Under Pressure

ONE




BY THE TIME KARYN CRISTOPHE STEPPED OUT OF THE shower, the bathroom was clouded with steam, water droplets running down the vanity mirror. She could see herself grinning happily as she picked up a washcloth and wiped circles in the steam.
In less than forty minutes she'd be sitting at a computer terminal, starting her new job. A fresh beginning with everything lying ahead of her, and this time there was no way that Mack, her erratic ex-husband, could show up at her place of employment and spoil things.
Her stomach churning with pleasurable excitement, Karyn combed out her damp blond hair, reaching for the blow-dryer and brush. The job, at the international headquarters of the upscale Cybelle department store chain, was only temp-to-perm right now, but there was every chance it would work out.
Oh, it had to work out! She'd finally taken control of her life, pulling up stakes and moving nine hundred miles from Atlanta on the promise of this job, which her Aunt Connie, who owned two employment agencies in the Detroit area, had snagged for her.
"Mom ... Mom ..." She could hear her eight-year-old daughter, Amber, banging on the other side of the bathroom door.
"What is it, cupcake? I'm running late."
"Can I wear my Pocahontas T-shirt?"
"Of course you can. Don't you always pick out your own clothes?" Karyn poked her head around the corner of the bathroom door, gazing at her daughter, whose mop of blond hair just about dwarfed her thin, intense face.
"I can't find it," wailed Amber. "It's probably still in one of those boxes."
"It wasn't in your suitcase?"
"I think I threw it in a box. I don't know," said Amber, crestfallen. "It was in the dirty clothes, I think. Back in Atlanta."
"Oh, honey." Karyn sighed in frustration. "Well, maybe you'd better find another shirt to wear and we'll look for it tonight when I get home. You're staying at the Caribaldis', remember?"
She'd registered Amber for school the previous Wednesday, the day they arrived from Atlanta, and Amber had already attended for two days. Thank God for the Caribaldis, who lived upstairs. Jinny Caribaldi, who was divorced and worked nights as a cardiac care nurse, had agreed to "latchkey" Amber after school until five-thirty. Even better, Jinny had a daughter, Caitlin, who was exactly Amber's age, a stroke of fortune Karyn hadn't counted on.
"Are we really staying here?" queried Amber now. "I mean here. Forever?"
"Maybe not forever, but for a long time," replied Karyn with enthusiasm. "Honey lamb, it's been amazing luck, Aunt Connie getting me this job. You're going to have new friends at school ... maybe we can even get a cat."
"A kitty cat? Oh, Mom!"
"If it works out--and now I really have to fly." Karyn hurried into her bedroom and began cutting off the tags from the new suit she'd bought at Cybelle during the Labor Day weekend sale. It was a Gemi suit, leaf green and cut narrow at the waist, with a long, sexy back slit, and it had cost her $450 from the cash stash she'd borrowed from her dad for their freedom money. But Karyn figured she had to impress them on her first day.
She stepped into the skirt, shrugged into the little matching silk shell, and quickly buttoned the jacket.
In the mirror, she inspected herself. Nice.
Her last act was to slip a pair of small pearl stud earrings into her ears. She'd been wearing them two years ago when she'd won $1,544 in the lottery, and she hoped they would lend their glow of good luck today as well.
When she emerged into the apartment's small dining room, Karyn found her daughter hunched over a bowl of cereal, a full glass of orange juice at her elbow.
"Come on, Amber, drink up, we have to get ourselves in gear."
Languidly, Amber picked up the glass. "Will you type at a computer all day?"
"Probably. And I'm going to love it."
"You'll be too busy to call," Amber pouted.
"Oh, no, I won't. I'll program a reminder right in my computer--'Call Amber Sweetpea Cristophe right away.' Finish your juice, baby," she added.
"I hate plain orange. Can't we get the kind with banana in it?"
"If you'll drink it." Karyn paced impatiently, suddenly anxious to get started--to get those first few hours on the job over with. "Down the hatch," she told her daughter. "Jinny's taking you and Caitlin to school in exactly two minutes. We both have busy days ahead of us."


Karyn gulped at a container of 7-Eleven coffee, trying not to spill anything on her new suit jacket as she maneuvered her 1994 Ford Tempo into the long double line of cars waiting to turn right into the Cybelle International Headquarters parking lot. Aunt Connie had warned Karyn that if she didn't arrive at least ten minutes early all the parking spaces would be taken, and now Karyn could see that the warning had been no exaggeration. In fact, where were all the cars going to be slotted?
In the morning sun haze, the huge office complex glowed, its acres of tinted windows catching the yellow light. Made mostly of glass, it covered an entire city block. Connie hadtold her that five thousand people toiled there, bee workers tending to the corporate business of thirteen hundred department stores spread from Bar Harbor, Maine, to Honolulu, Hawaii. Cybelle was often compared to Lord & Taylor or Nordstrom's, and to most American women it meant accessible glamour.
The lot was a sea of cars, the biggest parking lot she had ever seen, bisected by yellow-painted pedestrian walkways. Hundreds of workers on foot streamed toward the building. As a group of women walked past her front bumper, Karyn began to study how they were dressed: skirts, slacks, dressy pants outfits she'd seen in Cybelle's Casual Career Shop. Many of the women wore tennis shoes and lugged canvas tote bags, which presumably contained their office shoes.
About thirty yards away a man was cutting across the lot, not bothering to stay on the pedestrian walk. He was built like Mack, all knees and stride and angles, and had the same black hair that fell loosely across his forehead. Karyn's eyes focused on him, angry heat pouring up from her stomach.
Her ex-husband's humiliating appearances and barrages of unwanted phone calls at her job at a computer leasing firm in Atlanta had resulted in several reprimands, and finally the company had installed a new security system--on account of her. Eventually her boss had let her know he'd really prefer it if she quit. A company couldn't be too careful about security risks ... .
Then Karyn saw that the man was two decades older than Mack and thirty pounds heavier. An involuntary sigh of relief puffed out of her. Although the divorce decree specified that Mack had to stay at least four hundred yards away from her and Amber or he'd be in contempt of court, Karyn still worried he might somehow show up and start causing trouble again.
She finally found a parking space in the next-to-last row, pulling in beside a van sporting a bumper sticker that saidMy CHILD Is ON THE HONOR ROLL AT BEACONSFIELD ELEMENTARY.
Even in the few seconds since she'd switched off the ignition, the Tempo was warming up in the early September heat. Karyn gave herself a quick inspection in the visor mirror, deciding that the blow-dry and curl she'd done on her chin-length, honey-blond hair was good enough to pass muster. Several people had told Karyn she should model, but of course she was already twenty-nine, much too old for that now. Not that she'd ever want that kind of lifestyle. Karyn knew she wasn't sophisticated, and she had little desire to be.
Karyn got out of the car, joining the throngs of workers streaming toward the building. Seen up close the sprawling building was even huger-looking, its windows molten under the onslaught of morning sun.
Exhilaration spurted through Karyn, and she began to walk faster, swinging her arms. Her high heels made clacking noises on the pavement. Her first day of work. And the beginning of their new life.


