ethan takes Seymour's arm. He settles him down then lifts the old man's skinny legs and swings them under the covers. "And I said, no problem. Just don't make a habit of it, okay? Are you comfy?" Ethan tucks the blanket in tight. "You the one playing music?" Seymour asks. "That's me. Saxophone. It better not bother you 'cause that's what I do, my friend." Ethan checks out his handiwork. In the hallway I tap my foot and mentally urge them to get on with it. With one last tuck, Ethan is ready to be on his way until Seymour stops him. "You know Dan James? I played sax with Dan. Sure did. Ever hear of him?" Arghh! Ethan sits on the coffee table, his long legs splayed, his hands on his knees like he's settling down for a nice long chat. He can see me from there, so I duck back.

"Dan James played in Memphis. He recorded some fine music." "Sure did," Seymour says. "We had us a record. I had me a song, you know. Why I …" I never hear what Seymour re because the old man is drifting off. Ethan stands up. He leans over Seymour and takes off his glasses and then… I don't see what happens next because I scurry into my bedroom. I am exhausted, Seymour is asleep, Ethan has a gig the next day. I figure the night is done, so when I hear a door open I assume Ethan is going home. I am wrong. The door that is opening is the one to my bedroom.

Chapter 7

"Ever get lonesome in here?" I am thinking a couple of things when I see this guy standing in the shadows, looking at me with bedroom eyes as I sit on my mattress that sits on the box springs. First, I think that my room is a mess. Compared to his friend's cutesygirly apartment downstairs where he housesits, my place looks like a landfill. I must be the only woman in the world whose first thought is to feel like a bad housewife when a man comes unexpectedly into her bedroom. That leads me to my next thought. Ethan is darn handsome, but I am smarter than to fall for a pretty face. My third thought is that two can play at this game, so I throw him a burning bit of a barb. "Ever get tired of speaking in flirt?" Zing. Wow. He is totally done in by that – not. He grins at me and saunters into the room. He's even better looking than he was when he was just kind of lounging against the door. I suppose it's because he's moving like he is so comfy in that skin of his. I stand up really fast. I make myself taller. He doesn't really stop; he just pauses like he's amused. "All done?" I ask. That was so crisp I swear he should crumble like a potato chip when I walk past him. He doesn't, but he does seem surprised that I want to leave the room and that I expect him to leave with me. In the living room I check out his work. I have to it, he's a master. Then again, I imagine he has had a lot of practice tucking folks in bed. Probably not old guys, though. I start to turn around to say thank you because he really did do me a favor, but he's so close that I would be on top of him if I did that. So we stand looking at Seymour as if he is our little bundle of joy and we do this every night. "I could stay," he says. "Just in case you need more help."

Bad timing. Bad. I step away and turn around properly, so that there isn't any chance that we will even touch each other much less fall into one another's arms. In the dim light of my apartment, hearing his mellow voice, looking at his shirt hanging open and that wife-beater underneath fitting so well and his rocker jeans just hanging on perfect hips, it would have been a possibility if he hadn't said something so stupid. However, I also understand my mom just a little bit better. If my father is anything like Ethan, I would probably be out looking for him too – that is if he didn't say stupid things that meant 'let's hop into the sack now that I've taken care of your little problem'." "I won't need any more help." My crisp tone has been replaced by cool. "You might." He grins as easily as I frown. Two can play at this game. "I never change my mind," I tell him since he's not getting the message. "You sure you're a woman?" He laughs a little, circles me a little, my heart pitterpats a little. "I'm the best kind of woman." I clear my throat. It must be dry because my voice has gotten husky. "Yeah?" He's a little closer now. His finger is out like he's going to touch the sleeve of my sweatshirt, but he doesn't. "What kind of woman is that?" "The kind who can take care of herself." "Too bad you can't take care of one little old man." Ethan laughs a real laugh because he really does think that's funny. When he sees I'm not amused, he puts up his hands. "Kidding. I'm kidding!" He heads for the front door. I dog him to make sure that's where he really goes. When he doesn't veer off toward the bedroom I'm relieved – I'm sure I'm relieved – and I scurry ahead to hold the door for him. He goes by me just like in the movies: chest-to-chest. I think he's better built than I am. "Good night, Bailey." "Nite," I answer.

"And you're welcome," he says back. I blush, ashamed of my bad manners. I never said thank you, and I can't say it now just to make him happy. I start to close the door but he calls me back one more time with a 'hey'. I stick my head into the hallway. "What's his name again?" Ethan asks. "Seymour L. Sullivan. Goodnight." I almost close the door again, but I pull it back at the last minute. This time I call to him. "Thank you, Ethan." "You're welcome, Bailey." I close the door. I'm alone in my tiny apartment. Well, not really alone. There's an old man sleeping on my couch. I am so tired I could drop. I try not to think about the wasted hours dealing with all this, I try not to think about how far behind my study group I am, I try not to think about Jeffery's nose and Ethan's eyes. Wearily, I start for the bedroom but I see the envelope that woman, Mrs. Wilson, left with me. There is power in knowledge so I slide it off the hall table, open the flap, and hope there is something inside that I can use to figure this mess out. I pull out medical reports, social security information, and a form that lists me as next of kin right after my lovesick mother and my long gone father. I push the papers back inside. I look at Seymour. I should be thinking loving thoughts, or at least good ones. Here is a part of me, my history, my life in the form of a happy, tiny, ancient man. But I don't think about all that. Instead, I think: there he is, a pound puppy. I turn off the hall light and go into my bedroom. I try not to think about what Ethan asked me, but I do and the answer is yes. I get lonely in here by myself. I do. Still, I don't want just anyone in my bed. I want a man in that bed with me who will love me, and make a family with me, and be proud of the lawyer I will become. Still, knowing exactly what you want doesn't mean you won't be lonely; knowing where you're headed just means that you can pretend lonely is a side street and not a dead end. I toss the envelope that holds the sum and total of the life of one Seymour L. Sullivan on the bed. I change my clothes, brush my teeth, and I suppose I say a prayer. I'm not sure it's a prayer, really, but every night I pause before I actually

get beneath the covers and look heavenward. I don't expect to see anything like a guardian angel. I don't expect to hear God's voice talking to me. Maybe I look up because that's where the stars are, and I have believed that my fate and the stars are one for so long now that looking up is just a habit. After the foul trick my horoscope has played today, I think I'm going to give up on that theory. I climb into bed and the phone rings. I don't have the energy to answer it, and there's no one I want to talk to right now, so I let it ring. I decide too late that I really do want to talk to someone, but they've hung up and left a message. I hit the little button and put the phone to my ear. "It's Jeffery…" He sounds like he has a very bad head cold. Poor man. Hurt because of me. "I'm okay. Well, my nose is broken. I think I'll have black eyes. But I'm okay." I doubt he is, but it's a brave and kind thing to say. Then he says the most wonderful thing. "I hope you are okay, too. If you're not, call me. Call me even if you are." My heart melts. "I came by to see you tonight but you were gone. I hope wherever you went it worked out…" Jeffery came back to help me even after all he had gone through. It was him in the elevator; if I had only waited. My hand goes to my heart. "I hope I see you soon. Sleep well, Bailey." I hope I see him soon, too. I really do. Tonight, though, I need to make the most of what's left of the hours. I reach for the book on Wills and Trusts that Jeffery brought. I open it and hold it close, but I don't read it. Instead, I can't take my eyes off that darn envelope. There is enough light from the street lamp coming through my threadbare curtains that I can see the front of it and the label that has been so neatly applied to the upper right hand corner.

Seymour L. Sullivan: Discharge

Bailey Devlin: Granddaughter.

I close the book, Jeffery's book, and hug it as I roll over in my bed. I hug it, and I don't feel as if I am so alone anymore. From the apartment below, Ethan begins to play his saxophone. Tonight there is no fooling around. He plays a lovely, soulful tune that works just as well as a lullaby as it would for making love. Peace comes to my little apartment. I am drifting away, out among the stars. My brain tamps down thoughts of Wills and Trusts and unknown grandfathers. I give in to the color of dreams and the sound of nothing but fine deep notes played on a shining saxophone. I am even comforted knowing that the little man sleeping in my living room is related to me. As I fall deeper into sleep I imagine my father, and his father, and how I'm almost sure they loved me and how I– And then my eyes fly open. The silence is shattered by the sound of snoring so horrific and prolonged that I could be convinced a bull elephant is dying in my living room. My teeth clench. I shove the book to the floor and barely hear the thump over Seymour's snores. Even Ethan's music is drowned out. I grab my pillow, pull it over my head and mutter into the faux down: "You are so out of here."

Chapter 8

I walk into the bedroom wall and bounce off. For a second I get turned around and head back to bed until I bounce off the next wall, and then I am back on track. I finally ping into the bathroom, flop my head close to the faucet, and bathe my face with freezing water. I look up once, see that my eyes are puffed up to the size of kiwis and dunk my head again. Eventually I manage to get my eyes open to slits and shuffle out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. There I pull on my sweatpants that have the word BABE emblazoned across my ass except that the word is spelled 'BABe' and looks like a foreign language. That printing error got me a darn good pair of sweats for two bucks, so I am okay with the typo. I pull on a sweatshirt (an equal bargain because it was so darn ugly), and put on my running shoes with a hole under the right big toe. Finally, I shuffle through the living room and into the kitchen. I need a workout. I need a steam. I need to get the sound of snoring out of my head. In the coupon drawer I find a free to the new gym about a mile away. It's amazing how much workout time you can get for free if you keep your eyes open. I snuffle around in the fridge and find a slug of orange juice and a quarter slice of pizza. When they are consumed, I drag myself to the front door. I'm about to open it when I have a thought. Maybe last night was a dream. I look over my shoulder to see if that lump on the sofa is really just a couple of blankets that I forgot to fold up. No such luck. I see a head on the Ninja Turtle pillowcase. Seymour L. Sullivan is real. My head drops against the door. I take a moment and then look back again, puzzled. He is in the exact same position he was in last night when Ethan put him to bed, but something seems different. I take a step or two back into the living room, kind of inching forward, my knees bent like I'm afraid to wake him. I'm equally afraid that I won't wake him. His toothless mouth is open and his eyes are closed and his lids are chalk white. I can't see one blue vein anywhere, not even on the hands crossed on his chest. "Mr. Sullivan?" I say, hoping to see him stir. "I'm heading out for an hour or so."

He doesn't stir. I stay close to the door just in case he does and I have to make a quick escape. I raise my voice a little more. "Will you be okay alone? Mr. Sullivan?" I keep heading his way taking little mincey steps. My eyes are kind of rolling heavenward in my imagination because this time I'm saying an honest to goodness prayer that nothing is wrong. I really want him to wake up. I'm right up against the coffee table, so I scrunch down, ball my fist, and give that old table a little rap. "Up and at 'em. Got to figure out what to do with you." I smash my knuckles on wood and scare myself but not him. I call real loud: "Hey! Mr. Sullivan!" Dead silence. Dead. I shrink like a violet. I squeak: "Seymour?" I take those extra three steps that plant me right beside his head. I put my hand under his nose only to snatch it back. No breath! My fingers are shaking when I put two of them on his throat. I shiver and pull them away. No pulse. No nothing. I don't stop to consider that one really should add some pressure to a pulse point to feel it properly because I'm too busy freaking out. I am turning around and half falling over the table. Then I'm moving like I have never moved in my life. I walk with fast little steps because I think if I take little steps then I'm not really panicked. In the bedroom, I grab the hand mirror off the bureau. I'm running on the way back to the living room. My knees hit the floor like I'm sliding into home. I throw the mirror up in front of Seymour Sullivan's face and then recoil in horror only to realize I had used the magnifier side. His nostrils appeared gruesomely large. I flip it and look at the regular mirror. It doesn't fog. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God!" I'm up. I don't even know how I did it but I'm on my feet and I'm fumbling with my phone. It seems to take forever, but finally I hear: "9-1-1. What is your emergency?"

"He's dead!" I scream and then I hear just what I don't want to hear: a rational question. I scream again. "The old man on my couch, that's who! Don't you tell me to calm down! Send the paramedics." I stash the phone in my pocket and dash back to the kitchen where I open my coupon drawer. Coupons fly like confetti as I search for the important documents I stash at the bottom. Then I've got it: the Chamber of Commerce's emergency procedure flier. I dash back to the sofa, trying to read the instructions on how to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as I go. I look at Seymour's toothless mouth as I sink to my knees. Muttering encouragement to myself, I close my eyes, reach for his nose, and take a deep breath. I am inch from his lips, and then a miracle! The cavalry has arrived. Seymour is saved.

I am saved. I throw myself at the door and rip it open. Two guys in blue uniforms rush in carrying little suitcases full of stuff that will bring Seymour L. Sullivan back from the grave. Josephine is right behind them, her boa fluttering and her robe billowing. Half her make-up is on but she's forgotten her wig, and I can see her Marine buzz cut has been freshly shorn. Her eyeshades are propped on her forehead. "Bailey, are you alright, honey? Oh, my what's going on? Oh, my." Before I can tell her I'm fine, another paramedic pushes in behind her with a stretcher. She turns to give him what for, but all she can say when she sees his rock jawed face is: "Oh my, my, my…" "Josephine!" I snap. This is not the time for nonsense. Composed once more, she rushes to my side. "Good Lord, what's happened?" I wring my hands. I look over the broad shoulders of the rescue guys. I ebb and

flow as I try to see what they're doing. Josephine catches the wave, tippy-toeing and falling back and holding on to my shoulders as I explain: "Everything was fine when we went to bed last night…" Josephine tiptoes up once more to get a good look at Seymour. When she looks at me again she seems surprised and impressed. "You have a sugar daddy? Oh, honey, you're going to be rich if he's…" "Don't be ridiculous." I yank away from her. "He's my grandfather." The paramedics have paused to watch the exchange. One of them is holding up those paddles, the kind of paddles that shoot a heart up with electricity. I sure don't need them. I'm pretty charged up and my heart is about beating out of my chest. I scream: "Zap him! Zap him now." The two men kneeling on the floor seem to realize that they are now loosing precious time, or else they don't want to hear me scream again. The one with the defibrillator rubs the paddles together, and then holds them over Seymour. Josephine drops her frilly eyeshades down, but when I turn my head away I see her lift a corner and peek out just as the paddles are lowered. "Clear!" says the baritone-voiced man in the blue uniform. He puts the paddles on Seymour's chest but before they shoot him up, the old man sputters, snuffles, and opens his eyes. Josephine can't help herself. She is in the moment. She pushes the men back and wedges her big body in between them as she looks at Seymour. He looks back and blinks. He blinks again. "Holy cow! You are a lot of woman." "Well thank you," Josephine purrs. "You should see me when I'm really done up." That's it. It's my turn. I am overwhelmed. I am eternally grateful to the powers that be. I have not killed this little old man who has come to me – me, Bailey Devlin – for help. I throw myself into the fray and manage to get right there

beside him. "You're alive! You're alive!" I have gathered him up as best I can considering the blanket and Ninja Turtle sheets. I stop that nonsense almost as soon as it starts. It dawns on me how bogus this is. I hold him at arm's length. "What's wrong with you? Why didn't you say something?" "What? What's that?" "Don't you yell at me!" I scream back. "Why didn't you say something when I…" "Can't hear you!" He's still yelling, but I'm not getting the message. He points to the paramedic whose planted his lovely behind on the coffee table. "That young fella's sitting on my buds." It takes me another second to react, but then I look where he's pointing. The man with the curly dark hair stands up, reaches down, and hands the little hearing aids to Seymour who works them into his ears. Next are his glasses. When all that is done, Seymour smiles, but that smile falters as he looks me up and down, down and up. "Bailey, girl. You should have fixed yourself up if company was coming for breakfast." I open my mouth. I have a few things to say to that, but I stop before any words come out. The paramedics are nodding their agreement. Josephine raises one permanently arched, tattooed brow and sighs so the people in the back of the house can hear. "I've been telling her that for ages."

* * *

"I'm really sorry. Really. I can't tell you how…sorry…so, so, so sorry."

I can't apologize enough for the problem I caused, but I keep trying. The paramedics walk past me with their heavy cases and their stretcher and nod and mutter a few words like this is all in a days work. Still, I think they are a little disappointed that this was not a matter of life and death. Josephine follows them, as much to ire their rear ends as they walk down the hall as to politely make her exit before I take her up on her offer of help. "I'd love to stay, honey, but I've got to do something that pays the bills. You understand." "Go. Go to work." I wave her away. There's nothing she can do to help anyway. "I'll check in later, sweetie." She puts her broad fingers to her lips and transfers a kiss to my cheek. Before she leaves, she looks back at Seymour. "He seems like a nice old man, Bailey. You're lucky to have family who still talks to you." "Yeah, he's a real blessing," I drawl leaving no question as to how I feel about the old urchin in my house. I miss the pitiful look Josephine gives me. I also missed the point, but I don't know that. I close the door and then walk back to the coffee table that now seems to be the chair of choice in my house. I sit down facing Seymour. He's sitting on the couch, such a little man swimming in a sea of blue seersucker pajamas. That smile is on his face – the one that was there when I opened the door last night, when he lay down to sleep, and now as he wakes. He is a happy man, and I have no idea why. He has nothing. I have nothing, and I am not a happy girl. I put my elbows on my knees and I lace my hands together as I lean toward him. "Can you hear me?" I speak slowly. "Clear as a bell," he chirps. "Good. Then it's time we had a little talk." I'm pleased with my tone of voice. It's measured and businesslike. This situation is not his fault really. I will explain that to him. I will explain the realities of my situation and his. But before I can show my true colors, he points to something. I look to my left then my right. I pick up the glass in which his teeth sit like a clam in a tide pool. I hand them over and lower my eyes while he puts them in.