Lou Hechter had noticed the blonde in the Ford Tempo right away; she had to be new because he would certainly have remembered those high cheekbones and that full, curvy mouth. And he knew damn well she'd noticed him. Even from yards away he had felt her eyes riveted on him. It was as if she couldn't look away.
Lou continued toward the headquarters building, straightening his shoulders and pulling in his stomach. He looked pretty damn good for fifty-one, all the women told him so. And not "distinguished," either, that kiss-of-death word that Lou had always loathed--along with the damning phrase "silver fox."
His black hair had only a few threads of gray in it, artfully left there by Dori, his stylist, so it wouldn't look like he dyed his hair. She even trimmed Lou's eyebrows, which,left to their own devices, would look like Einstein's. Lou paid Dori big bucks to keep him looking ten, fifteen years younger than his age.
And why shouldn't he? He was Lou Hechter, a vice president and company maverick who had been written up in the Detroit News and Detroit Free Press, plus all the trades, for the creative, innovative ideas he'd brought to Cybelle.
But this new lady, whoever she was, interested him. Even though the company had several thousand female employees, Lou knew a surprising number by sight, especially the good-looking ones. Was there a possibility this one was the new secretary in his own department, Fashion? Cilla had told him she hired someone from an employment agency, a woman who could type over one hundred words a minute.
He decided that if the new secretary was the blonde he'd send her a rose in a bud vase.
Reaching the entrance door marked "#2," Lou bounded lightly up the eight cement steps, pausing at the row of newspaper boxes positioned just inside the entrance to buy himself a copy of the Detroit Free Press. Women's Wear Daily and the Wall Street Journal were hand-delivered to his desk every day. Automatically he glanced at the chalkboard on the wall. Cybelle stock on the NYSE had closed three quarters of a point higher, which was great for Lou's portfolio. He and his wife, Marty, owned over twelve thousand shares of Cybelle blue-chip stocks, accumulated in the company's stock option program. As long as you owned Cybelle, you couldn't go wrong.
"Good morning, Mr. Hechter," said Cherise Souza, an African-American security guard, who stood in the doorway, glancing perfunctorily at the incoming workers' blue employee cards. During her first week of work she'd made the mistake of actually asking to look at Lou's card. He'd set her straight, though.
"Hi, Cherise, hon," said Lou, favoring her with one of his big smiles.
He walked on past, feeling his usual jolt of adrenaline as he entered the big office complex that seemed like a hive to him, jumping and humming with life. His kingdom--yeah, Lou would rather be here than anyplace else on earth.


In Human Resources, Karyn filled out a series of papers--an IRS form for her payroll deductions, another employment application form, a form stating her next of kin in case there was an accident.
She wrote down her father's name, Ed Cristophe, and her parents' address in Norwalk, Connecticut. She could have moved to Connecticut, she knew; in fact, her parents had begged her to do so, assuring her there were good jobs in the area. Or she could even commute into New York City on the train.
She hadn't wanted to do that. In the first place, Mack knew where her parents lived, and what if he decided to get in his car and drive to Connecticut, resume his harassment of her? Not that he'd ever been dangerous. It was more like obsessive, phoning her eighteen to forty-five times a day on the job, leaving dozens of voice-mail messages, driving past her office building over and over again, for hours.
Mack needed psychological help, and she'd finally convinced him to see a therapist, but she didn't dare trust him yet--not when it was her job at stake. Which was why she'd decided to move far out of Mack's orbit, plus getting a restraining order against him.
She concentrated on the last paper, which was a form stating that her job was "temp-to-perm," that she would be paid through People Resources, her aunt's agency, that Cybelle could but was not obligated to hire her after her ninety-day probation was up.
"But this temp-to-perm business is only a formality," Connie had assured Karyn. "Honey, your skills are top-drawer, you're great at Microsoft Word, and you've got heavy experience in Power Point. And if you type a hundredwords per minute, well, you can do the work of a secretary and a half. Temping is the only way you can get in most big companies nowadays. They want to try out the merchandise before they buy."
"Are you finished, dear?" asked an older woman, coming into the room now.
Karyn nodded and handed her the papers. The HR assistant shuffled through them. "Good ... good. Well, I'll call Cilla Westheim's office and tell them you're on your way over. Oh, is that a Gemi suit you're wearing?"
Karyn smiled. "Yes, I bought it on sale."
"Well, here's a map. You're going to get lost a lot at first, everyone does, but eventually you'll get the hang of things. Oh, yes, and here's an employee booklet. It gives all the information on the dress code, company regulations, sexual harassment and so forth."
Leaving the Human Resources office, Karyn glanced down at the photocopied map of the building. It was confusing, a honeycomb maze of squares intersected by crisscrossing corridors on three levels, except for the five-story Executive Tower.
Karyn had loved to window-shop at the Cybelle store near Peachtree Street and Ponce de Leon Avenue in Atlanta, coveting the designer clothes and designer knockoffs that were always so tempting. She'd blown a few paychecks on special dresses that she still treasured.
Now she was at the company headquarters. The building seemed glamorous to her, its gray marble floors elegantly veined with pink. There were displays of framed fashion sketches that dated back to the 1950s, when a Frenchman named Roland LaRivière had opened the first store in Chicago, naming it after his wife, Cybelle. The Chanel suits and evening gowns by Patou, Yves St. Laurent and the house of Dior were still eye-catching.
Hallways forked, then forked again. Karyn wandered past offices, hundreds of them lining every outside wall of thebuilding. Some had views of inner courtyards with fountains and landscaping; others looked out onto the street. Huge center areas were filled with shoulder-high work cubicles. Secretaries, she noticed, usually seemed to have their desks set inside alcoves in the hallways.
At last she came upon a brass sign with the words FASHION DEPARTMENT etched in script lettering. Two hallway desks were positioned in paneled alcoves, one of them empty, the other one occupied by a woman with tawny skin and impish, dark eyes. A sign on her desk said RAQUEL ESTRADA.
"Is this the Fashion Department?"
"Yes--you must be Karyn, right?" When Raquel stood up, she was only about five feet tall, and this was in three-inch heels. "So how many times did you get lost finding this place? I keep telling HR that their map sucks, but nobody ever does anything about it. Well, you picked a great day to start here. Lou--he's my boss and your ultimate boss--has four meetings. Plus we have a big buyers' meeting coming up and we have about fifty phone calls to make on that. Oh, and Cilla is late again. She's the one you work for."
"Cilla Westheim?"
"Yeah, she's never in before eight forty-five so she always has to park in the back forty. So she rushes in here ... well, you'll see. But, hey, she's nice. She expects a lot, but if you can deliver ... well, Cilla will like you. Oh, by the way, welcome to Cybelle."


Cilla Westheim wasn't in a mood to like anyone right now. Damn, she couldn't believe she'd overslept again. It was getting to be a very inconvenient habit.
Now her oversleeping had cut off all her chances for getting a decent parking space. She didn't even bother to cruise the main lot; she knew from experience that it had been full since before 8:00 A.M. Instead she drove around in back tothe new annex lot that had been laid down the previous spring on some land that had previously belonged to a neighboring church. The only spaces left were on the grass.
Oh, lovely, Cilla thought grumpily, pulling her three-year-old Mercury Cougar onto the rutted, weedy surface. Her new, strappy Maud Frizon shoes were going to look like crap after she'd trudged over grass and dust. Why the hell didn't she remember to bring tennis shoes, like most of the other women employees?
Cilla's dream last night had put her in a strangely edgy mood. It was the same dream she'd had off and on since high school, herself frantically running across a huge shopping mall while security people chased her. She ran and ran, her heart pounding out of her chest as she clutched her shopping bag, into which she'd stuffed a Chanel silk scarf.
Even today, thirty-one years later, the nightmare had the power to cause Cilla to wake up sweating. Not that she'd ever shoplifted since then; it had only happened that one, humiliating time. She'd paid back every penny by modeling clothes in the junior department at Jacobson's, a job that had started her on her retailing career.
Whoa, Cilla thought, relegating the dream back to where it belonged. She gathered up her purse and started the ten-minute trek toward the building, her mind clicking to an idea she'd had on the drive in. Cilla had heard a song on the radio by Jazzy Kulture, that new, sixteen-year-old rock star who was getting to be even bigger than the Spice Girls used to be before Ginger Spice quit.
Even the name was so perfect. They'd call the line "Jazzy." All they needed was the star's endorsement, and Cilla felt sure they could get that.
Walking fast, Cilla encountered a few stragglers who'd also been forced to park in the limbo of the "back forty." They smiled and waved to each other, caught in the camaraderie of tardiness.
As she approached the #2 door, Cilla began mentally organizingthe first half hour of her day. Oh, today was the day that new secretary, Karyn, reported in.
She'd been told that Karyn was "very sharp" and was a superior typist, with a lot of software expertise, including Word 7, Excel and Power Point, plus Harvard Graphics. She had experience making travel arrangements, could schedule meetings, and had done mail merges of up to eight thousand data records. She sounded ideal for the job.
Let this Karyn like us, Cilla found herself thinking. Please, don't let her quit like those others. Please, let Lou treat her decently.
Yes, especially that.


Raquel Estrada got the new secretary, Karyn, settled at her desk and showed her the company's E-mail and voice mail system. "I'll fill you in on more of the details later, but right now there's a ton of phone calls for you to make, and I've gotta finish this spreadsheet for Lou. Hope you don't mind plunging right in."
"I can't wait," said Karyn, smiling.
"That Gemi suit looks great on you," remarked Raquel, eyeing Karyn's tall, model-thin figure enviously. "Really sexy. I was here when they first showed the sample to the buyers. Everyone loved it. I wish they made it in petite, though," she added.
"It must be so much fun to see the clothes before anyone else does."
Raquel grinned. "It has its moments. Look, I'll take you down to the cafeteria today for lunch. It's a bit intimidating to go down there by yourself on your first day."
"Thanks!"
"I go about eleven forty-five to beat the rush."
Karyn again smiled, looking grateful, and Raquel decided that she was going to like her despite Karyn's high cheekbones and knockout figure. The secretary before Karyn had been another blonde, a snooty type who had her own cliqueof friends--everyone Anglo, naturally--and ignored Raquel except when she needed something.
Raquel went back to her own alcove, which she'd decorated with Dilbert cartoons and snapshots of Brett DiMaio, her fiancé. There were Brett and Raquel on the dunes at Lake Michigan, all dressed up at someone's wedding, sitting together on a snowmobile, and so forth. On top of her computer she'd arranged five or six Beanie Babies, which had been very popular in Michigan for a while. Brett had given Raquel all of hers.
For a moment she studied the glittering diamond ring she wore on her left hand, then she started entering sales figures into the spreadsheet. However, almost immediately her phone interrupted.
"You and Brett are coming to the party at Aunt Adelina's, aren't you?" said her mother. "They haven't seen Brett in months, and they're starting to ask me why you're staying away from family, Raquel. They call you a stranger."
"I'm not staying away from family." Raquel sighed.
"You never stop by the house anymore, and you never bring your fiancé around the way you should. You're twenty-eight, Raquel. Back in Mexico you would have been married by now with three or four children, but here ... here you don't care, you just do as you please, family is nothing for you."
Just then several men in shirts and ties walked past, probably on their way to a meeting.
"Mama! Please!" Raquel uttered a whisper of anguish. "I'm sitting at my desk--people can walk by and hear."
"Well, all right, but just bring him to Adelina's then," insisted Modesta Estrada.
As her mother talked on about her aunt's party, Raquel started typing more numbers into the Excel chart. She hadn't dared tell her family that Brett had broken the engagement--her mother would freak. Modesta would blame her for "givingeverything to a man before marriage," claiming that was what had caused the breakup.
"I can't bring him to Adelina's, Mama, because he's got family obligations himself. His uncle is very sick with prostate cancer, and all the family is in town and they--well, Brett is spending a lot of time with family."
What a lie. Raquel felt her skin turn hot from shame, but what else was she supposed to say? If she could get Brett back, maybe by the end of this week, her mother would never have to know.
Finally she said good-bye and replaced the phone, feeling sweaty and irritable.
Her fingers hovered over the phone's speed-dial list, where she'd programmed in Brett's office number. When their romance was going strong, that had been one of their pleasant morning rituals--their phone calls and the many E-mails they sent back and forth to each other. Now he'd asked her not to call or E-mail him anymore.
But he couldn't have meant it, not deep down.
She pushed Brett's extension, waiting impatiently for him to pick up.
She just had to hear his voice--even if only for a few seconds.


In a few minutes Cilla Westheim arrived, striding down the hall, a attractive, slim woman who could have been anywhere between forty and fifty, clad in an aubergine-colored suit with a loose jacket that seemed to fly out behind her. She had an oval face with beautiful coloring, a few delicate, fine lines fanning at her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Her chestnut hair glinted with red. She exuded charisma.
"Hi, Karyn--I'll be with you in a sec--just let me get into my office and get my computer switched on."
A minute later, Cilla buzzed Karyn on the intercom, and Karyn ventured into her new boss's office. The room had two big windows overlooking an inner courtyard and reflectingpond. A clothes rack loaded with beaded evening dresses was pushed against one wall, and file folders were stacked on the floor. Another wall was hung with photos of Cilla Westheim taken with various celebrities. The one that caught Karyn's eye was that of Cilia and Gemi Adams. Gemi had been nominated for an Academy Award this year. It was "her" suit that Karyn was wearing.
Cilla was still on the speakerphone, having a discussion about a deadline for a shipment of sequin-sprinkled halter tops. Karyn listened eagerly, wondering who the designer was and if she'd recognize the name.
"Well," said Cilla, finally hanging up. Her smile transformed her face, making it seem warm, almost beautiful. "I want to tell you how glad I am to have you here. I've been begging for a new secretary for two weeks. Your predecessor left us a bit in the lurch. I'm afraid the work has begun to back up badly."
"I can handle it," said Karyn confidently.
"Good. And you type a hundred words a minute? That's really incredible."
"Actually, it's more like a hundred and four or five when I'm relaxed and not being tested."
"And your Power Point experience is impressive, too. I'll give you plenty of chances to use it. I promise we'll keep you busy and, I hope, happy."
Cilia went on to explain some of the workings of the department, and Karyn took notes on a steno pad she'd brought in with her.
"The Fashion Department is really the heart of Cybelle," Cilla explained. "All of our celebrity lines originated here, and you may even encounter a celebrity or two yourself ... . They occasionally stop by here for meetings. In fact, Gemi Adams has been here twice for stockholder meetings."
"Really?"
"But mostly it's their business managers who pay us a visit," Cilla admitted. "Still, it's exciting here, Karyn. Oneday you might be sorting through color samples, the next you could be picking up a model at the main door and escorting him or her to the department. Or even helping to select that model. How would you like to do that?"
Karyn couldn't help laughing with pleasure. "It sounds great here--I'm sure I'm going to love it."
"By the way, have you met Lou Hechter yet?"
"No, I haven't."
"Well, he's my boss, and he'll be giving you work, too, from time to time, especially when Raquel gets overwhelmed. We'll keep you busy, no question about that."
"That would be great," Karyn said.
"Now, I assume Raquel has given you a long list of things to do," said Cilla, making it plain the meeting was at an end.