"I like your hair. Looks like the top of a carrot only red," he says when he can speak properly again. My eyes snap up. "Don't try to make me like you." I am in no mood for anything but rectifying this situation. "I'll wear you down," he teases. "Better than you have tried," I answer and that is the truth. Sad to say, I have never let anyone wear me down. I'm afraid if they do, that I will be content and one day I'll look up and they won't be there anymore. If someone important disappeared from my life, I'm not sure I'd be able to stand on my own two feet again. So I don't get worn down. I stand on my two feet. There is no one so special in my life that I fear losing and that is the way it will stay. "Here's the deal. All my life I've busted my butt to get somewhere and in a little while I'm going to take a test that will get me there. So, you've got to stay out of my way. Got it?" "You can count on me." He says this like we're a team. He's not getting it. Not that he has to. I get it and I'm going to take care of things. "Right. Okay, then." I clap my hands and stand up. "Let's get going." "My thoughts exactly. I gotta go." Seymour rises unsteadily. "Now, if you know what I mean." I puff out my cheeks; I blow out a breath. He's working the walker. Below us Ethan's place is probably reverberating with the sound of it. He won't be upset. Ethan knows that Seymour is headed to the bathroom. He'll know I have no choice but to follow along to make sure Seymour gets 'going'. Ethan will be laughing his head off.

Chapter 9

In Seymour L. Sullivan's little bag I have found three shirts, two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks, and two pairs of boxer shorts. He is wearing one shirt, his fresh boxers (which I made him put on himself though it took a good long time to do so) and a pair of brown socks. He's now standing up with his hands on top of my head, steading himself as I shimmy on his pants. His wardrobe makes mine look like I shop at Chanel. It's funny how a pair of worn out pants can make me feel sad. I finally get them up. He works the zipper, but I have to do the belt. I yank it to the last notch and when I'm done the darn thing looks like a leash. "I have some people you can stay with while I take care of the stuff I have to take care of today." I tell him this as much for information as to keep some kind of conversation going so we don't fall into an awkward silence. Although, I think if we did that I would be the only one who felt awkward. I struggle to my feet and button his collar. It is three sizes too big, but once it's buttoned his narrow little shoulders pull back as if he's proud to be looking his best. "After that I'll take the rest of the day off even though I really can't afford to do that." I get back down, this time on one knee. He puts his hand on my head again. "Lift up your foot." When he does, I put on one shoe and then the other. Both shoes are down at the heel and one has a small hole in the leather upper. But those shoes are shined, spit and polished. Funny how that little hole seems to have created a big lump in my throat. I clear it as I get up. "Then we'll go upstairs to the welfare office. They should be able to help." I reach for my jacket, but Seymour sways. I catch him and pull the walker over with the other hand. When he is stable, I stand back and check him out. He's a dapper looking little guy, but unfinished. I pick his hat up off the sofa and put it

on his head. Now he looks right. "We're good. Let's go." I'm halfway down the hall when I pivot and retrace my steps. I meet up with Seymour in the middle of the living room. He smiles when he sees me and picks up the pace – a pace that should get me to work in about a week. Surprisingly, it only takes twenty-minutes to get to the car. It's parked in front of Ethan's van, but I note he has put a ton of space between his bumper and mine. He learns fast. I buckle Seymour in and fire up the Renault. We zoom into the city, and I manage to get Seymour up the courthouse steps. I'm only forty-five minutes late until we hit the metal detector. This time I breeze through having only to endure a few sniggers from one of the guys who tackled me the day before. Seymour has no such luck. We tack on another five minutes while they wand him. It beeps at his hip. "World War II," he says. It beeps at his shoulder. "Korea." It beeps at his head. "You got me on that one." The deputies do it again, entertaining an ever-growing line of folks with a little beeping ditty composed of Seymour's replacement parts. I, on the other hand, am not amused. I take his arm and his walker and we thump down the hall and turn into Sandwiches & Such where we present ourselves to Mr. Balmati and Mira. After the introductions are made, I leave Seymour, go to the back room, and try to collect my wits.

* * *

Nothing could have prepared me for Seymour. Not College. Jobs. Work. Money problems. Not even my mother's flights of fancy. That's what I tell Mr. Balmati when he comes to find me. The worse my story gets, the more Mr. Balmati's marvelous round face mushes into various strata of sympathy and anxiety. He follows me as I pace to the door of the storeroom. I look through the little porthole window. Mr. Balmati is right over my shoulder. We watch Seymour being royally entertained by Mira. We stand in silence, considering the old man, each lost in our own thoughts until Mr. Balmati says: "Your grandfather, you say?" "So it seems," I answer. "Ah." My employer raises one of his chins and the others follow. "What should I do?" I've never considered whether Mr. Balmati is wise but I'm hoping he is now. "In my country you would kill a goat and feed Mr. Seymour the liver in celebration!" He grins, greatly pleased with himself and dashing my hopes about his wisdom. I shake my head. Mr. Balmati is sobered. "Ah, but no. You are right. Let us see, then. What would Mr. Trump do?" Mr. Balmati puts his hand to his chin and then his fingers to his temple. I swear his ears wiggle because he is thinking so hard. "Hah!" I am so startled by his exclamation I hop back. He widens his eyes. In my heart, hope springs eternal that Mr. Balmati will come through with something wise. "Has he money, your grandfather?" "Nope. Nothing," I answer miserably. "Well, then, HE IS FIRED! Ha! Ha-Ha! Like Mr. Trump would do to the weakest. Fired…You see, Bailey. Fired…" When I don't laugh, Mr. Balmati hangs his head. "A small joke, Bailey. I am sorry. I will think harder." Which he does as I cling to that grimy storeroom door, and hope for the best. His next effort is better.

"Is there a bureau of old people in this country that you could give him to?" He asks. "I don't know," I answer. I'm sure there is, but right then I can't even think. "Mr. Balmati, can I leave him here with you while I go to court? I've got a hearing on these tickets." "Of course, Bailey. I will put Mira in charge of him." I give him an awkward hug. "Thank you, Mr. Balmati." "You go now. Do not worry about Mr. Seymour." He pats my shoulder. I walk into the store and take my purse from under the counter. Mira and Seymour are running through the shelves of medicine like they are looking for a good book to read. "What about this one?" she says. "I've taken that. It helps me poop." He reaches for another one. "This one makes me stop." I take the boxes out of Mira's hands as I and put them back on the shelf. "He doesn't need any of that. He came with his own pharmacy." I turn to Seymour. "I'm going to be right across the hall in Judge Ramirez's court. You stay here with Mira and Mr. Balmati." "Okeydokey." "Mira?" She comes to attention. "Watch him like a hawk. And Seymour?" "Yes?" "You watch her." I leave the sandwich shop bleary eyed and unsure of myself as I head for another sure-to-be disappointing 'first time' – appearing in front of a judge to plead a case. If I can't convince Judge Ramirez to dismiss my tickets my budget will be blown. Still I have a plan, and I think it's a good one.

I am going to throw myself on the mercy of the court.

Chapter 10

"Call number nine on calendar. People v. Mendoza." The clerk of the court calls this case in a clear voice. She is a pleasant looking round-cheeked girl but every time she speaks, she blinks three times behind wing-framed glasses that have three rhinestones at each corner. Three seems to be her number. I know this because I have watched her do it after each case is called and that makes ten times. I find myself blinking in time with her blinks. I look at my phone to check the time. I hope I'm mistaken, but I'm not. Two hours have ed and my case hasn't been called. I wonder what mischief Seymour has gotten into. Not that it matters. Until I am called, I dare not move for fear I will miss my hearing. Then I look around the courtroom. I am the only one in it besides the judge, the giant bailiff, and the blinky-eyed clerk. Ramirez lowers his reading glasses, hunches his shoulders, and glares at me. I put a hand to my chest as if to ask 'me?' I shake my head emphatically. I am not Mendoza. My hair alone should have been a clue. The judge keeps staring, and now I know why his clerk blinks like a railroad crossing. He is darn scary when he stares over those little reading glasses of his. "Issue a bench warrant. Find him!" he roars. "Judge," the clerk ventures. "Mr. Mendoza isn't here because he had an accident. He's in traction." "Then why did you call him?" "I called his case," she stutters. Her eyes are going a mile a minute. "His attorney wants a continuance." "Issue a warrant for his attorney, too. Get Mendoza in here on a gurney if you have to. I want…"

I have no idea what the judge wants because his next words are smashed under the sound of his gavel hitting wood. I sit up straight. My stomach is in a knot. It's my turn. It must be my turn. But it isn't my turn. The judge is housekeeping, stacking papers and standing up and getting ready to leave. His clerk is picking up the phone – probably to call the Marshall's out on poor Mr. Mendoza – and they aren't paying any attention to me at all. Suddenly, the knot in my stomach tightens to one of solid determination. I can't afford to take more time off work. I can't afford these tickets. They can't leave. I stand up, and address the court. "Excuse me, your Honor." I smile, thinking that went rather nicely. I sound very lawyer-like. He stops which means he heard me. But then he turns his head my way, lowers those damn glasses, and I'm almost sorry he did. I don't dare look at the clerk for fear that she is blinking so fast her eyes might pop right out of her head and it would be my fault. Everyone in the courtroom freezes. They are staring at me. I take that as a signal I should continue. "You didn't call me," I venture. "And you are?" the judge asks. The sound of his voice is like the first rumble of an earthquake. "Bailey Devlin. I'm Bailey Devlin, your Honor." Judge Ramirez swings his head toward his clerk. She is frantically going through papers on her desk. She looks up. Blink. Blink. Blink. She shakes her head. Back and forth, forth and back, keeping it in motion so the judge will have less chance of biting it off. Judge Ramirez swings back to me. I wish he would push those glasses up his nose or take them off. They make him look terrifying. "And, Ms. Duvan, why are you in my court?" I take that as an invitation to approach. I will savor my first age through the bar even if I haven't actually ed the bar. I push the little gate, but it is on a majorly tight spring. It snaps back and hits me in the knee. My knee must be hollow because there is this amazing sound like someone whacked a coconut with a machete. I soldier on until I am standing in front of the bench. What a glorious feeling. I cannot wait to be a lawyer. I am emboldened by the majesty of it all.

"Devlin, your Honor. My name is Bailey Devlin." He should learn it. He'll be hearing more from me, after all. "And it's about my tickets. For my car?" I hold up the tickets. I hear the door open behind me. Someone has come to watch the proceedings, but I will not be distracted. My eyes are solidly focused on Judge Ramirez partly because I am trying to look in control and partly trying to figure out what's causing that red stain to work its way up his neck toward his jowls. "Your Honor, since the officer isn't here, I believe you should dismiss these tickets." The judge takes the bench once again. Forget asking for mercy, I decide. If the cop didn't show up, that's his problem. I smile. Judge Ramirez smiles back. "Oh you do, do you?" I believe his singsong is code for agreement. I think his smile is comionate. I'm mistaken on both counts. I just don't know it yet. "Yes, your Honor. I'm going to be taking the bar exam soon and I know that…" Judge Ramirez stops me with a hand held high. He still has that weird grin on his face. It looks like the smiley lines on my butt when I tried on a pair of Spanx – tight, strained, and unattractive. "Really? So you're going to be a lawyer?" I incline my head a little. I blush a little. I lick my lips. What more can I say? Obviously nothing. The judge continues on and his voice changes. It starts out nice, but turns to a growl by degrees. "Then you should know one or two things about how the court works, shouldn't you Ms. Dooby?" I shoot a look at the clerk. If there was a hole she would crawl into it because she knows what's coming before I do. "In the last hour," the judge goes on, "did you hear anything that remotely sounded like traffic court proceedings?" I shake my head. His neck telescopes as he looks around the room at his clerk

and his bailiff. "Did any of you hear anything that sounded remotely like traffic court proceedings?" The clerk shakes her head in quick fits and starts. The bailiff hangs his head and shakes it in long swings. Ramirez arches over the bench. He peers down at me as I look up at him. I have a feeling that if I look down at my feet I will see tiny people tossing wood on the fire to burn me at the stake. Maybe they've already lit the fire because I'm starting to sweat. "And, do you know why you didn't hear anything that sounded like traffic court proceedings?" I think he sounds sweet and in the next second he explodes. I mean BOOM. That kind of explosion. "You didn't hear anything that sounded like traffic court because this isn't traffic court, and only a certified idiot would think it was." That did it. The spell is broken. I don't care if they light the faggots and I go up in smoke. I am certainly not a certified idiot. He's one if he doesn't know his own department. "This summons says to go to Department 11. This is Department 11." I didn't think it was possible, but he manages to reach over the high bench and snatch the tickets out of my hand. He peers through those horrid glasses at me. His eyes are beady like a snake's and sparkly like a wolf's. I'm beginning not to like Judge Ramirez. "That is a seven, not a one. Department 17." He throws the tickets back at me. I try to catch them but they flutter to the ground. "Your future as an attorney doesn't look bright. In fact, it looks dim! In fact, you are a dim bulb. Go home, miss, and stop wasting this court's time…" He's done with me. I am legal garbage. I am a judicial doormat. But, it seems, this hearing has not come to an end no matter what Judge Ramirez thinks. I hear a familiar sound; I hear a familiar voice; I have a familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Just a darn minute, you old bag of bones!"

I twirl around and there he is: my worst nightmare. Seymour is standing in the back of the courtroom holding his walker like a battering ram. Mira bolts up from the bench behind him. "Mr. Seymour!" She reaches for him but misses. He's coming my way faster than I thought possible, but he's not paying any attention to me. "You ain't going to talk to a lady that way. Not while Seymour L. Sullivan is around." "Oh – My – God." I hear myself say the words, but I'm not sure I said them out loud because I am paralyzed. Seymour is coming down the aisle like his walker is motorized. His little head sticks forward and his chin sticks more forward. His hat is firmly in place. Behind me I literally hear the judge grow about ten feet tall. "Are you addressing me, sir?" Ramirez roars. The bailiff is getting in place, moving through the bar to meet Seymour head on and protect his judge. The clerk clutches the daily calendar to her breast. Seymour sees none of this. "You bet your booty, I'm addressing you. What kind of man are you sittin' on that throne being insulting to this lovely young woman? Come down here. Take off that dress. I'll show you what a real man is made of." I bolt through the bar and past the bailiff. I reach Seymour, but his momentum is huge and he keeps going, forcing me to skip along side him. "Please, Seymour. Please, don't…" "Who is that man?" The judge demands and Seymour pauses for just a moment. "Who am I? Why I'm a citizen, fella. I pay your salary. And I'm her grandpa. Now apologize to this young lady or we're going to take it out back. Come on. Come on. What'll it be?" The judge is done with Seymour. "Bailiff, remove this man from my courtroom."

That does it. Seymour raises his walker. "Big words from a sissy. Come down here and remove me yourself." I close my eyes and bury my face in my hands. When I raise it again to insist that Seymour stop this nonsense, he is gone, motoring down the aisle toward the bailiff. I do the only thing I can do in a court of law. I tell the truth. "He's crazy, your Honor! Homeless. He's a crazy, homeless man. He's old. Don't listen–" Seymour's battle cry drowns out my testimony. "Come on you tub of lard. Get off your rear, or I'll call your wife and tell her you're wearing her drapes." Just as I'm pushing off to try and corral him, I stumble. The judge is pounding his gavel. And then it happens. I watch in horror as Seymour's walker comes down hard just as the bailiff moves a smidgen. The walker smashes into the bailiff's foot and he howls with pain. Seymour has awakened the sleeping giant. The man with the gun at his hip grabs him in one arm and the walker in the other. The judge raises his arms and points at Seymour like Zeus throwing a lightning bolt at a pesky mortal. He cries: "Take that man into custody!" My shoulders fall and then I crumble because Ramirez throws another lightning bolt right at my head. "And Ms. Divine, too."

Chapter 11

I'm in jail. I'm in jail with Seymour. I'm in jail with Seymour, and I'm sitting on the floor because there's only one chair, and he's old, and I belong on the floor anyway because I'm lower than dirt. I am a certified idiot just like Ramirez said. None of this would have happened if I'd been in the right courtroom. I would have been in the right courtroom if I had a brain in my head. But I didn't. My brain cells have been muddled by a sleepless night because I had an old man snoring in my living room, and I was worried about studying, and now life in general just bit the big one. So here I sit; in a holding cell; stewing in my juices. "You should take the chair–" I flip up a hand up for Seymour to talk to. I pretty much don't want him talking at all so when the hand thing doesn't seem to be enough, I say: "Don't talk to me." I can't be any clearer than that but he is as dim as I am. "But a lady–" I push the hand forward. Dim must run in the family. "A gentleman–" He's a persistent old cuss. "Not a word." I raise my head and give him my best glare. It's the glare that's all squinty eyed and hard as flint – or so I believe. I actually haven't used it on many people, but it's one of those things that I feel in my bones. If I'm doing it right, Seymour will turn into a toad. Instead, he just sits there with a sort of pathetic little grin on his face like a puppy that is ashamed to have made a mess of my slippers. This calls

for drastic action. I must stoop to his level. I must talk to him. "I told you to stay put. What were you doing in the courtroom?" "Mira and I thought we'd see you in action like a real lawyer." "Well, you really saw me in action." I roll my head to the side. The wall is probably grimy, so I make a note to wash my hair if we ever get out of here – which isn't looking good. It's been hours since we got banished. "You held your ground, girl. I was proud of you," he says. "I just thought it would be better if we fought that old biddy together." I roll my head back again. This time I really look at him. He's so proud of being a team; so proud that we are connected. It seems that little altercation on my behalf has sparked something inside him and that starts me thinking. I share my thought. "Thank goodness you weren't around when I was a kid if this is how the Sullivan team works." Seymour's eyes dim instantly. He bows his head and then he sort of swings it away so that he seems to be looking at his shoes. That put him in his place. That tells him where I stand. That unkind comment also makes me feel awful. I sigh. I grunt. I scoot over, get on my knees, and put my arm around his shoulder without really touching him. It's not the most natural gesture, but it's the best I've got. "Okay. I'm sorry. Come on. I appreciate what you did in there. Just please, don't cry." He starts and turns his head. His chin is quivering. His eyes are moist. He points to that chin of his. "You mean this? This just happens when you're old. Old women get those little chin whiskers, too. Your grandmother hated those. Chin whiskers. Yep, hated them." "So, I've got a grandmother, too."

I fall back on my heels. If it's not one thing it's another. This man has no filters. For twenty-three years all I had was a mother and that was it; not that she wasn't fabulous. She woke up every morning convinced that a better life was just around the corner for us because it was our karma. She was positive that my dad would come back home and be done with his wandering; she was sure that I would grow up to be something better than she was because I was determined to be. It was her and me until now; now I find that there had been a whole clan out there somewhere. Well, there was a grandma and grandpa that it would have been nice to know. "You don't have a grandma any more, Bailey." "Sorry," I say, and I'm not sure it's in sympathy for his loss or mine. "How long were you married?" "Olive and me never quite got around to that. Not that I could have loved her more, you understand. It's just that there was always one thing or the other to tend to." I get myself up and brush off my knees. I know about one thing or the other. If pressed, it would be hard for Seymour to detail those things he was talking about in the same way it was hard for my mom to say exactly why my father left us. Her reasons were always like butterflies: vibrant, and real, and fragile, and impossible to tell the difference between any of them. I take hold of the bars of our little cell. I don't need to be held up, I am not going to shake them and try to make a break. I just want to feel something solid and real in my hands. "The men in my family seem to have raised leaving to an art form." "Sometimes my feet took me places before I knew I was walking, Bailey," Seymour sighs. I put my back to the bars and eye him. I really am curious now. This is the most I've ever heard about where I come from. I'd like to know more. I think I'd like to know it all. I hope he is truthful and not full of fancy. "Where were you going?" I ask. "Maybe I was looking for you."

The gong in my head sounds a sour note. "If you wanted to find me you would have a long time ago." There's a beat and I ask the question that has burned in my heart for years. "What do you think my father was looking for when he left?" "I imagine he was looking for me." "Well, I sure wish one of you would have thought about me–" I am not sure what I would have told him next. I didn't have the energy to be upset and, if truth be told, I am not really upset by any of this. I've lived without for so long that the thought of what might have been is just that – a thought. I won't cry about it because I don't cry. That's why I'll make a good lawyer. I don't get mushy about things. Yep, I'll never know what I would have told him because we are interrupted. Just as Seymour leans forward in his chair and I turn around to hold onto the bars again, Judge Ramirez's bailiff comes in. He's wearing an orthopedic boot on one foot instead of his regular shoe. Behind him is Jeffery. Jeffery hurries around the guy and comes straight for me. He's dressed in a great suit. It fits perfectly. His shoes are shined. His hair is combed, but he's got a nice big bandage strapped across his nose. It's dangerous to be around Seymour. "Bailey," Jeffery says before he actually gets to me. "I heard what happened. How are you doing?" "I'm fine." I put my hand through bars as he reaches for me. Our hands meet. Jeffery is both the file and the cake; he looks sharp and yummy. "How did you know we were here?" "Mira told Mr. Balmati and he did what Mr. Trump would do." "He called a lawyer," I say and we laugh. What else was I going to do? I can just see Mr. Balmati praying at the altar of Donald Trump for guidance. I'm so happy his prayers were answered. Jeffery is an angel. "How are you Mr. Sullivan?" he asks Seymour.

"Don't talk to him," I order. Seymour is still in the doghouse as far as I'm concerned. I go back to where I was sitting and pick up my purse and sweater. I give Seymour his marching orders, too. "And you. Not a word until we're out of this building. Not one until we're home. Maybe not one even then." The bailiff opens the cell door and Jeffery is there, helping me get Seymour to his feet. "She's not happy, young man. I'd keep my distance if you don't want nothing else broken." That's it. He wreaks havoc on my life and I'm the one to watch out for? I shoot him another devastating green-eyed laser look, but he just smiles at Jeffery who starts to smile back until he sees me looking. At least the death-ray stare works on someone. Jeffery sobers and we all leave the holding cell, ing the bailiff who stays safely behind the metal bars until Seymour and his walker are well out of range of his other foot.

Chapter 12

Morning has broken but luckily that is all. I have survived a full forty-eight hours with Seymour L. Sullivan. Last night I fed him dinner, put him down to sleep after making sure I knew where his hearing aids were and then we listened to Ethan serenade us. I'm not sure if Ethan does this to soothe my nerves or entertain Seymour who chatters on about his days in a band. When I finally said goodnight, I left him propped on a second pillow and that helped with the snoring. I actually slept pretty well and now here we are. For a few hours at least, I am reclaiming my life. Seymour is dressed, he has had breakfast, and he is sitting on the couch awaiting instructions. "The study group is coming and I don't want any trouble, okay?" "Sure thing." He gives me thumbs up, and I give him some DVDs and a huge pair of earphones I found in the back of my linen closet. "Here, you can wear these while you watch your movie." I hold up the red earphones. Each of them is bigger than his whole head. "You won't hear us, and we won't be distracted by you. If you need to go to the bathroom, I want you to hold up a hand, okay? You don't have to announce it to everyone. Okay?" "You got it, granddaughter." "Whatever," I mutter, wishing he wouldn't call me that. I rush around putting out all the books we'll need and sharpening pencils. I even got new legal pads for notes just to make up to them for the night before last. I look out the window, but I don't see their cars. I put some drinks in the fridge. I look out the window again. I pace. On the T.V. John Wayne is about to take some hill or other as war rages silently on. Seymour smiles, points at his headphones, and then gives me a thumb's up. He's happy. I'm worried. Finally, I hear someone at the door. I run to it and throw it open. "I didn't think you guys were coming…"

It isn't the study group. It isn't even just one of them. It's Jeffery. The suit is gone along with the hard-soled shoes. Instead he wears a red polo shirt and khakis. The bandage is still there. His eyes are smiling above it, and that's all I can see because he's holding a stack of boxes that cover the rest of his face. "What are you doing here?" I am so not gracious. Immediately the smile drains from his eyes and they fill up with disappointment. Still, he puts on a happy voice. "I thought I might be able to help out and–" "I was expecting my study group." I push past him and stick my head into the hallway. I am being miserable, but I'm getting a little tired of the old 'knock on the door and change your life thing'. It's never what I expect. Jeffery balances his packages, poor guy. I take the top one. "I'll give them a call," I say. Jeffery follows me inside and kicks the door shut. Seymour watches as he deposits the boxes on the coffee table. He rights himself and beams at the old man. Seymour motions him out of the way. John Wayne is fighting off a whole platoon of bad guys, and Seymour doesn't want to miss it. Jeffery takes a giant step to his left. "Morning, Mr. Sullivan," Jeffery says just as I start throwing a fit. "It's not my fault," I'm crying into the phone. "No, I don't have any place to store him. Come on. We can still study together…" I listen to Shirley on the other end of the phone and she's talking really fast. I can't stop her, but I try. "No, you can't do that! By then it will be too late." I'm talking to dead air. She hung up on me, so I hang up back. Then I put my phone down on the table where I have the books, and the pencils, and the new legal pads put out. I walk past Jeffery and Seymour, and go into my bedroom. I slam the door behind me but that doesn't make me feel better. There isn't anything on this earth that can make me feel better.

It's all of five minutes before I hear a tentative knock on my door. I don't say anything. I don't say 'come in' and I don't say 'I will kill whoever comes through that door'. I just sit there on the edge of my bed, and I don't move as the door opens really slowly. Since the first thing that pokes into the room is a big white bandage I know it is Jeffery who has come to see me. Then comes his head, and then his body, and when he closes the bedroom door he stands half way between that and the bed. Jeffery doesn't say a word. I appreciate that because I don't know what word I would like to hear right now. Still, he has been kind and he deserves an explanation. "They kicked me out of the group. They said they couldn't be distracted. They didn't even call to tell me they weren't coming. They just went over to Nicholas's house." I can feel Jeffery's eyes softening and his heart going out to me. Suddenly I feel safe. I feel safe enough to let go. Jeffery sympathizes wholly and fully with me, and no one has ever done that before. I sniff. A tear runs out of the corner of my eye. I don't cry. I mean not really. I never cry because I'm sad or afraid, but I cry now because I'm frustrated and hurt and angry and overwhelmed by Jeffery's understanding. In a second I'm sobbing and talking and hiccupping all at the same time. "I've got an old man in my living room…" Hiccup. "…and I got thrown in jail…" Snort. "…and tickets…" Jeffery sits on the mattress next to me. I fall against him.

"…I missed work…" He puts his arm around me. "…I have to take him to the bathroom…" He strokes my giant hair. "It's okay," Jeffery soothes. His arm tightens around me. He's getting used to the rhythm. I pound his chest with my fist but I only land lame, little nothing blows. "No. It isn't. Nothing will be okay," I blubber. "It will be," he insists. And I insist back. "No! It won't." I half sit up. I haven't got the strength to go the whole way. I wipe a sleeve across my nose. That's not terribly cool, but it's better than getting anything on Jeffery's nice shirt. "I haven't slept for six months because I've been studying, and now I'm going to fail the bar exam. I'll be a sandwich maker my whole life. Seymour Sullivan will be in my living room forever. My life will never be normal." I take one big deep breath. "My life has never been normal. I'm a loser." I whip my thumb and pointer finger up and brand my forehead with the loser sign. I fall back onto Jeffery again and this time he holds me with both arms, and he is warm, and his arms are strong. He holds me like he means to make it better. Then he does make it better. "I'll study with you," he murmurs, his lips against my hair. I breathe in three times and then breathe out once and it comes out like this: "You w-w-will?" Jeffery holds me tighter. His chest expands. It's actually a very nice chest. "And I'll take care of things with Mr. Sullivan." I can't believe what I'm hearing. I sit up and look him full in the face. I know what he's seeing is gruesome because redheads don't look really pretty when

they cry. We get all mottled and that's one reason I don't do it very often. Jeffery doesn't seem to notice that I'm mottled. When he looks at me I see severe 'like' for me in his eyes and that makes me feel amazing in a way that makes things better already. "You will? You'll help me with Seymour?" "Absolutely," he says. "You better believe it." For a moment he's heroic, lifting a tree over his head, ready to toss it at the bad guys to save me. No wavering. No second thoughts. I throw my arms around him and kiss him as the Battle of the Bulge wages on the television in the next room. Jeffery is only saved from my extreme gratitude by another knock on the door. "This is getting weird," I say. He smiles, pushes back my hair, and sends me off to answer the door. I leave Jeffery on his back, on my bed, breathing hard through his mouth. At first I think I must be an incredibly ionate woman to elicit that response but when I look back I realize I almost suffocated him when I kissed him. Poor thing can't breathe through his nose, and it didn't help that I planted one on his mouth and it cut off his last source of oxygen. "You rest," I say. "I'll be back." But I don't go back because Ethan has arrived. Jeffery figures out that I have been detained and he comes out of the bedroom. Ethan eyes him and then grins. "Hey, it's the boyfriend." He touches his own perfect nose. "I owe you one, buddy." "What do you want?" There is a little edge to Jeffery's voice and I like it. "Easy there, Jeeves." Ethan laughs and then kisses my cheek. "Looking good there, cupcake." He sails in on the wings of that lie. I don't mind. He lies so nicely that I pretend it's true. Before I can close the door Josephine wedges her large self through. Ethan grins at her, too.

"Josephine, you are so fine this morning!" "Liar," Josephine trills happily. She turns to me and gets down to business. "Bailey, I need some purple thread. A friend is coming over to help me hem my gown for tonight. Do you have purple thread?" "I don't even have a needle," I say. "Sorry, Josephine." "No worries. No one will be able to tell under all those lights. I'll use black." "Streisand, tonight?" Ethan asks while he fiddles with the boxes Jeffery brought. "Really, Ethan," Josephine sniffs. "Streisand is so é. Tonight it's an homage to Bacall." "I'd pay to see that," Ethan says. "That's the point," Josephine reminds him. "What's all that? Presents? She bustles past me, shooting Seymour a greeting he doesn't hear because of the earphones. That's Jeffery's cue. He gives me a squeeze and attacks the pile of boxes, taking the one Ethan is holding first. "These are things for Seymour," Jeffery informs him. "These are things he'll need when he gets settled somewhere." Ethan picks up a donut. "A whoopee cushion?" Jeffery grabs it back. "Hemorrhoid assist." "Mmmmm, very cushy." Josephine gives the thing a squeeze as it is ed to her. She discards it in favor of an odd looking cane. She twirls it like a baton. "What about this?" "The top opens up and makes a seat." Jeffery takes it from her and demonstrates. He holds it out to show Seymour who moves his head to see the television around the growing crowd of visitors. Then it's Ethan's turn. He picks up a package of Depends, tosses it in the air with a twirl and hits it like a beach ball.

"You don't need these Seymour." The package of Depends heads toward the picture hanging on the wall behind Seymour's head. Jeffery grabs it out of the air while I try to figure out if I really care if that picture survives an assault by diaper. It came with the apartment, and I never liked it much. Then I think I wouldn't have liked it if it fell off the wall and bonked Seymour on the head so all in all everything worked out okay. "I've got to run, sweet things." Josephine has tired of all this. She blows kisses at Ethan who takes her warm spot in the chair. He laces his hands behind his head and splays his legs. Fine, fine legs in worn jeans and feet shod in biker boots. "So, what's on the agenda, today?" It takes me a minute, but I finally acknowledge the question instead of focusing on his exceptionally beautiful teeth. I look at Jeffery who looks right back at me. He has a wonderful smile, too, but right now he just looks confused, a little hurt, and a little funny because of the bandage in the middle of his face. This nice, wonderful person has ridden to the rescue armed with weapons to counter the geriatric attack. He brought with him order and a promise that we will not only win the battle but the war. I swing my eyes Ethan's way. Pretty as he is, there is no order in his life and I don't want any more chaos in mine. I take the lead on this one. "We have to sort out Seymour's papers." "Bailey has to study," Jeffery adds. I shoot him a look. It's not that he isn't right; it's just that I should be the one to lie if I have to. "We have to go to the grocery store." "And study," Jeffery reminds me. I set my jaw and put my hands on my hips. I want to tell him to stop stepping on my lines but it doesn't matter. The last of the audience is bored. Ethan is leaving. "Good grief. That all sounds awful considering it's a beautiful day." Ethan slaps his thighs and gets up. "Well, I don't go to work 'til seven if you need an extra pair of hands. Give me a call."

He holds his thumb and pinkie toward Seymour and makes like he's dialing. Seymour nods and smiles. He's a happy camper with his giant earphones and his DVDs. I also think he's happy to have young people around him. In a bizarre way that makes me happy, too. However, I have to keep my eye on the prize. This is not the best time for me to get sentimental. I walk behind Ethan to make sure he actually goes through the door once he opens it. Behind us Jeffery assures him that he has things well in hand. "We won't need anything. I've got it covered," he calls. "We might take you up on it later," I add. "We won't." Jeffery is very firm. I look over my shoulder. It's cool seeing this side of Jeffery. If a man can look forceful holding a package of Depends there's no telling what he's like in a really serious situation. Say, like, in bed. That thought crashes into my brain just as Ethan grabs my hand, gives me a twirl and pulls me right back into him. He bends me back and leans over me. His hair is long enough to just fall over his temples and all I see are those beautiful blue eyes of his. No one has ever done this to me in my whole life. "If you ever get tired of the barrister over there, just let me know." He pulls me up, kisses the hand he's holding, and then twirls me toward Jeffery who abandons the package of diapers and catches me with a little less grace than Ethan tossed me to him. But he holds tight and he is warm and it's the two of us now as Ethan heads out the door. Of course, he doesn't leave. He takes a minute and points to the old man on the sofa who is now watching credits. "Hey, did you know that Seymour used to play some fine sax?" "Maybe you can get him some work. He can earn his keep." I shake off the goofy feeling I had when Ethan was dancing with me. "Maybe I can. I mean, you have no idea…" Ethan goes on but Jeffery takes a half a dozen steps across the room and eases him out the door. I laugh. I can't help it. Ethan is a funny guy and Jeffery is funny serious. He and I stand looking at one another across the room when the

door closes. I don't know who started it first but one of us starts laughing again. At that moment everything is fun. We are all still laughing as I take the earphones off Seymour's head, and Jeffery flops his funny little hat on it. We ask if he has to go. This time, the answer is no. We laugh some more and we are still laughing when we pile into my little car and head to the grocery store. We'll tackle the hard stuff later.

Chapter 13

I wake up at my kitchen table. I have no idea when I fell asleep but it was somewhere between analyzing the medical paperwork Mrs. Wilson left with us and making a list of living options for Seymour. I sit up slowly because every bone in my body aches. My mouth feels like a swamp; a red and gooey swamp. I will never fall asleep again without brushing my teeth after a feast of Spaghettios. While strangely satisfying on some level, it is a vile meal if left to percolate over night. I push my hair out of my eyes. My hair is huge this morning, falling past my shoulders and frizzing around my face. I rub my eyes and check out the lay of the land. Seymour sleeps the sleep of the dead: teeth in the glass and hearing aids now in a little purple dish that is chipped on the rim. Jeffery is in the easy chair curled under a blanket. He looks pitiful, as if he missed his flight and has been forced to sleep in an airport. I think of the perfectly good bed in my bedroom. We should have crashed there. There wouldn't have been any hanky-panky. We were way too tired for that. I think we were too tired. I'm pretty sure we were. Maybe it was good that things worked out the way they did just in case Seymour could hear better than we think. I push at the papers in front of me while I try to decide what to do first. I guess the first thing is to figure out where we left off the night before. I look at the medical list. "Ophthalmologist," I mutter, unsure if that meant I had to find one for Seymour or that he already has one. I go down the list. Cardiologist. Audiologist. Dentist. I set it aside and pick up the next one. Food restrictions. I hardly need to make a list of those. What should have been a half an hour trip to the grocery store the day before turned into hours of angst. Seymour's list of dietary restrictions was as long as Rapunzel's hair. Beans give him gas, as do

legumes, most vegetables, oatmeal, and Metamucil. Spaghettios, however, are a favorite. They are tasty and easily digestible. Little known fact: you don't have to chew them to consume them. That helps when you want to take out your teeth. You just let 'em slide on through from north to south. Simple. While Jeffery congratulated me for having coupons that would make purchasing ten cans nearly free, Seymour made his escape. I had no idea how nimble those little motorized shopping carts could be or how big a super store was. As Jeffery went up one aisle, and I prowled the perimeter, Seymour evaded us like a pro. We gave up and finally called in the cavalry. The manager made an announcement, calling Seymour L. Sullivan to the front where his party awaited him. Finally – finally – he arrived escorted by a gum popping, longhaired, tattooed young lady who stuck around, bagged our purchases and even walked us to the car. When Seymour raised his hat, she planted one on his dome. He was happy and I had the awful sense that defeat was in my future. I may be woman but this tiny, hard-of-hearing, old guy with some sucker branch on my family tree was formidable. I take a deep breath. I am starting to wake up. My resolve to get my life back to normal is getting a little shake, too. I put the dietary restriction list in the pile along with his personal information: a birth certificate that proves he is as old as he says he is and that form my mother filled out listing me as next of kin just as my father had listed her. Our family might not like to live in the same space for too long but nobody could say we didn't share. Finally, I add the last list Jeffery and I made before we crashed. It should have been the one bright spot in an evening of hard work, but I set it down with a slight feeling of unease and a big feeling of dread. Tiptoeing past the two sleeping men, I run a shower and stand under the hot stream of water for the longest time. The one good thing about my crappy little apartment is that it has a superior water heater. I could probably stand under that water a solid hour and pretend that the only care I have in the world is studying hard enough to the bar. Unfortunately, that isn't the only care in the world. There is a knock on the door, tentative and apologetic. I can hear it even with my head under water. I turn off the water and stick my head through the curtain just as the door opens and Jeffery pokes his head in. I don't know if I am hurt or happy that he keeps his eyes averted.