Karyn zipped down the list of phone calls, priding herself on sounding both friendly and efficient. Several of the staff members seemed very cordial when she gave them the meeting reminder. She wanted to belong there so badly.
A couple of women were pushing a big metal rack crammed with luscious-looking silk suits down the hallway, struggling to get its swaying bulk into a conference room. Karyn couldn't help staring at the odd sight, not exactly what she'd expected to see in an office setting.
"That's a rolling rack," explained Raquel. "And those are samples on it. This place is just bulging with samples. Up in Buying that's all you see, stuff hanging on hangers. And they're always trying to steal our steam iron. We have to hide our ironing board or it'll disappear."
"You iron here?" Karyn asked, beginning to laugh.
"Yeah, we all do, even Cilla sometimes. We have this grotty room at the back, it's full of clothes and junk. We keep our iron and ironing board in there. You're gonna get your turn at it, too. It's just part of the job."
Raquel took Karyn around the department, introducingher to about thirty people. There were merchandisers, graphic artists, designers, clerks, and two student interns from the University of Michigan.
"Lou Hechter is the big cheese, though," Raquel went on. "He's my boss. He's a vice president and he heads this department and Buying. Come on, you have to meet him."
Raquel ushered Karyn into a corner office, twice as large as Cilla's but with a similar view of the same courtyard and pond. This office was much neater than Cilla's, crammed with expensive furniture. A credenza held several Degas dancer statuettes and a beautiful, foreign-looking clock. There was a collection of stunning fashion sketches by Givenchy, Scaasi, Valentino and others.
A middle-aged man with dark hair looked up from his computer monitor.
"Lou, this is Karyn, Cilla's new secretary."
"Ah, yes, our new secretary who types a hundred words a minute," drawled Lou, looking up from his computer screen.
Karyn blurted out a reply, realizing that he was the man she'd seen in the parking lot.
But now she could see that Lou resembled Mack only very superficially. For starters, he was twenty-five years older. His hair was shoe polish black except for a few threads of silver, and his jet-black eyebrows seemed somehow too small for the rest of his face. His features were strong-looking, his complexion so ruddy brown that he either lay in a tanning bed for several hours a week or regularly sunbathed.
She'd bet it was a tanning bed. He wore an expensive-looking shirt and an Italian silk tie, and his watch glimmered in a shaft of sunlight; to her, it looked like a Rolex. Of course, she'd seldom seen any real Rolexes other than in advertisements in magazines like Town and Country.
Lou began asking Karyn perfunctory questions about her previous job experience, his eyes studying her closely, hisscrutiny giving her a brief feeling of discomfort.
"Pardon me for looking, but it's your suit," explained Lou, smiling. "Gemi fall line, size eight. Am I right on the size?"
Karyn flushed. "Yes."
"You see, I always notice what a woman is wearing." Lou's teeth were big and square, slightly yellowed. "It's my job. I've been in fashion for, well, more years than I'd like to confess, and the day I can't tell you whose clothes you're wearing and what size they are is the day I'd better just hang up my hat."
Karyn nodded. This explanation made sense to her.
"Did you get your rose?" inquired Lou.
"Rose?"
He grinned. "If it isn't at your desk yet, it will be soon. I believe in flowers for the ladies in my department. You'll soon discover that."
Lou's phone rang and he terminated their interview to take the call. Walking back to her alcove, Karyn discovered a crystal bud vase on her desk with a long-stemmed pink rose in it, arranged with some baby's breath.
"Welcome to Cybelle, Karen," read a neatly lettered card. Her name had been misspelled.


Cilla Westheim began playing back her voice-mail messages that had accumulated since Friday night. They were the usual stuff. Two or three had been tagged "urgent" but weren't. One was the weekly multiple-recipient message from Randy Caravaglio, the corporate comptroller, giving the week's numbers on how women's fashions, juniors, men's, children's and housewares had done.
Cilia frowned. Women's was down a half point from the previous week. And it had been flat for three weeks before that. Was this starting to form a trend? Christ, she hoped not. Despite the current rosy economic climate, competitionwas fierce among retailers, and even a one percent drop couldn't be tolerated.
She pushed 1 to play the next message.
"Shane Gancer, from Legal," said an unfamiliar baritone voice. "We met at that breakfast meeting last week with Dom Carrara. Extension 3567. I'll be around until eleven."
Cilla's mind raced down her mental Rolodex, trying to place Shane Gancer. Then suddenly she recalled him. Tall, blond, about twenty-five or twenty-six years old, he was a new hire who had come to Cybelle from one of the many automotive suppliers in the area, ITT Automotive.
She dialed his extension, getting through immediately.
"I thought I'd touch base with you about that meeting," Shane began. They discussed it for about ten minutes, while Cilla wondered why he had singled her out for the call. "And I wanted to maybe see if you wanted to talk further," he finished.
"Further?"
"Over dinner on Friday night."
Cilla caught her breath. Good God, she thought.
"I really ..." she began, but the words came out with a nervous laugh. Maybe he didn't realize she was fifty years old.
"Maybe over to the St. Clair Inn if you'd be interested in being on the water for a while. Even if it is on the sunrise side, the lake is beautiful at sunset."
Oh, shit, Cilia thought. And double shit. When Shane had been in diapers, she'd been already working at her first job at Jacobson's. When he graduated from high school, she'd been a working mother with a twelve-year-old daughter. He probably listened to the same rock stars Mindy did, she thought in dismay.
"Well, I've been super busy at work," she said, framing a polite refusal. "And I really don't date within the company."
"Just a casual dinner," he insisted. "No strings, just apleasant evening. We can talk business if that'll make you feel better."
She couldn't help laughing, hanging on to the phone and watching through the half-open door as her new secretary, Karyn, came back from the copy room. Karyn was very pretty, Cilla again noticed. That hair, blunt cut and shiny. She had an appealing, fresh look that came with being in the late twenties--a look that Cilia had to re-create with makeup these days.
"Cilla?" Shane was saying.
Jolted back to her phone call, she repeated, "I'm sorry, Shane ..."
"Is it because I'm younger? Because it's not at all a problem with me."
"It's not just younger, it's a lot younger," she said, compelled to be honest.
"If two people are compatible, then age is just a random number, Cilla."
Age wasn't a random number to her. Her fiftieth birthday blues had stretched on for over two months. Age was the damned hot flashes. It was realizing she could never wear a two-piece bathing suit again unless she chose the high-waisted kind. Age was giving away the sleeveless dresses in her closet and doing those harrowing mirror inspections when you stretched out your face with your fingers and wondered if you should get plastic surgery. Age was being embarrassed because she was no longer very lubricated "down there." And noticing that the bottom curves of her butt now contained three lines, instead of the former one.
God, now she was blushing. "I really can't, Shane."
"Just one dinner," he pleaded. "And afterward I'll charter a boat and we can go out on the lake for a while. The wind in your hair ... the sunset ... and I promise I won't talk at all about Gen X."
"Oh, such a relief," Cilla said, laughing.
"Then will you? It's only one night," he insisted. "If you don't like me, I'm history."
How could she argue with that? Since Mindy had gone back to Albion College, Cilla usually ate a microwave dinner standing at the sink. A real meal sounded good to her. "And I promise I won't mention baby boomers, deal?"
"Deal," said Shane. "What time shall I pick you up?"
"Seven, I'll meet you at the restaurant," Cilla said hastily. "I've been there before and I know where it is."
After she hung up, she just sat there, not knowing whether to start laughing or take two Advils. Would the waiter think she was Shane's mother? Probably! Of course, Cilla assured herself, most people didn't take her for fifty. She'd been told over and over that she looked around forty-five, or even forty. Since her age wasn't listed in any company publications, Cilla realized that Shane probably thought forty-five was her real age, not fifty.
Still, it was only one dinner, and they could talk business, as he'd suggested, if they found they had nothing in common. And the food certainly would be better than nuking herself a box of chicken marsala.