"Bailey, I'm sorry. Seymour has to–" "Go," I sigh. "That's it." "Give me a second." Jeffery pulls his head back out the door and closes it. I get out of the shower and don't bother to look in the foggy mirror. Even wet, my hair is curly. After a hot shower is the only time my parchment pale skin is pink tinged and it's hard to see my freckles. I throw on my old pink bathrobe, grab a towel, and squeeze past Seymour who is still in his too-big PJs. Jeffery manages Seymour even without the walker. "Morning, Bailey," Jeffery mutters. I think he also is wallowing in the Spaghettio swamp and I make a note to get an extra toothbrush just in case Jeffery is here more mornings. "Mornin', granddaughter," Seymour chirps. I don't want to fight about what he calls me, so I mumble something and retreat to my bedroom. I put on my jeans. I put on my nicest shirt and my sincere blue blazer. I put on my nicest shoes and when I am done, I re the men. Seymour is dressed and eating at the table. Jeffery has combed his own hair and washed his face. His bandage is starting to peel up around the corners. He holds out a cup of coffee. I take it and we move into the living room where we talk into our mugs, a subterfuge that is really unnecessary since the range on Seymour's hearing aids aren't as powerful as we once thought. Still, we lower our voices and pretend like it's normal to huddle together to drink coffee. "Are you sure you don't want me to go with you today?" Jeffery asks. I shake my head. "No, I'll be fine." "He won't be happy," Jeffery points out. "But I will."

"Don't be surprised if you're not," Jeffery warns and he is right. This is not a happy situation on any level. I simply have no choice. I have worked too hard to make a good and steady life for myself and I have to stay on track. It would have been so easy to be my hippy-dippy mom's clone. Still, much as I love her, I can't imagine a future of constant searching and scratching out a living. I ire her faith that she will one day be safe back in the arms of the man who fathered me, but I have no such faith. I believe that it is up to me to make the kind of life I want, and no man will hand it to me on a platter. Conversely, no man is going to ruin the game plan. No matter what I do Seymour won't be happy, but at least what I am doing is honorable. "You're sure this is the way you want it? He's your grandfather after all," Jeffery points out, not presuming he knows what is right. "Seymour Sullivan in my life is the last thing I need," I assure him. "Or want?" Jeffery asks the question I hadn't considered. My lashes flutter. Not in a girly kind of way but in a surprised kind of way. I bury my nose in that cup again but Jeffery won't let it go. He must be dynamite on cross-examination. "Seymour in your life is the last thing you want. Is that right, Bailey?" "Right," I mutter. Jeffery takes a deep breath – through his mouth, naturally – and touches the bandage across his nose. "Then I guess that's that." He kisses my cheek and puts his arm around my shoulder. I hold my mug to the side and lay my head on his chest. His fingers comb through my hair in a way that seems melancholy. Before I'm ready to hear it, Seymour calls out: "I'm ready, granddaughter. Where are we off to?" I turn my face up to Jeffery and we look deep into one another's eyes. He's looking to see what I really want out of my life, and I'm looking for him to give

me a hint. When we hear Seymour's walker on the floor, I turn around. "We're going a lot of places, Seymour." Ten minutes later we're off. Seymour is in the front seat of the Renault telling me all about how grass grows under your feet if you don't keep moving, and Jeffery is standing on the sad patch of lawn in front of my apartment building watching us go. In the mirror, I see him scuff at the ground a little as if he is sorry to be left behind.

* * *

Seymour stopped talking to me two hours ago after I crossed the seventh 'home' off my list. Not that home is really descriptive of the places we've been. We have toured 'assisted living' and 'independent living', and 'helping hand' living but no place that could quite be described as a home. Not that I had any great experience with real homes, mind you. I grew up in apartments, but those places were my home because that's where my mom was. She cooked, and she danced, and she practiced her beautician skills on my frizz of red hair and her fall of blond. My mother was so beautiful. I often wondered as I looked in the mirror and watched her combing and straightening my hair how my father could have left her. I also wondered why she loved a man who wouldn't stick around. The only conclusion I came to was that there's no ing for whom you love, and a home is what you make it. You can't just slap that word on any building and make it so. Maybe that was why these places Seymour and I have been never put the word home on their signs. They didn't fool anyone – especially someone as sharp as Seymour. He refused to get out of the car when I stopped in front of the very first one. I cajoled, I begged, I pleaded, I finally reasoned with him. Hadn't he already lived at Cactus Rose Nursing Home? When that drew no positive response, I drew the bottom line. This was going to happen so he might as well have a say in where he ended up. The only problem was that it didn't look like he was going to end up anywhere. All the places we looked at were either sky-high expensive or they had waiting lists years long. But I was not a quitter. I had marked off nine of the ten targets and this one had possibilities – mainly because it was the last one on

the list. I almost had to drag Seymour out of the car and push him through the door but we finally made it. Now we are sitting at Rainbow's End Rest Retreat in front of a massive and decrepit desk across from a short, wide Korean lady. Her hair is whacked into a black helmet, her muumuu is voluminous and her microscopically small dog is hairless. Everywhere I look there is rainbow kitsch: rainbow calendars, cups, blinking things, pens, note paper. "Six hundred. One month. No toenails. No hair." I listen intently. I get the first part. Six hundred bucks might actually be doable on Seymour's social security if I helped out a little here and there. I would, of course, have to the bar and get a damn good job in order to help out at all, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Then I snap my brain shut tight so I won't freak out about how this is all going to work. I settle on trying to figure out the rest of her sentence. 'No toenails; No hair'. "What?" I ask. "Cut toenails!" she waves her hands and the hairless little dog goes flying. It lands with a thump, but it is upright and unhurt. It has a strange look on its naked, wrinkly face that I find mesmerizing, but I can't succumb to its bug-eyed stare. The proprietress is still waving her chubby little palms at us and insisting we listen. "Cut hair. Extra. Cut toenails. Extra." "Oh," I say. I'm about to ask how much extra it is for those spa amenities when Seymour growls at her. "I wouldn't let you touch my toenails, sis, and no rehab for me. Got it." "Rehabilitation all included." Her smile is so broad that I think it's going to hook over her ears. "Good for brain in old, old man." "My mind is like a tack," Seymour snaps back. "Don't hold much, but it's pretty darn sharp." I roll my eyes. This is all I need. If he antagonizes this woman she'll send us on

our way and our ways are definitely not going to take the same path if I can help it. "He won't be any trouble at all. He sleeps like he's dead. I swear." "Bailey!" Seymour objects. "You do," I shoot back out of the side of my mouth. The Korean lady plays referee. "Okay. No worry. We know dead; we know not dead. No mistakes. Very happy here. Rainbow End. Very happy." "Can we look around?" I want to see for myself how very happy things are at the end of the Rainbow. I turn to Seymour. I even put my hand on top of his. "Let's take a look. It will be good to be around people your own age." "I hate old people. I like you and those two boys," he grouses. "And I'd like my life back." I point out that this isn't really all about him. I look at the manager. "Let's go." We stand up. The lady goes first. Seymour and I are about to follow but the little dog has taken center stage. It raises it leg and pees on the carpet then walks regally past us to its mistress. Seymour looks at me. He raises his head. He sniffs. "Least I know where to go," he says and then thumps on ahead of me like he's going bravely to the gallows. Rainbow's End Rest Retreat is laid out in a square. We two women in wheelchairs having a lively discussion about who should control the T.V. remote. The television is turned so loud I can hardly hear myself think, so I don't know how they hear each other. "Beautiful garden." Our guide raises her voice and points to a concrete patio where there is a half dead potted plant and an old picnic table. A man sits on the bench reading a large book. "Good food." We are in the dining room where a bored young girl is serving up

mashed potatoes, corn and Jell-O. "Good food. White. Yellow. Red." Who knew colors could be nutritious? "Crafts." We poke our heads in. It looks like an assembly line. Old people are screwing doll heads onto genderless plastic bodies. The woman forges on until finally we reach the end of our tour. She turns around and crosses her arms. "You want him to stay?" "Yes," I answer and try to ignore Seymour who is wheeling his way to a dark little corner of the hall. "I can write you a check for the first two weeks, but I'll need to put the rest on credit." Those hands are waving hard again, "No. No credit. No opening today, anyway. I put him on the list." My heart sinks. Even here, even at Rainbow's End Rest Retreat, there is no pot of gold. "When do you expect to have an opening?" Instead of answering me, she calls out to a woman in scrubs standing in the hall smoking. The woman tosses her head and saunters over to an old woman in a wheelchair fitted with an oxygen tank. I cringe, waiting for the thing to blow. The nurse picks up the old woman's wrist and holds the pulse point. "Hana wol," the smoking nurse calls. My muumuu-clad hostess translates. "Four week. Four." She holds her pudgy fingers my way to make sure I understand four. My mouth has fallen open. I feel sick. "Really?" I whisper. "Maybe three if we lucky." I put my hand over my heart. "You can tell when she's going to die?"

The woman throws back her head and cackles. I do not find this funny and am about to tell her so when she says: "No. Four week. We get Medicare. We put Mr. Seymour in there." She throws open a door. Three men sit on three beds. One burps. One talks to himself. One snores. There is a fourth empty bed. It is a nicer bed than my couch makes yet I shiver as I look at it. Still, I comfort myself by knowing Seymour will give them all a run for their money. He will have fun; I will have some peace. She closes the door again. "Four week," she says. I put my hand out. She shakes it. "Four weeks." The deal is done. I smile and turn around. Time to get Seymour on board. "Seymour, it looks like…Where's Seymour?"

* * *

There are cars up on blocks in every other driveway in this neighborhood. Every house has bars on the windows and some of them have signs warning 'beware of dog'. I take those signs seriously because I see a pit bull hanging out with a guy who has his pants belted around his knees, a dew rag on his head, and his butt up against a motorcycle that is bigger than my car. I nod in a friendly sort of way and, thankfully, he doesn't scowl back. In fact, he looks kind of amused as he watches my Renault crawl down the street keeping pace with the old man clumping down the sidewalk. Yep, there is Seymour, eyes forward, neck craned, pushing and lifting and thumping his walker up and over the cracks in the sidewalk. I find him about fifty feet away from Rainbow's End Rest Retreat. When he won't come back when I call, I get in my car and shadow him, enger side window down so I

can talk to him. He's not listening, so I call really loud because I want to get out of there. The homeboys are taking major notice of us. There is a break in the parked cars on the side of the street, so I veer toward the curb and raise my voice as loud as I can. "Seymour! Get in. I swear, I'll leave you right here if you don't get in." He raises his voice right back. "Better on the street, Bailey Devlin. I can take care of myself. I was a Merchant Marine. I worked in the oil fields…" The front wheels of the walker are caught on a crack in the concrete. He shakes it hard to free it while he goes on. "Train conductor…Cowpoke…" The darn thing loosens and I think he is going to take a header but he rights himself and starts on again. "I'll find my own place, you heartless woman." That's it. I stop and get out. Heartless, am I? If I were heartless I would have shut the door in his face. I would have thrown him out with the trash. I wouldn't have given him the time of day. I defy the time/space continuum and move so fast it is as if I willed myself onto the sidewalk. I plant myself in front of him. I take hold of his walker. He tries to keep going, but he is no match for an angry redhead. "This is ridiculous. It's impossible to run away when you can hardly walk." "Put me in that place and I'll break myself out. I'd break that dog out and let him pee on the grass if I could. Real grass. Real sky. Real air. Yes, siree, I would." For another second he pushes that walker against my hands, but I am younger, stronger, and just as determined as he is. I am not ready for what comes next though. Who is ever ready for a real and honest question? "Do you hate me so much, Bailey?" My first instinct is to give him what-for. Then my shoulders sag. I don't want to fight with him. I don't want to care and it would be so easy to do that. Bottom line, I don't want him in my life because I don't have a real life yet. "How could I hate you when I didn't even know you existed until a few days ago?" I hate seeing his faded blue eyes fade even more, but he asked the question and I am answering as honestly as I can. I must have learned that from my

mother. She was always honest about what she wanted. "I'm trying to do what's right. That's more than I can say for you or my father." "Me and your father were young and stupid," he mutters. "And I'm young, but you expect me to be what you weren't." I loosen my grip on that damn thing that holds him up. I stick my hands in my pockets. "And I was a baby. I needed you." "And you're grown, now. I could be your family now," he insists. "I'm sorry, but it's my turn to choose how my family is going to be," I say back. "Isn't that what my mother did? And my grandmother?" "Your mother and grandmother were tough women, Bailey, but they weren't cruel." "Sometimes doing what's right is hard, Seymour. But you wouldn't know about that, would you?" "I'm not to old to learn. Same way you could learn to give a little if you wanted," he says. "I won't. I can't. It's too late, Seymour." He looks at me a little longer. He waits. He won't get what he wants and we both know it. Slowly, he makes his way to the car and gets into it. I go to help him: taking the walker, folding it up, and putting it in the back. I come around again and fasten his seat belt while he looks straight ahead. His chin is quivering and this time I know it's not because it's something that happens to old people. This time he's holding back tears. By the time I slide into the driver's seat I can feel my resolve wavering so I shore it up. I put the key in the ignition. I remind myself about how hard I have worked to get to this point in my life. The tips of my fingers are on the brass ring. I can feel it. I also remind myself that I am a decent human being and so is he. We are in different orbits. We listen to the car idle. Finally, I throw it into gear but before I pull out I say: "I'll do what I can. That may not be what you want. Whatever it is may not be

perfect, but it will be the best I can do." I pull my sad little excuse for a car out onto the street. I don't notice the homeboys, or the pit bull, or the cracked sidewalks and bars on the house windows. I'm looking in my rearview mirror and I see the neon Rainbow's End sign suddenly break free. I drive away leaving it to hang precariously over the street.

Chapter 14

I need a break. Yes, I do. I hate to it it, but I am not the superwoman I thought I was. The hunk of Kryptonite that landed in my living room looking suspiciously like an old man is sapping my strength. Seymour L. Sullivan and his pouting and his little quivery chin are formidable weapons. Just when I can't stand it anymore, just when I feel my resolve starting to crumble, Ethan knocks on the door. He has come to play video games with Seymour, and I make my escape because he promises to get Seymour in bed and asleep before I get home. I am so thrilled that I run for my drawer, grab my prized coupon, take Ethan's hand and shake it so vigorously I think it might come out of its socket. He pushes me out the door. Seymour doesn't say good-bye. In my car, I draw the coupon out of the pretty envelope it came in and take a long look. There it is: a to the fancy new spa in the shopping center. This is a Willie Wonka's Golden Ticket. This is like winning the lottery. This is my emergency coupon and, boy, this is an emergency. I clutch it in my hand as I drive. I am still holding it tightly as I lock the car and fly up the beautiful stairs that lead to the door of this magical place. This coupon isn't good for a massage or a facial, just a couple of hours soak in the hot tub and a sit down in the steam room. I am fairly salivating when I walk up to the counter. At first I don't see the wraith thin girl behind the counter because she is dressed in black and turned sideways. When she faces me, I see that she is, indeed, a whole person. Thank goodness. I would have had second thoughts about getting into that hot tub if it literally melted people. I hand over my coupon. She hands it back. "This is expired." The words slip out of her very plump, maroon colored lips. "Expired?"

"Expired." When she lowers her lashes, I want to think that the carpet of black and grey eye shadow is just proving a little too heavy for her delicate lids, but that isn't the case. She's just taking a good look at me, down and up those eyes go. I probably look homeless or demented because she steps back and puts her hand on the telephone. I don't want her to call anyone, so I throw myself in front of her. "I need it not to be expired." It sounds like I'm spitting up boulders. "But it is," she assures me. "I can't make it unexpired." "But you can make an exception." I look over my shoulder and then over the other one. It's just us and a wall of miracle creams, and fancy candles, and mirrors. I plead and plead: "You don't understand. I – need- to – go – inside. I have to get away. He's driving me crazy. He's…I have to…I just want him out of my life…But I can't just throw him out…Do you understand? Do you? He's… He's…Oh, God…" I lean an arm on the high counter. I put my head on that arm. I sound like I'm sobbing, but I'm basically dry heaving hysteria and desperation. Then I feel her hand on mine and I'm thinking she's going to throw me out. I clutch that counter with both my hands. I will rip it right out of the floor if she tries to make me leave. Instead, the girl with the sparkly gravel on her eyelids takes my hands in hers. "Hey. It's okay. I swear. You can go in. We're not that busy." I raise my head. I probably look like a rabbit because my eyes will be redrimmed and I have no color in my eyelashes. "Really?" "Yeah. I'm sorry. I know how it is." She has hold of my hand and it is like we are playing maypole. She drags me down until we are at the end of the counter. With one hand, she picks up a key and puts it in my palm. She uses both hands to wrap my fingers around it. "Concierge level. There's like fruit and everything. "

I keep blinking. I honestly don't know what to say and that's a first. I throw myself into her arms. This must have happened to her before because she doesn't seem surprised. "Guys suck," she says in sympathy. "You just stay as long as you want, and then you go home and kick butt. You hear me? Kick butt." "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." I release her and back through the wide double doors that lead to Nirvana. I bow. I scrape. She is a goddess. When I'm sure the door has closed, I stand up straight. She's right. This time of night the place is nearly deserted. Another young woman glides past me, and asks if I know where I'm going. I don't – at least not in this place. She shows me. Another set of doors open on a locker room that looks like it belongs in the Taj Mahal. I strip off my jacket and shirt and jeans and grab a robe that is as thick as rabbit fur (I had a rabbit once and still dream about that beautiful fur). I put my feet into rubber slippers and I too am gliding as I make my way to a gigantic, gold tiled pool. A gargoyle spits hot water into the thing. Steam rises. I ditch the robe and walk naked into the hot, hot water. I find a Jacuzzi jet and put my back up against it. Then I slide down so that the hard pulse of water is punching at my neck. I slide down a little further until it's hitting the base of my skull. Two hours later I am a steamed, soaked, hot baked prune of a pale skinned person. I am renewed in mind and spirit. I head out. The girl who disappears when she turns sideways is pulling the tops off the candles and smelling them like she's doing lines of coke. She smiles at me. I want to ask her how she keeps her maroon lipstick so perfect, but I'm too happy. I glide up to her. I take her in my arms and give her a hug. She holds me away, looks me in the eye, and says: "Kick butt for all of us," she reminds me. I leave. She's still getting high on coconut lime scented candles while I am infused with a Zen that nothing and no one can disturb. In theory.

* * *

Josephine doesn't open her door to see what I'm up to when the elevator arrives. She probably doesn't open it because she doesn't hear me. You can't hear someone who is floating on air. When I am a lawyer and I am making a bunch of money – not a ton, just a bunch – I am going to go to the spa a lot. I skate over the old carpet, swinging my hips a little, humming a little. When I get close to my apartment I see the door is slightly ajar and I hear: "Don't forget to take your teeth out Seymour." I lean my shoulder up against the wall. I wish that Ethan had Seymour in bed already. Luckily, I know the drill. It won't be long until he's tucked in. I don't want to see Seymour's shaky little chin tonight. I don't want to see that set of his jaw that says he'll run away from Rainbow's End again the first chance he gets. I don't want to be made to feel guilty when I have gone over and above, so I twirl a still damp tendril of hair as I put my back to the wall and wait. But I don't hear Ethan putting Seymour on the couch; I hear Jeffery's voice. He's early for our study session. "Making yourself kind of at home, aren't you? You might wear out your welcome." I tilt my head. That doesn't really sound like Jeffery at all. It sounds like a peeved Jeffery. I didn't even know he had a peeved gene in him. I roll my shoulder so my ear is at the crack in the door. "I'm just helping out," Ethan replies and then raises his voice. "Hey, Seymour, you getting tired of me?" "I meant that Bailey would get tired of you." Jeffery answers. That is my cue to go in, but I don't. I scoot to the other side of the door and put my eyeball to the crack. Jeffery has his hands stuffed in his pockets. His tie is loosened and his hair is a little mussed. He looks scrumptious. He's standing in the middle of the room; Ethan is leaning against the kitchen counter. They are as different as night and day and equally attractive and equally good to me, but they do not look like friends. "She hasn't complained," Ethan points out. "Besides, someone needs to help. She

can't do it on her own." Ethan is right on that score. "Some of us have real jobs," Jeffery says. I can't argue with his logic. Ethan puts two fingers to his brow. "Well, thanks iral. I was a little confused about who should be helping. The guy with the real job or the schlep who ekes out a living making people happy with his music." "I'm getting Bailey ready for the bar and that's the most important thing in her life right now," Jeffery argues. "More important than family?" "She's made her priorities clear," Jeffery starts to circle. I loose sight of him as Ethan's back comes into view. "I don't think she knows what her priorities are, Jeffery." I object when he says that. I do know what my priorities are – mostly. "Then we should decide who's going to help her figure it out. And we should settle that right now." Jeffery is the one to throw down the gauntlet. My heart is pounding. I bolt upright, unsure what to do until I hear that male battle cry, the one that says two bucks are about to lock horns. "Fine," says Jeffery. "Fine," Ethan responds. I peek in to see Jeffery taking off his jacket. He tosses it on the chair. Ethan is around the coffee table. There are only seconds for me to act. There is no doubt who will win this contest. Poor Jeffery. Then again, he's pretty ionate about me. I shouldn't count him out. I start to push the door open. I don't want either of them hurt, and Seymour is

just an old man, unaware of what is about to happen. Then I pause. I think. These two men are getting ready to fight over me, and that is kind of cool. I press my face a little closer to the opening. I'll wait just long enough to see how this will be settled, but go in before anyone lays hands on anyone else. I'll… I'll do nothing because I can now see their choice of weapons is the video game Ethan has brought with him. Jeffery and Ethan take up their controllers, and I hear the sounds of digital boxing as they land blows on their respective avatars. Seymour comes out of the bathroom and pads toward the kitchen. The most dangerous thing happening in that apartment is that Seymour could trip over his pajama pants. I square my shoulders and shake off the little bread-dough-lump of disappointment that formed when I figured out that that they are settling this whole matter in a perfectly modern way. I hear one last bonk as an avatar takes it on the jaw. That's when I go in. I glance at the television screen. There is one square jawed, half-clad, digital fighter down and out with crosses where his eyes should be. I don't ask who has won. "What's going on?" I ask. "Nothing." Jeffery is all innocent eyes and giant nose. "Just hanging out," Ethan agrees. His eyes aren't innocent at all. He gathers up his video game. "But you're here now so I guess I'll be on my way." He playfully knocks into my shoulder on the . "Always interesting up here, Bailey," he says and then calls out. "'Nite Seymour." I walk him to the door. It's only the polite thing to do. Plus I like walking beside him. He's pretty tall and he makes me feel not so tall. "Can you still stay with Seymour tomorrow night? Jeffery is taking me to an event. He's going to give a speech. It's kind of important." "I'm good unless there's a last minute gig," he says. "Thanks. I don't know what I'd do without you," I say and I hope he can hear that

I am sincere. "Everything's been so crazy." "Bailey?" Ethan turns so quickly it takes me a second to pull up. I'm closer to him than I've ever been. I look up into those amazing eyes of his. He actually looks serious. "Bailey? Do you…?" He changes his mind. Whatever he was going to ask me, it's never going to be asked. "What?" I press him. "Nothing. Just cut yourself some slack. Everybody needs a break now and then." "I'm okay," I say. "But thanks." I linger in the doorway and watch him go. He's almost at the elevator when the door of Josephine's apartment opens and she waltzes out, resplendent as a portly Lauren Bacall. Ethan wolf whistles. Even from where I stand I can see Josephine blush. "How nice," she says in her regular voice, "A man who knows how to put his lips together and blow." "I've had some practice," Ethan laughs as he saunters down the hall. He pushes the elevator button for Josephine. It opens and as she glides past him she says: "You're a good man, Ethan." To which he answers: "Takes one to know one, Josephine." And they are gone. I go back into the apartment. Seymour is on the couch, covers up to his chin, eyes half closed. He'll be asleep in a minute. I take off my jacket and Jeffery at the little table by the window. He's got all the law books laid out. Jeffery starts to read. I him. I've been reading for a while, but my mind wanders. My chin cradles in my upturned palm. I should be looking at my notes, but I'm staring at the front door. "He's great, isn't he?" I think I'm thinking this but I must have said it out loud because Jeffery stops reading and looks at me.

"Seymour?" he asks. "No." I drop my hand and furrow my brow. "Ethan. He's a good guy." Jeffery looks at the door. He looks back at me but I've got a pencil in my hand and I'm making notes. I miss the hurt that flits across his face. "Yeah, he's a real doll." Jeffery mutters. Just then I notice a bouquet of flowers on the kitchen counter. "Flowers. That was so sweet of him," I say dreamily, thinking Ethan must have brought them. When I look back again I see that Jeffery looks like someone just kicked him in the gut. It doesn't . "Where did we leave off?" I ask. "Alienation of affection," he mutters. Jeffery dips his head. He does what he promised he would do. He takes care of me, and Seymour, and gets me ready to take the bar. I need to tell him how much appreciate all this. And I will. But I haven't had much practice letting people know how I feel about them. I should have told him right then when he needed to hear it most.

Chapter 15

News flash: I am not a fashionista. I count it a good day when I don't have tape on the hem of a skirt or a safety pin holding the front of my jeans together. When you live like me, hand to mouth, making ends meet, visions of torts dancing in your head from morning 'till night, what you put on your body is truly secondary to what you put in your brain. So the night of the big to-do has come. Jeffery will be coming to get me. He will look so handsome in his all-American-boy way. He will look like the successful attorney he is, like the keynote speaker for the evening. I will, for the first time, be in the midst of people I need to know, people who might possibly give me a job after I the bar, people who I want to impress. How I will do that with my limited resources is the million-dollar question. My mistake was asking that question out loud in the presence of Mira and Mr. Balmati. Mr. Balmati kindly offered Mira's help. Mira, he pointed out, was a true girl of style. There was no denying that, but he never stopped to ask himself what kind of style. Despite my protestations, he dropped her off to help me get ready. She came prepared with two suitcases full of goodies. She hadn't quite begun her Henry Higgins routine when I heard someone at the front door. I open my bedroom door just in time to hear Josephine cry: "Ethan! Oh lord, has Bailey gone already?" I cringe, wishing I were gone. More help dressing is not what I need. "Mira's with her," Ethan answers. I can see Josephine from where I stand and I try to catch her attention without Ethan seeing me in my old robe with my hair in the hot rollers (Mira insisted hot rollers will straighten my curly hair). I wave my hands. I shake my head. I mouth the word "no", and Josephine gets it. She backs toward the hallway, so Ethan can't see around her. When she walks into me she turns and hustles me back in the bedroom. In our wake, we hear Seymour ask:

"Single lady, is she? Miss Josephine?" I roll my eyes. I am living in a little box with an old lunatic. Only a few more weeks to go and my life will be mine, Seymour will be settled and the bar will be behind me. Currently there is not a corner in my apartment I can call my own. Ethan and Seymour play Scrabble in the living room. They cackle like schoolboys when they manage to spell out a naughty word. Mira is in my bedroom, busy with pots of makeup and brushes and bottles of perfume that she has spread out on the little table where I study sometimes. Josephine has come to assist in my transformation from poor law student to chic young professional, date of a partner-worthy keynote speaker. She suddenly pushes me aside. She has forgotten something and promises to be back. I put my back to the bedroom door. I wonder if I'm strong enough to hold out against her when she comes back. To calm myself, I close my eyes. I envision my dreams. I breathe deeply and tell myself to keep my eyes on the prize. I will the bar. I will get a job. I will actually be paid to be a lawyer. I will have a real apartment. I will not rely on coupons to eat. I will have a normal life. I will…I will…I"Come on, Bailey. I'm going to make you beautiful." Mira waves me toward the table, but I cling to the door. She raises something green. She grins. I am thinking I can run faster than her – I'm even turning the doorknob – when I go flying into the room instead of out of it as Josephine bursts through. She looks like she is moving in. She's laden with jewelry, and wigs, and her signature boas. "Mira! Step away from that make-up," Josephine barks. "I'm taking over."

The battle royal begins not for my heart, not for my soul, but for my tall, angular, pale-skinned, flaming-haired being.

* * *

"I don't know. This a banquet for lawyers, Mira." Mira is sitting on the edge of my bed and I am on the floor with my shoulders wedged between her splayed legs. She is teasing my hair – which seems redundant since it was really big after she took the rollers out. She won't let me see my coif, but by the looks of the shadow cast on the wall my hair is the size of Pluto. When Josephine sees what she's doing, she hustles out of the room again. Mira doesn't miss a beat. She's lost in her artistry. "You'll stand out, I promise–" The door of the bedroom slams open one more time. Josephine is back. I roll my eyes toward her since Mira won't let me move my head. When she gets a gander at Mira's handiwork, Josephine's intake of breath is so huge that I think she's going to suck in everything that isn't tied down. Her large hands go to her boobless chest.

"Oh, that will never do." She throws down a box, opens it and pulls out a platinum, Dolly Parton style wig. I am doomed. Together, they move in like lionesses ready to devour their helpless prey. For a while I let them have their way with me on the off chance there is something in this mess of clothes that will transform me. An hour later I have tried on a shocking pink gown with two big flowers where my breasts should be. This was Mira's prom dress. On me, it is tea length and the bodice has nothing to cling to.

Josephine's pick is a skin-tight black number with a poof of stuff that starts at the knees. I look a little like Elvira, which isn't bad. Unfortunately, I can't walk or sit down. Mira has me shimmy into a bubble skirt and t-shirt but when I turn to the mirror I can't see anything. Josephine has hijacked Mira's make-up tray and is intent on painting her face in a palette of purples. We can see her reflection in the mirror. Her wide rear-end moving to an unheard tune as she works. When she finally moves so I can see myself, it is pretty clear that the chic-casual look isn't for me. I look a little like a candy apple on a stick. When they forces to deck me out in full-blown Iranian finery complete with a gold coin headdress, I call a halt to our What Not To Wear marathon. We're down to the wire. Jeffery will arrive in twenty-minutes. I order the wigs and gowns and jewelry and boas back into their boxes and my well-meaning friends out of the room. I channel the one person I know who truly has style: my mother. I still have some of her things, so I dig deep in the back of my closet and come out with a long, forest green, velvet skirt with a hint of gold thread on the waistband. I pair it with my best white blouse. I slip into my only pair of heels and then unpack my mother's favorite shawl – a gorgeous fall of green silk and gold tassels. I am dressed. A little hippie; a little lawyer. I flip up the collar on my shirt and roll up the sleeves. The skirt fits me perfectly. It's long enough because my mother is tall, too. Despite all the curling and teasing, my hair is not hopeless. I pull it into a low ponytail and let tendrils wisp and curl around my brow and cheeks. Pulling out the vanity drawer, I find my own make-up. After I swish on some gloss and blush, I lean over the sink and find a place beyond the mirror crack where I can put mascara on my near white lashes. I am doing a pretty good job with the second eye when I hear Seymour coming. I keep layering on the mascara even though he is standing in the doorway. He has no consideration for me, the woman who pays the rent on this apartment. My lashes are beginning to clump, I am having a hard time ignoring him, and he's not getting the hint. "Not now, Seymour. You're going to have to hold it just this once." "No worries, granddaughter," he says. "Ain't nothing in the pipeline." I lean away from the mirror. Any more mascara and I'll look like a raccoon.

"Are Mira and Josephine gone?" I ask. "Yep. That little girl's father came to collect them. I think he likes the big woman." I lean into the mirror again and mutter "good" while I put on some more gloss and smack my lips. Seymour can't take a hint. I put my palms on the edge of the counter and swing my head his way. "What?" Instead of answering me, he maneuvers his walker into the tiny bathroom and bumps right into me. Before I can snap at him, he says: "Maybe you don't want nothing to do with me, but these were your grandma's. Just thought…you know." Before I can say a word, he puts something in my hand, turns around, and motors away, thumping back into the living room where Ethan can watch him. I don't want to look at what's in my hand because I know what it is. A ploy. A ruse. Anything he gives me is meant to soften me up and make me think that we need to stay together. Still, I'm curious so I unfurl my fingers and there in the palm of my hand is a simple necklace of garnets on a cheap and worn chain. I turn the pendant around and see the word 'Olive' and a heart etched into the back. It is not a professional job. I have no doubt Seymour labored over this and then gave it to the woman who bore my father. I take a deep breath and work my jaw and try to figure out what to do with this. Too soon Jeffery is knocking at the front door, and I am rushing to answer it. First I stop in the living room, hold out my arms and ask the audience of two: "How do I look?" "Like a lawyer," Ethan says. "Good." That's what I should look like. Still, I'm a little disappointed until Ethan pokes Seymour and adds: "Like a very, very hot lawyer." I blush. I catch Seymour's eye. I think there might be tears in them but not

because of what Ethan said. He is looking at my neck. He is looking at the garnets. My lips pull together, but I can't bring myself to smile at him. Jeffery knocks again I'm setting Seymour aside for the night. "Don't forget to wish Jeffery good luck with his speech." Ethan shakes his head. "The Ramifications of Trustee Bad Faith. I'm sorry I'm going to have to miss that one." "Ethan, I swear…" I give him a warning look as I open the front door and there is Jeffery, more handsome in black tie than I could have dreamed. The bandage is gone There is still a black and blue mark over his nose but he is gorgeous. He lights up when he sees me, and I bask in that glow. "You look great," I say. Before he can return the compliment Seymour calls to him: "Break a leg young man!" "Same from me," Ethan says. "Thanks guys." Jeffery waves at them, pleased and surprised by the good wishes. I go for the shawl, come back and we say our goodnights. Before the door closes we hear Ethan again. "Have her home early. Don't want to have to come looking for her." I shut the door and it's just Jeffery and me looking like a million bucks in the shabby hallway of my apartment building. "You look so beautiful." He touches the garnets. "New?" "Old," I answer. "It suits you." "I think so."

As my lips purse with the last word Jeffery takes me by the shoulders, and draws me toward him. He kisses me. I definitely cannot the last time I was kissed or a time when I was kissed so well. I kiss him back, and then we go together into a world I have dreamed of for so long. Right then, everything in my life is perfect. Of course, I am so wrong about that.