By the time 11:45 A.M. arrived, Karyn was ready to take a break.
"Ready for lunch?" asked Raquel, showing up at her alcove, an expectant smile on her face.
"Hungry as a bear."
"Good. We'd better hurry, though. It can be a mob scene over there."
They started out on the long walk to the cafeteria, threading their way through the corridors to the main, marble-floored artery, as crowded with passersby as a sidewalk in downtown Atlanta. Dozens of people smiled or said "Hi" to Raquel.
"I love my rose that Lou sent," Karyn commented. "It's the first time I ever got flowers on my first day of work.Does he usually do that with new people here?"
Raquel nodded. "Women, anyway. You should see the arrangements he sends on Secretaries' Day. They're huge. Mine was so big I didn't even have room for it on my desk. Of course a raise would have been a lot better. I didn't get that."
"Really? And does he always ... well, tell you what brand of clothes you're wearing?"
"Well, sure, Lou's got a very sharp eye. If he ever catches you in Kmart clothes, he'll put a rusty safety pin on your desk."
Karyn giggled. "A rusty safety pin?"
"Yeah. Lou is sorta the company maverick. He has strong ideas about stuff sometimes."
The cafeteria was big enough to seat fifteen hundred people at once, a huge space dominated by a big bank of windows that overlooked another of the beautiful reflecting ponds that had a geyser splashing up in the middle of it. The room reverberated loudly with voices, the clink of cutlery, and music being played over a PA system. The food area was jammed, everyone acting impatient. Karyn stopped short, feeling intimidated by the mobs of workers.
"Today is Greek salad day!" exclaimed Raquel, elbowing her way toward the salad bar. "Come on!" she called to Karyn. "Every day they serve a different ethnic food. On Fridays they have Mexican pizza." She made a little face. "On a tortilla, with cheese and pepperoni. If my mother could taste it, she'd freak."
Karyn got in line behind Raquel, balancing her tray and her shoulder bag, relieved that she wasn't going to be forced to sit alone among all these hundreds of strangers.
The line of people split in half, streaming on either side of the long salad bar, helping themselves to feta cheese, beets, tomatoes and other items. Karyn ended up separated from Raquel. As she served herself, she heard a loud, rattling clatter. Her salad plate had somehow slipped off thetray, catapulting bits of lettuce, beets and other salad fixings all over the floor.
"Ah!" she cried, jumping back.
Looking down, Karyn saw that a slice of beet had adhered to the top of her right shoe, and something damp had streaked the skirt of her expensive Gemi suit. However, the line of people merely streamed around Karyn, everyone continuing to load their plates.
She was near tears as she bent down and attempted to pick off the beet from her shoe and gather up the bits of lettuce before someone stepped on them.
"You don't have to pick that up," said a male voice above her. "Look--don't grub down on the floor like that. I'll tell the cashier and she'll phone for someone to clean this up."
Flustered, Karyn straightened up and saw a stocky, sandy-haired man just a few inches taller than she was, with a ginger-colored mustache and pleasant laugh lines around his brown eyes. "I guess I really goofed," she began.
"Not seriously. I'll get you another plate," he said, moving away. In a moment he had returned, carrying one of the crockery plates that bore the Cybelle logo, an elaborate script C. "By the way, I'm Roger Canton," he told her, handing her the plate, still warm from the dishwasher. "I'm head buyer for Women's Fashions. It's your first day here, isn't it? I can tell."
"Does everyone spill lettuce and beets on the floor on their first day?" Karyn queried, laughing nervously.
"No, sometimes they spill a ten-ounce glass of Pepsi all over the cashier, like I did. She still mentions it when I go through the line."
A young man in a white apron came hurrying over with a mop. Embarrassed, Karyn began restocking her plate. Oh, lord, was her new suit ruined? It was dry-cleanable only. And her shoe, would the beet juice stain it? She'd already gotten the impression that you were expected to look stylish and fashionable here at Cybelle, and it was going to strainher budget. Of course, if she was a permanent employee she'd get clothing discounts ... .
"Come on," urged Roger Canton. "You don't have to sit alone on your first day, you can sit at our table if you want. It's over there in the corner by the big planter." He waved toward the sea of tables.
"I'm--with Raquel."
"Oh, Raquel Estrada? You must be in Fashion, then. Well, tell Raquel to come and join us, too. Remember--by the planter. And try some of the dessert today. The cherry tarts taste like Grandma Cybelle whipped them up in her kitchen."
Roger Canton smiled at her, his eyes sparkling with interest.
"Maybe I will try them."
Roger veered off, joining the line for the soft drinks. Karyn wandered over to the counter where a cheerful woman in a white apron was handing out small, beautiful tarts with attractively crimped edges, each dolloped with whipped cream.
"Want one, honey?"
"Well ..."
"Go on, it's calorie-free," urged the zaftig cafeteria worker. "Especially if you eat it standing up."
Karyn laughed. "In that case, I'll have one. Light on the whipped cream."
"Well," said Raquel, coming up beside her with her loaded tray. "I see you attracted Roger's attention."
"I--he just helped me when I spilled my salad. He said we could sit at his table. But I'm not sure I want to. I haven't been divorced very long. I don't want to get involved with anyone right now."
"Oh, yeah? Listen, Roger's okay. He's one of the good guys around here. But we can sit with some of the women from the department. I usually sit with--" Raquel stopped,her eyes darting around the cafeteria. "Annie and Jan and a couple of others," she finished.
Carrying her tray, Karyn followed Raquel into the vast, noisy room.
They sat down and Raquel suddenly narrowed her eyes, again staring across the crowded cafeteria. "See him?" she said. "That's my honey."
Looking, Karyn saw a good-looking young man--nearly six feet tall--with olive skin and a full head of curly, dark hair. He wore shirtsleeves and a tie, and was carrying his tray toward the far end of the room near the door. He was either unaware of Raquel's scrutiny or else he was ignoring her.
"Your boyfriend?" said Karyn.
"My fiance. He's a programmer. Well, we've been having some troubles recently, but it's just a matter of time," said Raquel vaguely, her gaze still focused on the man. "His name is Brett. We were going to get married ... are going to get married," she amended hastily.
Karyn felt a flash of pity for Raquel. "I suppose it's tough, having a boyfriend or girlfriend who works at the same company," she remarked, not wanting to pry.
Raquel gave a brilliant smile. "It's okay. Well, it could be tough if you were in the same department, but we're not."
A group of people from the department arrived with their trays, and Raquel joined in the repartee, introducing Karyn to several she hadn't met earlier in the morning.
Karyn ate her lunch and tried to participate in the conversation. One of the buyers was telling about a meal she'd eaten in Paris ... it sounded incredibly exotic to Karyn.
The fashion designers and merchandisers were dressed differently from some of the other women in the company, she noticed. No pantsuits or slacks for them. All wore suits or dresses, most with above-the-knee or mid-thigh hemlines. Several wore opaque tights with these outfits.
Mentally she began going through her own wardrobe, tryingto see it with new eyes. Thank God she owned a lot of separates. But she might need a few new skirts.