Chapter 16

Here's the thing about expectations. No body should ever have them. I tell myself not to expect to ever see my dad again, but there are times I turn my head and think I do. I should have told myself not to expect too much from this grand event, but I did expect it. At first glance, I had every reason to believe those expectations had been met. My car door was opened by a red jacketed valet who helped me out of the car and said 'good evening, miss' like I was someone. I took Jeffery's arm as if we did this every night. We ed a crowd of well-dressed people streaming into The Fairmont. Inside it was like a fairyland: gilt mirrors glinting in chandelier light, and jewelry glinting all by itself, and ladies' shoes glinting with jewels. Then there we were, standing in the doorway of the ballroom, and looking at a sea of black. Gorgeous black, naturally, but black nonetheless. The men are in tuxedos and the women are in seemingly identical black dresses. Black. Black. Black. The black clad ladies cut their eyes my way as I . They are trying to put a label on me: a firm associate, wife of a junior partner. Certainly I was not a lawyer dressed as I was in a velvet skirt and every day shirt. Jeffery shakes hands and introduces me, the important people introduce the people they are with and none of us names as we shuffle through the phalanx of fancy dress folks. The only thing that really stands out in my mind are the bosoms. It seems to me that about a third of the women have extraordinarily lovely, impressive décolletage. When Jeffery sees me looking, he pulls me into him on the pretense of helping me squeeze past a portly man and his young wife. He whispers in my ear: "Second wives," he informs me as if this were a profession. I nod. Nice work if you can get it. Unfortunately, I'll never even get an interview if the prerequisite is a large chest. We move on and then I see her. In the corner of the ballroom is a beautiful young woman with a man about her age. She is dressed in red sequins and is obviously her own person. Jeffery hurries us over. "Bailey," he says when we reach this couple. "This is Collin. We work in the

same firm." I shake his hand but he is intent on Jeffery. Soberly, he inquires, "What do you think?" "I think I'm ready," Jeffery pats his breast pocket where he has his speech neatly folded. "No, I mean, what do you think?" Collin indicates his well-cut tux. I get it. I talk out of the side of my mouth at Jeffery. "He looks nice. He looks very nice." Collin beams when Jeffery compliments him. He turns to his girlfriend. "This is Wynona." I grin my best grin at this woman who thinks outside the box. "Are you with the firm?" I ask. She bats her lovely lashes and says: "Oh no, I'm with Collin." I grab a drink from a ing waiter. I doubt Wynona and I will bond. Luckily, we don't have to try. The lights dim and we move to our tables, a great herd of upper crust human beings. Jeffery and I are seated at the head table. I am across from him and it doesn't take long to figure out that these people all know one another rather well. I have nothing to add to the conversations that swirl around me. "Died…obstruction…interesting will…Hemorrhoids…Runs in the family," says the old man to my left, leaving most conjunctions, nouns, and adjectives out of the conversation. "Pain in the butt…Don't you agree," says the woman to my right. I look across at Jeffery. He winks at me. I smile at him. Then he is introduced. The applause is thundering. That, at least, is what I expect. I also expect he will be brilliant. Then he starts to talk. His speech does teach me a lesson: I will not be a wills and trust attorney. I would rather have Seymour live with me for the next ten years than have to listen to a speech about wills and trusts again.

* * *

"I talked too long, didn't I?" Jeffery sits in the driver seat of his cream colored BMW. His back is up against the door and one knee is crooked on the center console. "Absolutely not." I'm in the enger seat and my back is up against the door, one of my knees is crooked on the center console, too. I have told Jeffery a lie and he knows it. "Nice try, but I know when people aren't listening. My dad is a champion talker and my mom takes the gold medal in not listening." We are in our own little cocoon. We are lingering after the prom. We are relishing a moment where the world falls away. This is the hushed intimacy of a first date, the time between the end of prom and my father blinking the porch lights. Which I have only heard about in stories since I didn't have a father at home to blink those lights – or a porch now that I think about it. Jeffery leans his head back and a stray beam of moonlight lightens his dark hair and makes his sable colored eyes look a little like gold. "Why didn't she listen?" I am really curious because if my mom were with my dad, she would hang on his every word. "Nobody could figure out what Dad was trying to say, so they didn't listen. It didn't matter. He just talked and talked." "He couldn't have been that bad," I laugh. "Oh, yeah?" Jeffery rolls his head on the window again. He still hasn't taken his eyes off me. His teeth shine in the darkness as he smiles. "When I was a kid I asked my dad about sex. He told me this golf story about making a hole in one on a rainy day. He said it was nearly impossible to do, but fabulous when it happened."

"You're kidding?" I giggle. "I swear. True story." Jeffery holds up one hand and crosses his heart with the other. "I was twenty-five before I found a woman willing to have sex in the rain on the eighteenth hole." "How was it?" "Below par." Now I laugh out loud. A big laugh, and I'm sure my tendrils of red curls are bouncing. My eyes squeeze shut, and I feel wonderful. Then I feel even more wonderful because Jeffery has my face in his hands. They are a man's hands: solid and warm. These are hands that will take care of whatever they touch and they are touching me. I open my eyes, and he is close to me, and I feel his breath, and my heart is so full. I am not afraid and that is amazing because I'm afraid all the time about so many things. "Bailey?" He speaks my name in such a way that I know he's not really asking me anything, he's telling me something. "Let's go upstairs." "I'd like that," I answer. "Really?" "Really, really." I grin against his lips as he kisses me, and doors open, and we lace our arms around one another, and don't let go until I put the key into my apartment door. I open it quietly. I probably don't have to be this careful since Seymour will be sleeping and Ethan is long gone. That was the deal, once Seymour was fed and asleep Ethan could leave so all this whispering and tiptoeing is probably wasted effort, but it's also sort of fun. Then Jeffery stumbles. "Ow," he yelps. "Shh." I put my finger to my lips as I trip, stumble, and finally fall onto the couch. The night is over before it has begun. Even Seymour won't be able to sleep through

this. "Ah, Seymour, I'm so sorry." My apology is unnecessary. Either Seymour has shrunk or he isn't on the couch. I scramble up and reach for the light and flip the switch. I am stunned into silence. Jeffery recovers first. "What happened in here?" My apartment is in shambles. Beer cans litter the table; cigar butts swim in coffee cups. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels is on the kitchen counter along with a pizza box and dirty dishes. The television plays on silently. Seymour's headphones are still plugged in. Girls Gone Wild cavorts across the screen. I narrow my eyes. My blood boils. My home has been violated. "Ethan," I growl and then I flip my hand at Jeffery. "Come on." We're downstairs pounding on Ethan's door before you can say irresponsible, but there is no answer. I ball my fists and put them on my hips and turn in circles even though I know I'm chasing my tail. "Okay, where are they? Where?" I stamp my foot like a child. Jeffery puts his hand on my arm. "You look here. I'll check outside." He's right. I have to find them before I can kill them. I take off for the laundry room even though I doubt either of those two had the sudden urge to do a load. I see Jeffery on the street outside the barred window. He is approaching two men. The encounter doesn't seem to go well. He comes back looking a little disconcerted. "You have got to move." He is obviously unimpressed with the folk who hang out on my street after midnight. Together we go to Josephine's. She is none too happy to be awakened from her beauty sleep, but she is duly concerned when we tell her Seymour and Ethan are missing. She is not concerned enough to help us look, but at least she doesn't yell at us.

"What do you want to do?" Jeffery asks after she closes her door. "I'm going to clean up my place," I mutter. Jeffery is disappointed and so am I. I lace my fingers in his. "Can I have a rain-check on the golf game?" "Anytime." Jeffery takes me in his arms. He kisses me. We kiss again and it feels so right. That's what makes me so angry. This is perfect. I rest my head on his shoulder. By all rights he should bolt but he doesn't, and I am touched more than words can say. "Don't worry," Jeffery says. "Seymour isn't forever." "Are you sure?" "Absolutely positive. I'll make sure of it if that's what you want." "That's exactly what I want." I hug him tighter. "No doubt about it."

Chapter 17

I put on my sweats and my tennis shoes. I attack each piece of trash as if it is either Ethan or Seymour. The pizza box is Ethan. I push it into an accordion shape with both hands. The beer cans are Seymour and I toss them like missiles toward the trashcan. When I miss, I get great pleasure out of picking them up and shooting them at the can again. I mutter to myself about respect for property, and abuse of old people, or abuse of young people depending on who instigated all this. I will wring both their necks when I see them. I grab at a glass that is half filled with amber colored water. Somebody had their bourbon on the rocks. The minute I swipe it up I see something I didn't see before: a note on a napkin. The glass had been put there to hold napkin down. It is wet since the glass atop it wept as the ice inside melted. That made the ink run. I pick it up and read what I can.

Took Seymour to (wet spot that has run the ink on the middle words) Stroke

I dive for my phone, grab it, drop it, juggle it, and finally talk into it. I have called Jeffery, and I swear I can hear his car tires squeal as he does a one-eighty after I tell him about the note. He stays on the phone with me as I drive, and he drives, and we make it to the hospital simultaneously – he in his tux and me in my sweats. We rush to itting and give Seymour's name. We wait until a young doctor in a white coat comes into the waiting room just like they do on TV. Just like on TV, Jeffery and I stand up. My hands are wringing, and Jeffery is holding my shoulders. "Ms. Devlin?" The doctor greets us with a measured voice. "Is Seymour okay?" I do not sound as measured.

"I can't tell you." He shrugs apologetically. "I've been in the ER all night and no one matching Mr. Sullivan's description has been brought in." "Is there somewhere else they would have taken him?" "Not if he didn't have insurance. I'm sorry. Maybe someone's playing a joke." The doctor offers the only explanation he can think of. "And I know who's playing it," Jeffery says under his breath. "Ethan wouldn't do something cruel. Stupid maybe. Unthinking. Not cruel." Jeffery isn't convinced, but we don't debate the point. The doctor's hand is out. "I've got your number. I'll call if he comes in." We shake hands and go our separate ways. "Do you want me to go back to your place and wait with you?" Jeffery asks when we get to our cars. I shake my head. "I just want to go home. I don't even care where he is anymore." "You don't care if Seymour disappears?" "That's what men do," I complain. "I don't," Jeffery points out. I look up and give him a small, exhausted smile. "No, you don't. But I'm pretty used to being alone. Maybe that's what I need a little of now. There's been a lot of traffic in my life lately." Jeffery hesitates before he kisses me, but kiss me he does. Just on the check. He touches me. Just on the shoulder. "Don't keep to yourself too long," he says. "I won't. I promise." He opens my car door and I slide onto the driver seat of my trusty Renault. That

seat is patched with electrical tape and faded from the sun. I feel old and faded, too. But this car will get me where I'm going. I'm sure I will get where I'm going. I look in my rearview mirror and see Jeffery watching after me. He doesn't leave until I am out of sight. I have to it, he keeps his promises. I should probably keep mine. Some part of me, though, has already decided I won't. I really, really need to be alone.

* * *

Since I'm alone in my car, I give in to everything. I sniffle and drive and dig for a Kleenex between the seats and sniffle some more. Since I don't find Kleenex I resort to the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Luckily, most of what I wipe away are tears. I'm a loser. That's what I decide when I stop at a light, and stare at the red bulb, and wait for the green one to tell me I can go forward. The light takes forever to change and as I sit with my hands properly at ten and two on the wheel, my shoulders slump. Then I hear music. It is happy music. I swing my head toward the sound. It's coming from a neighborhood bar. I think how much I would like to be in there, and how much I would like to be carefree just once in my life, but I don't wish for that because wishes don't come true. I swing my head back again and stare mournfully at this light that never changes. I'm still staring at it when I get hit upside the head with the realization that I am not a loser, I am a fool. My head snaps right again and I look at that happy little bar called The Four Leaf Clover. Then I look at the banner hanging over the door. I see red as the words on that banner sear into my brain.

PLAYING TONIGHT: STROKE

I put the pedal to the metal. I yank on the wheel. The little Renault gives its all. I

am a demon possessed. I am a righteous angel descending to fight the evil that has come into my world. My tires screech as I slam on the brakes and throw myself out of the car and smash through the door of The Four Leaf Clover. The place is jam-packed with revelers, but the joy is drained right out of the place as, one-by-one, the people inside sense my presence. The crowd parts for me, bodies falling away so as not to be singed by the flames of my fury. I know what they're thinking. I'm a wife come to find an errant husband. I'm a girlfriend come to have it out with my guy who loves his booze more than me. They are wrong. I am worse. I am a friggin' tired woman. I beeline for the sound of the sax. I'd recognize that gutsy, smoky sound anywhere. When the last body gets out of my way, I see that I'm right. Stroke is on a break, leaving behind a keyboard, drums, guitars and a saxophone. The saxophone has been hijacked. Ethan is on stage looking ever so delectable to, I'm sure, every woman in the place except me. Seriously, he doesn't. Seymour is dancing in front of the stage with his walker, hat in hand, collecting tips. It is Seymour who sees me first. "Bailey, girl! I saved the last dance for you." I open my mouth but instead of the choice words I had planned to say, Ethan blows into that sax and plays an ominous riff. The crowd laughs until I sweep them with the Bailey Devlin death-ray look. They scatter like cockroaches, and that's when I collect what's mine: Seymour L. Sullivan. Ethan comes along, too.

* * *

"Of all the irresponsible, stupid, ridiculous…" I stick my key into the lock of my apartment door, but I can't see through my rage so I have to keep punching it while I rail. "He's ninety-two years old, for God sake." "Years young," Seymour corrects.

I twirl on him but find myself face to face with Ethan. I forgot how short Seymour is. I adjust my eyes and get in his impish little face. I stare into eyes made bigger by the coke-bottle lenses of his glasses. "Don't give me that Hallmark stuff. You are old. You take pills. You can barely walk." "But he sure can dance," Ethan points out. I adjust my eyes again. "That's beside the point. For the next few weeks he is my responsibility." I twirl back to the door and push the key and jiggle it in. "And you are old enough to know not to take him carousing." "Carousing? Where do you get these words?" I grunt and push and turn the key and finally the door opens. I step back and throw out my hand. "Don't you dare flirt," I command as I point inside. "Now, both of you get in there. Ethan, you help Seymour in the bathroom and then go home. We'll talk about this in the morning. And no music tonight. Is that understood?" I fairly vibrate with indignation. When neither of them moves, I am sure that I have put the fear of God into them. From now on this is my house, and everyone will play by my rules. When they still don't move, I deign to look at them but they are looking at each other. Finally, they look back at me and Seymour says: "Does this mean Ethan can't sleep over?"

Chapter 18

I laugh. It starts way down in my tummy and works its way up to my throat and comes out of my mouth as a guffaw. Then we are all laughing: Ethan, Seymour, and me. Then we are moving. I help Seymour on his walker and Ethan holds open the door. When we get inside the half-clean apartment, Ethan veers off, finds the note where the ink ran, and he shows it to Seymour. We roar. A stroke! It was a grand joke and a grand adventure and a grand evening all around they decide. Hadn't Bailey looked like a princess going off to her ball? Hadn't Ethan and Seymour had a great time? Hadn't Jeffery been the bell of his own ball giving an important speech? Wasn't the world just dandy? I agree because they are right. My apartment has never been full of such happy sounds. Jeffery is wonderful. Even Seymour is welcome tonight because it is only one night. Soon he will be in a place that is good for him, and I will be in a place that is good for me. Yes, it is all good I tell them as Ethan and I settle Seymour down for the night. We work like a team: Ethan helping Seymour in the bathroom, me getting the sheets on the couch and a glass of water for his teeth. I tuck him in and smile when he says: "I used to play me some sax, too, Bailey." "So I hear." When all that is done, and he is asleep, I call Jeffery and tell him what happened. Then I get drunk. Not seriously drunk because I am not a good drinker. There are only a few beers left. Ethan is being sweet and picking up the mess he and Seymour left, so I pop one and watch him work. I am half finished with my second one when Ethan sits in front of me. I am draped over the big chair. Ethan looks pretty and fuzzy. He hands me Seymour's hat. "How much did we get?"

"Twelve dollars and thirty-two cents," I say when I've counted it out. "Not bad for two guys who have never worked together before." Ethan lies on his side and rests his hand on his upturned palm. He has beautiful hair. It is curly and wavy, not kinky tendrils like mine. If we had children they would have riotous hair. Thank goodness we aren't going to have children. "So, how was your night?" he asks. "You mean other than screaming all over town looking for you and thinking Seymour had a stroke?" He smiles. I raise my chin and my beer. "Oh, you mean the big to-do? My date with Jeffery? My big chance to see what my life was going to be like? You mean that evening?" "Yeah, that one." "Kind of boring," I confess. "Disappointed?" I have to think about that for a minute. I'm so tired I can't see straight, I've had just enough beer that I am honest. I lean forward thinking to have a heart-toheart, but I fall a little further than I intend and I come nose-to-nose with Ethan. "Ethan, here's the deal," I say. "I am seldom disappointed because I never expect anything from anyone except me. My father took off when I was three. My mom went looking for him soon as I was on my own. Seymour? He's going to be gone soon, and I will get back to my real life." I lean closer still and my voice drops as if this is a conspiracy. "I got it planned down to the teeniest, tiniest, littlest detail…" Ethan takes my beer and sets it aside. My head bobs like I'm agreeing this is a good thing to do. When he tips my chin up with one finger I'm not so sure this is good. I lean back and that darn finger is still under my chin even when my head hits the rolled arm of the big chair. "I hear you," he says quietly. "But the game won't be any fun if you know how it

ends." "Who needs fun?" I whisper. "But you'll never have an adventure," he insists. "Fine with me," I assure him. "Why would you want to live like that, Bailey?" Ethan's finger tracks the side of my face, down my brow and over my cheekbones – which even I have to it are pretty awesome cheekbones. "Why would you want to live like that when you're young…" His voice sounds like a lullaby. "And so pretty…" His touch is so warm. "And sweet…" My eyes close. "And life is short. There should be a few surprises, Baily." I manage to say: "I don't like surprises…" "Then you ought to love this," he says as his lips meet mine. "'Cause this should come as no surprise." The last thing I is hearing a snore and knowing it is my own. I wake up in the morning with a blanket over me, the house clean, and Seymour sitting on the couch watching me.