At 3:30 P.M., Karyn took a minute to call Amber.
"Hi, Mom," came the high, piping voice of her eight-year-old daughter. In the background, Karyn could hear a TV set playing an afternoon soap.
"Hi, sweetums. How was school?"
"Great. We did cursive writing. The teacher said I write really pretty."
"Fantastic. You having a good time at Caitlin's?"
"Yeah, cool. We're washing out her Barbie doll dresses."
Karyn pictured her blond daughter, small for her age, skinny and intense, splattering water all over Jinny Caribaldi's bathroom. "Oh? I hope you aren't making a mess."
"No, it's in the bathroom sink. And we're using lots of towels to get everything up. Mom? Can we go out and get pizza tonight? Pretty, pretty please? With candy and sugar and Cool Whip on it?"
Karyn smiled. "I thought you were sick of pizza."
"No way. The only stuff on pizza I don't like is meat. Oh, can we?"
"Sure, honey. Just clean up your Barbie doll mess in the bathroom, okay, so Mrs. Caribaldi won't have to do a lot of extra work. And then hang up the towels on the rack so they'll dry."
"Okay. How's the, you know, your new boss?"
"She's very nice."
"Caitlin's mom has a real mean head nurse who yells at everybody. She says it gives her indigestion. And that other stuff, st--"
"Stress?"
"Yeah. Stress. She says someday she's just going to tell her job to go screw."
Karyn bit her lip, thinking how fast little girls grew up."Honey, my boss is named Cilla and she's great. She's very nice and cheerful."
"Good," said Amber. "And you're not going to get fired? Daddy's not going to come by and wreck your job?"
"No, honey. No, he's not."
"Because I want to stay here for a long, long while and I want to be Caitlin's best friend and I want to have a ton of Barbies and I want them all to have beautiful clothes, really fashionable with ribbons and beads and stuff," Amber finished breathlessly. "And I want a kitty cat."
"Well, we'll start saving up some money then," promised Karyn, feeling such a powerful surge of love and commitment that her fingers clenched the phone.
"I want to stay here," repeated Amber. "I don't want to move again, okay?"
"We won't. We're here for the long haul, Amber."
"Promise?" said her daughter.
"Promise."
Karyn was forced to hang up. Lou Hechter was walking past her desk. He smiled warmly at her and she smiled back.
"How's your first day working out?" he asked.
"Fine, just fine."
"If you have any problems at all, you just let me know."
"I will," she responded.


A date with a younger man. Cilla Westheim struggled to concentrate on her work, assuring herself that the December-May coupling wasn't so unusual these days. She had several women friends who'd dated men as much as ten years younger than themselves. One was living with her partner and kept telling everyone how much he worshipped her and how happy she was. Of course, Diann had gotten a face-lift and liposuction, too.
Cilla was beginning to feel a lift of excitement, coupled with flattered pleasure.
She only had to see him once, that wasn't much of acommitment, and after that they probably would naturally drift apart.
Cilla worked through lunch, pausing to pick at a pasta salad she'd had delivered from the main cafeteria. The company also had a small "mini" cafeteria that served fast food and yogurt by the pound, but Cilla only went there for the yogurt. Small coffee vending rooms in each area also dispensed vending snacks in case employees needed a quick caffeine or sugar fix. Their own department also kept a coffeemaker, which people usually let run empty.
"I want an overview report of all the celebrity lines pushed by the big chains," Lou told her, popping his head in. "You know the stores I mean. By tomorrow morning."
She looked at the man who was her boss, and who daily made her aware that she was his subordinate. "Tomorrow? But Lou--"
"I don't care how you do it."
"Fine, Lou," she agreed crisply.
He gave her some of the specifics he wanted, which included merchandise samples from each line and their pricing. Cilla's mind flew over the logistics; she'd have to dispatch her merchandisers immediately to shop all the department store chains in the tri-county area. Later, everything would have to be returned. Ten years ago, Cybelle had simply eaten the prices of the hundreds of garments it purchased, but recent austerity campaigns meant merchandisers now had to trudge back to the stores with their sales slips just like any shopper.
"That's my girl," he said in a familiar way.
She sighed. "I'm not a girl, Lou, and I haven't been one since high school."
"Oh, you know what I mean."
After Lou left, Cilla sat with her eyes shut for thirty seconds, calming herself down. Lou was Lou. She was stuck with him if she wanted to keep her job here. Finally she recovered herself and printed out a list of the chains Louwanted covered and distributed them to the six merchandisers she could spare.
When she handed them the list, several groaned.
"A nice afternoon of shopping? Now, what more could you want?" Cilla said, smiling to take away the sting.
Her phone rang again, and automatically she reached to pick it up.
"Dress casual," said a male voice.
"What?"
"For Friday night, I mean. In case we go on the boat."
Cilla laughed She had no idea why; she just did.
"What's so funny?"
"I don't know." She suddenly felt so good, so free, and slightly wicked.
"You're too funny, Cilla. I'm looking forward to getting to know you better."
Cilla smiled, and smiled again. She couldn't even remember the last time she had done something this crazy, and she was beginning to believe she would enjoy it.