* * *

The day begins as it always does except that the first thing I do is take a few aspirin. I don't really have a hangover, but there is that throb behind my eyes. Then I get Seymour ready. I get myself ready. We go to work where Mira pesters me for a picture of the big night. I remind her that I didn't go to a prom. Mr. Balmati gives me a raise saying he knows it will be difficult to keep Mr. Seymour in a place for old persons. I don't want to tell Mr. Balmati that this raise will only pay to have his toenails cut once a month, so I just give him a hug and thank him as the world moves forward. Jeffery comes by to see how I am. He takes my hand and tells me he's glad Seymour is all right. He tells me his boss is working on something that will help with Seymour. I am so touched that his boss is taking an interest. He tells me not to be, she just wants his mind on work and it's been obvious his attention has been elsewhere. I smile. I am a distraction. That is so cool. He offers to come over to study after I get off work as he has done almost every night, but I am sure I need to crack the books alone. I ask if he can come the next night to quiz me. My wish is his command he says as he sneaks a kiss. Mira beams as she watches us, and I kind of feel all beamy myself. Customers come in. Mira yammers on about celebrities when no one is in the shop; Seymour sits in the back watching the small television because I've brought his headphones. Jeffery's boss is right. It's time to eliminate distractions. It's time to get back to work. Ethan is wrong. It is not time for surprises or adventures. It's time to meet my destiny. I study. I study behind the counter at Sandwiches & Such. I recite case law to Seymour as we drive home together. I memorize legal history while I fix dinner. I study some more. When I finally raise my head, I see that Seymour is watching The Bachelor. He looks a little like Princess Leah with those big earphones on. I raise my arms, stretch and rub my eyes. He doesn't notice, and I don't disturb him. If I do, he'll want to tell me stories about my grandmother, or my father, or his life in any one of a hundred places he has lived. Even I have to it there is a certain charm to Seymour, but I can't succumb now that I'm back on track. Still, I need a break so I yank on the sliding door that always sticks at a certain point. When it gets to that point, I suck in and squeeze through onto my balcony. I live in a really rundown neighborhood. There isn't much to see on the ground so when I'm on my balcony, I look up. Tonight is very pretty. There's a little Northern California chill in the air, just enough stars in the sky, and a perfect

slice of moon hangs in between two buildings. I cross my arms on the railing, close my eyes, and forget all the legal mumbo jumbo I've been stuffing in my head. For a minute I pat myself on the back. I have traveled the hardest part of my journey, so the rest of it shouldn't be a problem. I have pep talked myself into believing the bar will be a snap when I hear: "Hey there, pumpkin." I open my eyes. I look down. I smile at the star below me. "Hey, Ethan." He is dressed in his Jazz Boy's suit. I have never seen him dressed for work and he looks pretty spiffy. "Electric blue sequins suit you." "How long have you been at the books?" he asks. "All day." I straighten up, but keep my palms on the railing. "Too long. Get your dancing shoes on. You're going out." He snaps his finger as if that will make his wishes so. I shake my head. "There are only a few days left, Ethan." "Don't make me come up there," he says and the way he says it is so charming I chuckle. I stop laughing when he starts climbing up onto the patio railing beneath me. When he reaches for my balcony, I throw my hands out. "Stop. You'll hurt yourself." "Then come down." He's tottering now. If he breaks his arms he won't be able to work. "It's an early gig, Bailey. Besides, this is a special night. You have to bring Seymour." "Get down," I order. He does, but he's still grinning and sparkling electric blue in the moonlight. My eyes throb. I'm not sure I can read one more word. He tilts his head and I give in. "Give me ten minutes."

"Five." "Five," I agree. "Grab Josephine, too," he calls as I go back inside to change into my one and only real dress, my one and only pair of high heels, gather my one and only grandfather, and drag my one and only transvestite friend out of her apartment. We are all hustling and laughing as we meet up with Ethan. He piles us into the Jazz Boy's Band van. The other band are already in there, each of them sparkling in their jackets. We are off. I haven't asked where we're off to. I haven't asked why this is a special night. When we get to where we're going, I have second thoughts about leaving my studies. We are at the Elk's Club Hall. There is a bash going on and the Jazz Boys are the featured band. "Well, come on. Can't keep my adoring public waiting." We all follow Ethan inside. Our first stop is a table manned by two women who look like they were around when Roosevelt was president. The first woman is very thin. The second woman has a heavy, worn face atop her substantial body. They both wear corsages. We all hang back as Ethan gives them the megawatt smile. The skinny woman smiles shyly. "Twenty dollars for all of you, please." Ethan hands it over even though I make a motion to get him some dollars out of my purse. "I'm with the band," he says, "but if this buys me a turn around the room with you it's worth every cent." The woman giggles while the larger lady eyes Ethan. "I'll take you on," she says. She takes a gander at Seymour. "I'll take you both on." Seymour jerks his thumb at Josephine and me. "I'm spoke for and then some," he says.

Josephine and I flank Seymour as we head on into the big room while Ethan crooks his finger at the big woman. She leans in to hear what he has to say. "Don't take it too hard. The attraction is purely physical with those two." He winks at her and strolls into the hall where we are all standing with our mouths open. Balloons and streamers hang from the ceiling. Someone has put colored bulbs in the overheads and the place is bathed in lavender light. The hall is filled with old people dressed in vintage finery. They chat and flirt around tables laden with homemade treats and bowls of punch. The tables ring a dance floor and there are risers for the stage. The Jazz Boys banner hangs above it all and their instruments wait for them to make music. Ethan puts his arm around Seymour who has taken his hat off in the face of such splendor. I swear I see Josephine wipe away a tear. I, of course, think this is very nice. I just don't say it because it wouldn't feel right to say it out loud. This, I know, is where Seymour belongs. He needs people with the same memories in the same way I need to make my own memories. Ethan gives Seymour a little chuck. He kisses Josephine on the cheek and then me. It is the kiss a good man gives a woman he thinks is good, too. He bounds up onto the stage, straps his sax over his shoulder, and takes the microphone. The lights go down. A spot is trained on Ethan. "Ladies and gentlemen," he calls. Everyone stops to listen to him. "We have a real treat for you tonight. Let me introduce a legend in his own time, the one and only great sax player, composer of Time Ain't Mine, Seymour L. Sullivan. Put your hands together for Seymour Sullivan." The spotlight turns on Seymour. For an instant, he is confused. Finally, he raises the hand in which he holds his hat and the room fills with applause. Old men turn to old women and kiss them. Others smile and whisper and point. Ancient eyes light up, and it's all because of Seymour. Josephine kisses him, and I see him through new eyes. I see Ethan through those same eyes. He tried to tell me about Seymour, and I was too selfish to listen. I didn't want to know what he had done with his life; I only wanted to complain about what he was doing to mine. Ethan and his boys begin to play a most wonderful song. People pair off: women dance with women, men too feeble to stand sway in their chairs on the sidelines,

a few couples transform from age to youth because of the song that Seymour wrote. A man asks Josephine to dance, and she goes happily. I stand next to Seymour and he stands next to me. It is time for me to pull up my big girl pants. I take his walker and set it aside. Holding both his hands I lead him to the dance floor. I put my hand on his shoulder and my other hand in the one he raises for me. He touches me lightly at the waist. He is so small, but in his arms I am a little girl. We move in a circle to the strains of Time Ain't Mine. Just for a moment time is his, and I have all the time in the world for him. "Thank you, granddaughter," he says when the song ends. "You're welcome, Seymour," I answer. I can't bring myself to call him anything else. "May I cut in?" Ethan is there. He guides Seymour to a chair and comes back to me. He takes me in his arms and pulls me close as the band plays on. We dance in the midst of people who have lived a million lifetimes. Mine is about to begin. Ethan's will go on forever. Right then we are all under the spell of Seymour L. Sullivan and the music that came from his heart.

* * *

The evening wasn't as early as Ethan had promised, but it wasn't late either. It was just what I needed. My head is clear, and I am ready to tackle the books again after Seymour goes to sleep. Then again, he may never sleep because he is still on such a high. If he thanked Ethan once, he thanked him a thousand times for playing his song. We all laugh, and talk, and punch the balloons tied to Seymour's walker as we amble up the walk. Josephine is doing a fine job of singing Seymour's song and we all try to in. Her voice is the best, but it is also the first to falter. We each fall silent in turn. Jeffery is standing just where the light from the lobby meets the dark of the walk. I smile. He doesn't. "You missed a great party," Ethan calls, but Jeffery ignores him and talks to me.

"I thought you didn't want any distractions tonight. I thought you were studying." Ethan puts his arm around me and gives me a squeeze, "She just needed a little time out, Jeff. Give her a break." That isn't helpful, so I qualify his statement. "It was only a few hours." "She did it for me, young man," Seymour adds. "I did it because I wanted to." I don't need excuses to do what I want. Josephine moves around me. She can feel a storm brewing and if there's anything Josephine hates more than to be seen without her makeup it's to be caught up in a brewing storm. "Jeffery, you don't want her to be a dull girl, do you?" Josephine tries to make it right, but Jeffery and I are locked in a stare down. Jeffery is angry and I am peeved because he is. Josephine shepherds the rest of the party inside. "Let's give them a little minute, boys." We both wait for the door to close. "You know, I think I've been wrong about you," Jeffery says when everyone is safely away. "I thought you knew exactly what you wanted. You begged me to help you and I was so happy that you needed me. I guess I was wrong." "You weren't wrong," I answer. "I do need you. I want to the bar. I want to practice law. I want to have a normal job and a normal life with you in it." "No, you don't. You like this circus. You like Ethan–" "Oh, come on. He's a friend. He's done a lot for me." That is the truth no matter what Jeffery wants to hear. "And I'm a fifth wheel. He's always around, being all charming, baby-sitting Seymour, taking you out dancing. I'm the one who is putting my job – my career – on the line to help you." "I never asked you to do that," I breathe, shocked that he hadn't told me all this

was really interfering with his work. "That's not the point." Jeffery throws up his hands and half turns from me. I can see that Josephine and Ethan and Seymour are watching us through the glass. They look worried and so am I. "Then what is the point?" I ask. "The point is that I'm doing all this because I love you. I love you, Bailey." He is breathing hard, and looking at me, and the expression on his face is like nothing I've ever seen before – probably because I have never really seen love just for me. "Okay, I said it. I love you. But your life…" his frustration is a heavy thing and he shakes his head as if to rid himself of it. "People in and out, no roots, no purpose. I thought we had something solid. I thought we went together so well. I thought…I thought you loved me, too. That's why I got you this." "What's this?" My fingers are shaking when I take the long envelope he holds out. "It's the one thing you said you wanted. The only thing you said you wanted." I open it and pull out a picture of a beautiful house. It takes me a minute to realize it is a nursing home. It is a nursing home so grand that I can hardly believe that it isn't a hotel. Behind the brochure are papers. I unfold them and see Seymour's name at the top and the word 'ed'. Before I can read the whole thing, Josephine opens the door and sticks her head out. "Is everything okay out here you two?" Jeffery looks at me. He looks so sad. "Is it Bailey? Is everything going to be okay?" Seymour's head pops through the door, too. "Granddaughter?" he calls. I look at him. His smile is so hopeful, his eyes so bright, but Seymour isn't stupid. He sees what's what. Hope fades, the sparkle in his eyes dims. He looks ancient now and unsure.

"Everything is going to be okay," I call back. I put my hand on Jeffery's arm, and I murmur thank you. He touches my hair. "Bailey, no one can make this decision for you. None of us can tell you what's right, but when you decide I'll be here. Either way." I nod. He drops his hand and watches me go inside. I know he sees me show the ission forms to the trio standing just inside the door, but I also know he isn't ready when Ethan blasts through that door and goes after him. "Man, you know what you've done?" I hear Ethan say. I put my hand on the door and keep it open. "I've helped Bailey do what she wants. Maybe it's not what you would do or what I would do, but that's the way it is." Jeffery gets in his car and leaves. He has told the truth. This is what I have wanted from the beginning. Now I want it for a different reason. I want it because it's best for both Seymour and me. I saw how he was at the dance. He needs to be with people who can appreciate him. He doesn't need to be with someone who can just like him a bit, and who has her own life to live. This may not be what Seymour wants, but it is what he needs. This is what we both need. Two days later, Jeffery drives us to Seymour's new home. In the trunk is his little suitcase. While Jeffery retrieves it, we stay in the car eyeing a mini version of the White House. The place sits on acres of land. The grass and the flowerbeds are manicured. Jeffery comes bustling around the car and collects us. We go into this magnificent place and a uniformed nurse shows Seymour his whitewashed room with it's own TV and perfectly made bed. No burping, snoring roommates here. There is an elegant dining room and a beautiful patio where the residents are lined up in their wheelchairs but no one talks. Nurses move quietly through the halls and we follow the up and down, getting the lay of the land. I turn once thinking Seymour has run away again but then I see him down the hall. He has stopped in a doorway. I go back to collect him and see what has caught his eye. A man is lying in his bed staring at the ceiling. Just staring. When we get back to Seymour's room, he lies on his bed. I unpack for him. I sign the papers, and it is done. I don't know how to leave.

"Jeffery's boss pulled a lot of strings to get you in here. It's great, isn't it?" I break the silence, but Seymour doesn't break back. "I'll come see you all the time once I take the bar. It will give you time to settle in." I stand up. I go to the door. I don't look back when I offer this totally bogus promise. "It will be fine." Then I am gone, and I'm in the car with Jeffery, and he has hold of my hand. "They'll take good care of him, Bailey. Everything will be fine." "I know. That's what I told him," I slip my hand out of his and watch as the suburbs become city again, and I go into my apartment alone.

Chapter 19

I don't know how long I've been staring at the empty sofa, but it is long enough for my chin to feel like it is part of the hand it is propped in. I've been reading for a couple hours and I nothing. I get up again. The last time it was to get something to eat but I forgot what I was looking for and eventually closed the refrigerator door. This time, I go the bathroom and throw some cold water on my face. It feels good. I grab a towel, and rub hard, and that helps a little. I fold it back up and see that darn crack in the mirror and think of the first time I had to help Seymour in the bathroom. He has lots of people to help him now, so he doesn't need me. I wander back to the living room, yank the sliding glass door and step out. It's cold. There are no stars. San Francisco sparkles in the distance but it doesn't seem as beautiful now. I go back inside and hit my heel on the floor. I hear a beat of silence and then the trill of Ethan's saxophone. The next thing I hear is a knock on the door. "Thought I'd come up and give you what for about all the noise you're making up here." He brushes by me. By the time I close the door, he's got a beer out of the fridge. I shake my head when he offers me one. I take the big chair; he's on the floor with his back up against the sofa. "So, tomorrow's the big test day, huh?" I nod. Tomorrow. The big day. Three years of my life will be wrapped up in that one day. "And how is–" "They tell me he's quiet." I interrupt because I don't want to hear his name. "Seymour? Quiet?" Ethan says it anyway. "Hard to believe, I know." What I don't say is that his silence is worrisome but we both know that. Ethan sips his beer and he looks at the darkened television. "Me, I'd die in a place like that," he says.

"Then I'm glad it's not you," I answer. "I'm not ing judgment, Thumper." When he turns his eyes on me, I can see he's telling the truth. That doesn't keep me from defending myself. "Well, maybe he shouldn't have just showed up on my doorstep?" "Could be it wasn't about you. Maybe I was supposed to meet Seymour. Maybe that's what the great cosmos had in mind when it sent him here." "And why would that be?" I ask. "Maybe I was supposed to see how a free spirit gets old." He takes a drink and puts his head back on the couch cushion, the beer can is held in his lap. "But I won't be as lucky as Seymour. There isn't anyone to keep me out of an old folks home. I don't know how I got away from my family, but I did. Now there's no one to go back to." He takes a drink. "Least with you, Seymour had a fifty/fifty chance." Ethan raises his head again and finishes his beer. He thanks me, wishes me good luck, and leaves me to my books not realizing that he has wounded me. It might not be fatal but, nonetheless, I am wounded. By morning I am not healed, but I'm not stupid either. I forget I was ever wounded in the first place. I am ready to take the bar exam. I have put myself through college, worked a hundred different jobs, fended for myself, made it through law school, and this is the moment where I will either climb the ladder or fall down the chute. I will not fall down the chute. I repeat this to myself like a mantra as I a thousand other people in the convention center, get my assignment, and check that I have enough pens for the hundredth time. Suddenly, I hear my name called. In this throng, someone has called to me and somehow that makes things much better. I search for the person the voice belongs to, and I see Shirley. Then Nicholas. Then Jack emerges from the roil of bodies. "Hey, how are you?" Nicholas asks.

"It's good to see you," Shirley says, and she means it. Jack smiles at me. "You okay? You ready?" "I think so. Yeah, I'm good." "I'm glad everything worked out," Shirley adds and that's nice of her. It's probably the last nice thing she's ever going to say because she'll turn into a lawyer's lawyer. That's why I appreciate it all the more. "Yep, everything worked out just fine," I assure her. Before I can reflect on the things that didn't work out fine like Jeffery fading from my life, Seymour gone, Ethan a constant bright note that becomes wearing if it's played over and over again, the doors open. We all walk into a cavernous room. Desks are lined up. I find my place, sit down, arrange my pens and keep my eyes forward as proctors hand out the test. There is nothing else in my world right now except this test.

* * *

"There will be a fifteen minute break before the ethics essay." A disembodied voice calls to all of us who have now been reduced to one of two things: tears or zombies. Desk chairs are pushed back as the voice continues: "Fifteen minutes before the final session. The doors will close in fifteen minutes." I fall in step with the old crew or they with me. Nobody knows how we are even functioning anymore. "Torture," Shirley drawls. "That's what this is." "I need food," Nicholas grouses. "How do you think you're doing, Bailey?" Jack asks. "I don't know." I pull out a pack of gum. Nicholas jumps on it, taking two pieces.