"'Night, Raquel," called Cherise, the friendly security guard, as Raquel trotted past on her way out the #2 door. "Have a good one, hear?"
"You, too, Cherise." Raquel waved cheerfully.
She joined the crowds streaming to their cars.
A familiar figure in a Gemi suit was walking only about twenty feet ahead of her. Raquel recognized Karyn Cristophe gazing around her with that puzzled look new people got when they were trying to spot their cars after the first day of work. She hurried her steps to catch up.
"Karyn! Karyn! Hi!"
Karyn turned, surprised, and then gave Raquel a rueful smile. "I lost my car. I thought I parked down that aisle there--" She pointed. "But I don't see my car. And with the sun shining on everything, it makes the colors of the cars look different."
Raquel grimaced. "I can't believe they don't have aisle markers here, but they don't. Look. I used to lose my car all the time when I first came here, and it pissed me off something awful. What you do is you park in the same place every time if you can. Then you always know where to start looking. I try to park as close to an aisle as I can get, and I use those landmarks over there to orient myself."
Raquel pointed to a row of distant trees and a small strip mall.
"Ooohkay," said Karyn.
"Hey, why don't you get in my car and I'll drive you around until we find it?"
"So how did your first day go--I mean really," said Raquel as they slowly drove around the lot.
"Great. I think I'm going to really love it here."
"Good. I mostly like my job," confided Raquel. "If it wasn't for Lou ..."
"Lou?"
"He's ... crabby sometimes." Raquel closed her mouth. "Look, Karyn, just a little hint between you and me. You're a great-looking woman, very sexy. And that suit you have on today is sensational. Maybe you ought to tone it down a little, you know? Leave off the makeup and dress a little plainer."
She could see the surprise cross the face of the other woman.
"That doesn't bother you, does it? That I said that?"
"No," said Karyn with relief. "Actually, my working wardrobe is not this fancy--I only bought the Gemi suit to impress everyone. I was starting to worry that I'd have to spend all my paycheck on clothes."
"Skirts, though, you have to wear skirts," Raquel warned. "Lou doesn't like pants, so none of us get to wear them."
Karyn nodded. "Look--over there. I think that's my car."
Raquel dropped Karyn off at her Ford Tempo, which was beginning to show a few spots of rust along the fenders.
"See you tomorrow," she said cheerfully.
"Sure. And--thanks."
Karyn waved at her, and Raquel drove off down the aisle, which had begun to clear of cars. She exited onto the main road, turning in the opposite direction from her own apartment in Troy. All she was going to do was drive past Brett's house. If she saw his car in the driveway, maybe she'd stop by, just for a couple of minutes.


Brett DiMaio lived in a modest, three-bedroom brick ranch in a subdivision full of similar homes. He had a flower basket hung on a hook from his porch ceiling, a basket Raquel had bought him at Bordine's the previous May.
Possessively, she eyed it as she slowed her sporty-looking Pontiac Grand Am to a crawl. The magenta-colored petunias and pink impatiens were at their late-summer best. Brett must be watering, because the plants looked healthy. Also, he hadn't thrown the basket out--which Raquel took as a positive sign. If he really and truly didn't want her around anymore, she reasoned, he would have thrown out everything she had given him. The fact that he had not gave her hope.
Unfortunately, his Jeep Cherokee wasn't in the driveway, where he usually parked.
She made two more quick turns around the block, slowing up each time as she passed Brett's home, but he still wasn't there. She circled the block four or five more times, then drove past a restaurant he frequented. His Cherokee was not in the lot. She cruised past his health club, making the circuit of the big parking lot. Then back to his house. Frustrated, she gave up, turning toward her apartment.
As she drove, Raquel fiddled with the car radio until she found a country station playing a sad song that fit her mood. She'd had sex with Brett on their fifth date--a big mistake, she now realized. In fact, maybe a fatal one. Raquel's older sister, Ana, had saved herself for her husband and look atwhat happened! Ana got married. Her man had begged her to stand in front of the priest with him. Now Ana was set for the rest of her life.
Raquel gripped the steering wheel, fighting to maintain her optimism.
A wedding still had to be in her future. If she could just talk to him and they could hash out their differences, she felt sure she could get Brett back.


Karyn dug her keys out of her purse and let herself into the apartment building. She felt exhilarated from the long workday, dreams already tumbling through her mind of all the things she might do once she became a permanent employee. She would sign up for the 401k plan and ... oh, a hundred things! Aunt Connie had told Karyn that top secretaries and administrative assistants could make anywhere from $27,000 up to $50,000, and a few, in big corporations, earned over $60,000.
To Karyn this sounded like a fortune.
Karyn hurried up the stairs and knocked on the Caribaldis' door to pick up her daughter.
"Mom--Mom!" cried Amber, running to the door.
"How was school, cupcake?"
"It was great. We had tacos for lunch and did stuff on the computer."
"That's wonderful."
"Mom, we washed all of Caitlin's Barbie stuff and we even ironed!"
"You ironed?" Dismayed, Karyn thought about steam puffing out of vents and boiling hot water.
"I made them keep the iron set on wool," said Jinny Caribaldi, a pencil-slim blond with a plain face who had been divorced a year longer than Karyn and had been left with a pile of credit card debts and no child support. "And I stood right there with them."
"I hope Amber wasn't any trouble," fretted Karyn.
"Oh, no, no. I had them down in the basement washing towels, and then I let them wash and blow-dry Barbie's hair."
Karyn scooped up Amber for a hug. Karyn could feel her daughter's skinny shoulder blades and smell coconut-scented shampoo. "Hey, honeybear, you blow-dried Barbie?"
Amber's blue eyes were sparkling. "Yeah, and she ended up beautiful."
Karyn laughed, remembering Barbie dolls from her own childhood with big wads of hair incredibly frizzed from nonstop combing.
"Mom, are we getting pizza tonight?" Amber went on. "Can we go to Chuck E. Cheese? It's where Caitlin always goes, and she says the cheese pizza is great there."
"Sure, honeylamb," said Karyn. "I promised, didn't I?"
"And can Caitlin come with us?" the child inquired eagerly.
"If her mother says it's okay."
"Actually, it would be more than okay," said Jinny Caribaldi. "I have to run out to the drugstore and pick up a few things before my mother gets here to baby-sit Caitlin."
Karyn and Jinny had already worked out an arrangement that Karyn would take care of Caitlin at night if Jinny's mother became sick or couldn't sit. It was going to work out well for both of them. Another huge stroke of luck, Karyn thought. She couldn't believe how well her life was working out here.
Karyn collected her daughter and Caitlin, a round-cheeked child wearing a Walt Disney World T-shirt, and they were in the car again, on their way to the pizzeria, located in a shopping mall about three miles away.
Giggles erupted at the pizza place as the girls discussed TV shows and Barbie dolls. Families filled most of the tables, the standard nuclear type, and Karyn couldn't help glancing a bit enviously at fathers who cradled babies andhelped toddlers wipe their faces. She saw that Amber had noticed them, too, and felt a stabbing pang. Mack had either ignored his daughter or spoken to her cuttingly, criticizing everything she did.
Later, when their pizza arrived, Amber gazed at Karyn over the top of a huge, cheese-dripping slice. "We're gonna like it here, right, Mom?"
"Right," said Karyn. "We're going to love it here."
"And we're gonna stay here a long time, aren't we?"
"A very, very long time," Karyn promised for the third time.
"Forever?"
"Maybe even that long."
"And Daddy?" asked Amber.
"He--he won't be with us. He caused so many problems, baby."
"I know," said Amber sadly.