We chew like cows with our cud and count the minutes in silence. Five, ten, eleven, twelve. We start to move, swaying, feet lifting, shoulders rotating. The doors are opening again. Three minutes until we tackle the last, critical section of the bar exam: the ethics essay. I intend to wish everyone luck, but before I can we hear a commotion in the lobby. Everyone looks, half expecting to see that someone has fainted or is rushing the door to get outside. Instead, we see a man pushing through bodies. He's calling loudly. "Bailey! Bailey Devlin!" Jeffery bursts through the final barrier of bodies and grabs me by the shoulders. I shake him off. I don't have time for a make-up session. This isn't a movie. "What are you doing here? I can't talk to you now," I snap. "It's Seymour," he says. "Whatever it is, it has to wait. The final essay is starting in…" "Two minutes," Nicholas offers. "Two minutes," I repeat and turn away. Jeffery grabs my arm. "He's had a heart attack," Jeffery says. "A heart…" I can't even get the words out. I can't wrap my brain around them. The final warning is sounding. Shirley and Jack and Nicholas hesitate because they are stunned at my hesitation. "Bailey, you're coming aren't you?" Shirley has one foot through the door. Jack and Nicholas are already in. "Bailey?" Jeffery stays his ground. I look at him. I look over my shoulder. Shirley and Jack and Nicholas are gone. Everyone is inside except me. The doors are closing.

I turn and do what I have to do.

* * *

I'm standing in a hospital outside room 317. Jeffery stands beside me. He doesn't reach for my hand or put his arm around my shoulder. He hasn't done anything and yet he's done everything. He was called in the middle of a meeting because his boss was the one who had arranged for Seymour to live at the beautiful home and they couldn't reach me. It was strongly suggested that Jeffery finish the meeting, but he didn't. He came to find me. He would have pulled me right out of that room if those doors had been closed. He did this because he knew that I had to have a chance to decide what my family will look like. Jeffery did this because he is a good man. "Do you want me to go with you?" he asks. He has done so much, but this is not something he can do. "Can you wait here? I need – I want – to do this on my own." Jeffery puts his arms around me and pulls me close. He kisses my riot of red hair and then he lets me go. No fight, no insisting, he just lets me go. I love him for all he has done. I step inside the room but it takes me a long time to decide to take the next step. In the hall, I hear Ethan arrive. Jeffery is not just a good man; he is an excellent one. He has called Ethan because he knows Ethan loves Seymour. Ethan s Jeffery and they stand by the doorway, unaware that I can hear them. "Can she if she didn't finish?" Ethan asks Jeffery. "It would take a miracle," Jeffery answers. "Guess today's as good as any for one of those. Maybe two if we're lucky," Ethan says.

"I'll settle for one," Jeffery answers. "And it doesn't have anything to do with a test." "Thanks for calling me, man," Ethan says. "Had to. It's all like family," Jeffery answers. As I said, Jeffery is an excellent man. I take a deep breath and go around the curtain. Seymour looks about the size of carry on luggage. His hospital gown is huge and falls off one narrow shoulder where they have glued on the electrodes or whatever those things are. He is hooked up to IV drips and other stuff. He sleeps but he doesn't snore, and that is scary. Someone has combed the few strands of hair he has left over his head. I see his hat on the chair in the corner and on the little table beside the bed are his ear buds and his teeth. I push the table away so I can get in close. I lean over him but I don't speak. Instead, I turn around, pick up the ear buds, and put them in his ears. "Seymo…" My voice catches. I try again. "Grandpa? It's me, Bailey." His eyelids flutter. It is hard for him to wake up, but finally he is looking at me. He tries to smile. He says: "I'm sorry Bailey, girl." "Shhh," I whisper. "It's okay. It is." Seymour blinks. His chin starts to quiver and a tear clips from the corner of his eye. I refuse to let any fall from mine. "I'm sorry for messin' you up." His voice is so small. It is far away as if he is leaving me. I grab a Kleenex and dab at his eyes. "Your timing was great. I finished that old test in record time." I lick my lips. They are sticking to my teeth. Lying has never come easily. "I'm going to be the best damn lawyer." Then I lie some more. "After that, it's you and me, Grandpa. You and me."

"And your young man. Don't forget…" I look up. Jeffery and Ethan are both standing in the doorway. Two young men. One of me. I look back at Seymour. I take his hand and lean down so my lips are close to his ear. "Don't forget what, Grandpa?" I ask this question and really need to hear his answer, but there's no time for that. The machines all go off at once with a horrid shrill. I swing my head up and look at the flat line on the monitor. Then I'm pushed aside and Jeffery drags me out the door and es me to Ethan as a nurse and a doctor rush in to Seymour's room.

Chapter 20

I turn off the annoying buzzer at the same time I open the oven door. I rescue the mac and cheese just in time. The cheese on top is charred but it smells good, so I have to assume what's underneath is edible. I probably should have stuck to something I know like Mom's egg/onion/noodle/Tabasco fry. Still, as Jeffery says, you never know what you can do until you try. Luckily, he made the chicken. I don't think I'm ready for chicken. I could kill someone if I didn't do that right. I'm leaning over and grabbing the hot dish when I get grabbed from behind. Not really grabbed, more like Jeffery's hands have sweet hold of me at the waist like he's afraid I'm going to fall into the oven. He pulls me back and lets me go when I turn around and present the mac and cheese. "Incredible," he says. He gives me that fabulous Jeffery smile that seems to shine on me no matter what I do, so I can't tell if he really thinks it's good or he's just being nice. It doesn't matter. That smile makes me happy. He kisses my lips and then he grabs the huge bowl of salad. He closes my apartment door and, as we go, we argue about which way is faster, the stairs or the elevator. Neither of us will give in, so I take the stairs and he gets the elevator and we arrive at the front door of my apartment building at the same time. We laugh because it's a draw and together is where we always seem to end up these days. I push the door open with my hip and walk out into a glorious San Francisco day. It's just warm enough, just sparkly enough, there's just enough scent of the bay, and just a hint of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance to make you feel a little warm and golden, too. Out front the party Josephine decided we should have to celebrate my excellent effort at taking the bar – and the good thing I did by leaving it to go to the hospital – is in full swing. I thought that was kind of Josephine until I found out she had sent invitations but had no time to actually make the food or bring tables and chairs down from our apartments. I didn't mind doing it myself – and of

course Jeffery was right there helping. It is impossible for me to be upset by much of anything these days because I am happy. I didn't know that when a person is happy not much really worries them. I wish I had known that sooner. The dish I'm holding seems to be getting hotter the longer I hold it, so I duck walk to the large table where we've set out a feast, drop it, toss the oven mitts aside, and push back my hair. Then I turn around and see everyone who means anything to me partying it up on this poor excuse for a lawn in front of a very poor excuse for an apartment building. Shirley and Nicholas and Jack are there, all full-fledged lawyers with real jobs. "Hey, Jack," I call. He raises his glass and promises to put in a good word for me with his new firm as soon as I take the bar again. I don't tell him that even I know a lowly associate has no pull. I'd like to let him think all things are possible. I the dented old barbeque I found out back and cleaned up for the occasion. Smoke billows out of it like a house on fire. "Mr. Balmati. I wanted you to cook those burgers not sacrifice them." "Ha-ha. Sacrifice. This is very funny, Bailey. I swear on the head of Mr. Trump, they will be perfect. Have no fear…" He smiles at me but catches site of Mira chasing after a friend of Jeffery's. "Mira! Mira! Come here my daughter." I move on, leaving them to the perpetual tug of war between daughter and father. I would pray for the burgers, but I don't think even a heavenly power can save them. I wiggle my fingers at Josephine who is marking the day dressed like Bette Davis in Jezebel. "You look fantastic, Josephine," I say. "Don't I know it, honey," she laughs. I hear Jeffery call 'soups on' and people head for the spread: mac and cheese, burnt burgers, perfect salad and chicken. Everyone goes for the food except me. I'm going the other way, to the little place that used to be an arbor when this apartment building was new. Now it's just a wrought iron bench atop a

flowerless bed with a rusting metal arch over it. That is where Seymour sits with his walker, watching the action, and wearing a pair of sunglasses that Ethan gave him when he moved on. It surprised me that he left so quickly, especially since the woman who lives in the girly apartment hasn't returned. But that's Ethan. He has traveling feet. We miss him. Seymour is still here. No one can believe he survived his second heart attack, but I'm not surprised. He is a tough old bird. I also believe it was in both our stars that he needed to come back to me for a while. "Time to eat." Instead of helping him up, though, I sit down. "I seen what old Balmati did to them burgers," he answers. "I think I'll set this one out." "I made the mac and cheese." "Maybe I'll sit a little more," he answers. We watch the commotion, the beautiful, crazy commotion of a street party that couldn't have been any more fabulous if it was held in a queen's garden. The minutes . Jeffery looks at me and he smiles. I smile back. He winks and that fills up my heart. "I got a card from Ethan," Seymour says. It doesn't surprise me that looking at Jeffery reminds Seymour of Ethan. We were all in this together for so long. "He's seasick on that damn cruise ship." "He's got a paying gig and that's good," I remind Seymour. "He threw up on some rich lady." "Maybe he won't have this gig much longer," I it. "He sends his love." I don't know what to say to that. I wish I did. Lately, I have so much love it's hard to sort it all out. We sit some more, but Seymour isn't crazy about quiet. "So, you kind of blew that old test, huh?" I know he's not being mean. He just has no way of telling me how awful he feels about what happened.

"Yep," I answer. "Blew it big time, Seymour." "Don't you let it get you down, granddaughter. You'll be trying again. You'll get it the next time," he assures me. "You've got brains and you ain't afraid to use 'em." "I won't let it get me down," I tell him. "I come from tough stock." He nods. His chin is pulled up and it quivers just a little. It's not an old person thing like he told me; it's Seymour's thing when he doesn't want to cry in front of me. I hear him take a breath and his narrow shoulders sort of square themselves when he says: "And you're going to keep me, I suppose." My eyes slide his way, but I don't say anything right away. Instead, I look back at my friends and the man who I think I love. Yes, I think I do but we'll take it slow. I am thinking that when I feel Seymour's eyes slide my way. He's waiting. I think he's been waiting for me for a long time. Finally, I say: "I suppose." He looks straight ahead. We sit there surveying the scene until the silence becomes too much again and Seymour fills it. "Well, then, that's good. Always said you were a smart girl. A good girl. Why, I could be a big help around here. I when I was a cook up there in Chicken, Alaska. You know Chicken, Alaska? Nothing more than a pimple on the map's butt. Still, I learned to cook a mean moose burger up there in Chicken. And cinnamon rolls the size of a dinner plate. You won't be sorry you took me in, Bailey. I promise you that. I'll make sure you have plenty of time to study. And I won't be a problem where your young man is concerned. I'll take out my ear buds, won't hear a thing. Can't see much without my glasses, either. Seymour L. Sullivan never stays where he's not wanted…No charity for me…No…" I feel it coming while I listen to him and then there it is: a smile only a woman in love and one who is loved back can smile. Jeffery is looking at me and he has that same smile on his face. I didn't know men had a smile like that. I glance at Seymour and he has it, too. As we all grin like silly people, I hear the sound of Ethan's saxophone in my head. He is playing Seymour's song. I hear Seymour's

voice in the choir of my life, but it is Jeffery who stands in the spotlight at that very minute. I hope that's where he'll stay. I hope I will sit on other benches with Seymour. I hope Ethan will come back one of these days to see us, but right at that moment, I don't want anything more than what I have. I'm just happy. So that is the story of the day my horoscope came true. There was a knock on my door. The person on the other side was not who I expected, it was who I needed. With him came a man who showed me that life's music is made up of many notes. With both of them came the man I may want to spend the rest of my life with. Still, you never know with these things. There's so much to find out about each other. I think Jeffery and I will come together in our own good time. I'm pretty sure it's written in the stars, and we'll just have to wait for them to align. So, I take Seymour's hand and help him up and Jeffery comes to meet us. Together we get Seymour to the table. When he's settled, Jeffery and I sit down; me at one end, and him at the other, and in between are our friends and family. And that is how my story ends – for now.

Turn the page to read an excerpt of The Day Bailey Devlin Picked Up a Penny

The Day Bailey Devlin Picked Up a Penny

By REBECCA FORSTER Release date: August 1, 2015

So, I'd like to talk about getting lucky. I don't mean that way. That's such a guy thing. Not only is it a guy thing, it's a certain kind of guy thing; the kind who I knew in college, and in law school, and will probably know if things don't work out with Jeffery and me. But I'm pretty sure they will work out. I mean if we can survive Seymour, we can survive anything. But we were talking about guys who interpret getting lucky the really gross, rude way. For the most part, between the ages of fifteen and about twenty-one, 99% of all boys and men have the same conversation when it comes to women – they just don't have it with women. It goes kind of like this: Boy/Man #1: So you going to get lucky tonight? Boy/Man #2: Oh, yeah (snort, giggle, snort). Yeah. For sure. Boy/Man #1: Yeah. Get lucky. Boy/Man #2: (Snort, giggle, snort) Of that 99% I would venture to guess maybe only about two percent of them

ever did get lucky. The other 97% might have made it to second base but nobody would ever it that. After 21, the number drops to about 30% of men who still think the getting lucky conversation is a) amusing b) enviable c) even close to reality. Those 30% can usually be found in neighborhood bars or hanging out at the beach flipping a skateboard and eyeing the babes like that is part of a mating ritual. The other 70% have settled down and are either spoken for or married, and that is when 'getting lucky' takes on a whole new meaning and follows a completely different timetable. This, I've heard from my girlfriends who are a) married or b) spoken for. For me, getting lucky was meeting Jeffery – who I have come to love- and Seymour – who I have come to love- and even Ethan. Jeffery is the man I dreamed I would marry: handsome, smart, kind, thoughtful, and steady. I think I'm sort of what he dreamed of, too, so it's all looking good. Seymour? I never dreamed about him although I was curious. Who wouldn't be curious about family when they never had one growing up? I mean I knew I had grandparents, but it wasn't until Seymour showed up on my doorstep a few months ago that I knew what one of them looked like. Now Grandpa Seymour lives with me, or maybe I live with him. If things work out okay then we'll both live with Jeffery one of these days. Ethan is the man my mother would love: free spirited, talented, soulful and irreverent. He will never be tied down. Even though I could see how wonderful he would be to fall in love with, my heart belongs to the steady, the predictable, and sweet Jeffery. I'm pretty sure his heart belongs to me, too, but I told him we weren't going to talk about marriage or anything big until I finished what I set out to do. the bar. Become a lawyer. Stand on my own two feet. Hopefully then I'll use those feet to walk down some church aisle toward Jeffery and marry him. But that's neither here nor there at the moment because we were talking about getting lucky. Getting lucky for a woman is completely different than it is for men. My mom taught me that when I was the littlest girl with a mop of curly, kinky red hair that she let grow so big it was bigger than me. People always wanted to touch my hair. Maybe it was for luck like rubbing the tummy of

Buddha. Thankfully, I grew up and now my hair is pretty much the right size for me. But when I was a little girl, my mother would take my hand and say, "If we get lucky today…" and then she'd fill in the blank. There were a zillion lucky things that could happen. If Mom got lucky and there were enough walk-in ladies looking to have their hair cut, she'd get extra tips and we'd go to McDonalds for dinner. If we got lucky on a rainy San Francisco day the bus would come early. If we got real lucky, my dad would come home. That was the big one. Dad coming home. The love of my mother's life (next to me) whose spirit was even more free than hers. My mom and dad were the original free-love flower children and I was their little bud. But Dad had gone off to find his destiny and Mom had gone looking for him the minute I was old enough to take care of myself – maybe not the minute but by the time I finished my first year of college. I never felt bad about that. In some ways my heart was with her. I am just romantic enough to believe everyone deserves one true love. Luckily, I'm smart enough to know it's better if that true love wants to hang out with you. Then there was my favorite 'get lucky' day. Those were the days we found a penny. We'd be walking along and there it would be. A little round poop of copper dropped by someone who didn't know that pennies were valuable things indeed. My mom would start the rhyme but we'd always finish it together. Find a penny pick it up and all the day you'll have good luck. She would let me pick it up. If I had a pocket she would let me hold it all the way home and put it in the penny jar. For the most part, the promise held true. Sometimes the good luck didn't come right away. My mom explained that it could take a while but if we were real patient, that old penny would always be worth something to us – even if the good luck was just in the form of saving up enough pennies to buy an ice cream. That, my mom explained, was good luck too. But there was a dark side. Oh yes, indeed. If a bad penny appeared in your path – a penny that had landed tails up – the best thing was to just go around it like you never even saw it. But if you were big hearted – and had the time – you should stoop down and flip it so it was heads up. That way you left the good luck for the next person which, Mom said, was good for your karma. So, I grew up and I picked up pennies as they came my way until I realized how ridiculous that really was. Almost as ridiculous as, say, spilling salt and throwing

it over your shoulder, or never walking under a ladder, or any of those things that people think are going to affect their lives. Horoscopes were, at least, scientific, but all the rest – the good luck charms and superstitions – well, they were just things that moms said to their little red haired girls to make being poor or lonely seem like it wasn't a chronic condition. I didn't really think much of it until a few days ago I came across a penny. I picked it up. I didn't bother to see if it was heads up or tails up because I was happy: I'd had a postcard from my mom, Jeffery was taking us to dinner, and Seymour, well, he was just Seymour. What happened next is just tough to explain. I mean, I found out that when it comes to pennies there is bad luck and good luck. What I didn't know was that the difference between them is a matter of interpretation, and I was about to get a lesson in semantics.

Novels by Rebecca Forster

THE BAILEY DEVLIN SERIES Romantic Comedy The Day Bailey Devlin's Horoscope Came True (#1) The Day Bailey Devlin Picked up a Penny (#2) The Day Bailey Devlin's Ship Came In (#3)

WOMENS CONTEMPORARY NOVELS Dreams Seasons Vanities Vows Rainbow's End The Matthias Ring

USA TODAY & AMAZON BEST SELLING THRILLERS THE WITNESS SERIES Hostile Witness (#1) Silent Witness (#2) Privileged Witness (#3) Expert Witness (#4) Eyewitness (#5) Forgotten Witness (#6) Dark Witness (#7) The Witness Series Bundle (7 books)

MORE AWARD WINNING THRILLERS Before Her Eyes Beyond Malice Character Witness The Mentor Keeping Counsel

To Rebecca and see all of her books, visit:

RebeccaForster.com

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