Karyn's bedroom was still only partially unpacked. She spent the evening putting stuff in drawers and on shelves, locating Amber's favorite T-shirt, which had been packed with Karyn's clothes. Then she pressed some blouses for work and put together several skirt outfits she could wear.
She tucked Amber in bed, smoothing up the sheets under her daughter's narrow chin. "Was the pizza good tonight, cupcake?"
"Yeah!"
"And you like Caitlin?"
"We're best friends."
"That's so wonderful, Amber." Karyn reached down and scooped her child into her arms. "You're my most special, sweet and wonderful little girl--the best girl in the whole world."
Amber snuggled up to her trustingly.
"Mom?"
"Yeah, honey?"
"Can we have a kitty?"
"As soon as things settle down."
"I want a kitty with blue eyes."
"Will green eyes do? Or maybe yellow? I'm not sure there are that many kitties with blue eyes."
"Maybe we can find one." Amber sighed, already drifting off. "Or I'll take green."
Karyn switched on the night-light and kissed Amber again, feeling her chest go tight. What had it done to Amber to see her parents battling as she and Mack had done? They'd had plenty of yelling matches when Mack kept bothering her at her job. All she wanted to do right now was smooth away those ugly memories and replace them with new, better ones.


Aunt Connie phoned just as Karyn sat down to watch a little TV.
"How'd the first day go?" Connie Hilverda wanted to know.
"Oh, just great!" Karyn began telling Connie all about it. "I can't tell you how grateful I am to you, Aunt Connie, for getting me in. Raquel told me that it isn't exactly easy to get hired at Cybelle--everyone wants to work there."
"Now, you don't have to thank me. No way. Just bring that beautiful little girl of yours over here for dinner some night, that'll be payment enough for me." Connie hesitated. "You haven't heard from Mack, have you?"
"No. He doesn't know where I am."
"Good," said Connie. "Just in case, get an unlisted phone number and don't use your credit cards. Do you need money?"
"My dad loaned me enough money to get started here, but thanks, Aunt Connie. I love you."
"I love you, too, Karyn."
At 11:00 Karyn put on a faded Paula Abdul T-shirt sheand Mack had gotten at a concert years ago, and a pair of pink flowered cotton panties.
She switched off the lamp and crawled into her double bed, plumping up the other pillow so that it would take up more space and make the bed not seem so empty. Whatever the flaws of their marriage, her sex life with Mack had been good, and she deeply missed cuddling up in the mornings before the clock radio went off.
That man she'd met in the cafeteria, Roger, she tried to recall his face but all she could remember was his brown eyes sparkling with interest.
He'd been attractive ... .
Restlessly, Karyn tossed and turned, the adrenaline in her body still not dissipated yet. In her mind she was back at Cybelle, hurrying through the maze of corridors and offices. Cilla wanted her to deliver some papers but she couldn't find the right office. The maze stretched everywhere, doors leading to more doors. She kept asking but no one knew where the office was. She walked faster, getting more anxious, and then Lou Hechter appeared.
"If you have any problems at all, you just let me know," he said, smiling.


Tonight, Raquel's roommate, Heather, was out. Still frustrated from her fruitless driving around, Raquel turned on HBO and watched a rerun of GI Jane, where Demi Moore shaved her own head and was nearly drowned and tortured by her instructor while trying to become a navy commando. Raquel frowned at the screen image of the hard-bodied, bald star.
Estrada women prided themselves on their long, glossy hair, and believed it was unfeminine to work out or get too many muscles. Raquel's sister, Ana, who now had three children, was becoming heavy. She still was pretty, Raquel thought loyally, but Ana didn't believe in health clubs. She said she didn't want some man to see her with her legsspread apart at some exercise machine. Ana, too, nagged at Raquel about getting married.
"You just don't know what you are missing," she kept saying.
Raquel had picked up a tuna sub on the way home from Brett's neighborhood after her final pass by his house. Listlessly, she peeled off the paper wrapper and ate the sandwich. Then she went to the refrigerator and grazed until she found some low-fat ice cream.
The telephone, hung on the wall near the dinette table, seemed to mock her with its silent presence. Raquel had hooked up an answering machine to it, and its red message button remained stubbornly dark.
Brett hadn't called.
He never called--not anymore. And where was he tonight, what was he doing? Did he already have another girlfriend? Even thinking it was painful. During their horrible breakup fight, he had mentioned that he "wanted to date other women," words that had burned into Raquel's heart like the steam iron they used at Cybelle to press samples.
Raquel scraped the rest of her ice cream into the sink. Then she moved toward the telephone, punching in the speed-dial for Brett's number.
Let him be home now, she willed the phone.
But after the fifth ring, Brett's answering machine picked up. Raquel listened to the familiar message spoken in her lover's somewhat flat voice: Hey, this is Brett. At the beep, start talking. This better be good.
"I love you, Brett," she said onto the tape. "I always have and I always will. I drove by your house but you weren't home. Call me. Tonight. Please." She drew in her breath, about to continue but then the end-of-message beep cut her off. Brett had reset his machine so it would take only a twenty-second message.
Raquel replaced the phone, dialed again, listened to the message again, and continued speaking. "We have to talk,Brett. This is ridiculous, us going on like this. We love each other, we're a couple. I've still got our ring on. We have so much together, we can't let it go just like that ... ."
She talked faster, this time managing to get in quite a bit before the machine cut her off.
Four times she repeated the procedure, each time adding to her words of love.
Finally she hung up for the last time, feeling peaceful for the first time in hours. Brett would come back, play his messages, hear her voice, and--hopefully--feel a stirring of the same sort of feelings she felt for him.


Cilia brought her laptop home and nuked herself a Weight Watchers lasagna meal, preparing a big salad with fresh mushrooms and diet Italian dressing. Twenty years ago, Cilla had been able to eat just about anything she pleased, but since she had passed forty that was no longer the case. She now had to monitor her appetite like Oprah's personal chef, being ready to weather the slightest changes in her cravings or energy level.
Not only that, the fat deposits in her body had subtly changed. Her waistline was trying to thicken, while her legs and butt tried to become skinnier. She fought these changes, exercising to a video four times a week. She was in the fashion business; she had to look good. And now a younger man had asked her out, which put even more pressure on her to be thin.
She ate in her den with the laptop opened in front of her, trying to get a jump on the celebrity lines analysis that Lou demanded by tomorrow.
However, she found that her concentration kept slipping, and by 11:30 she finally gave up, shutting off the computer and taking out a stack of bills she'd been meaning to pay for a week.
She opened envelope after envelope, noting the recent purchases. God, were her Maud Frizon shoes really $380?And that age-defying cream she'd bought last week; it was going to take her a decade just to pay for it. Oh, and her account with Chase Advantage was just about maxed. How could a credit limit of $15,000 get sucked up so fast? Cilla wondered. But it had. And another tuition check was coming due.
She wrote two or three checks, then became impatient, tossing the rest of the bills back into the hand-painted wicker basket she kept them in. She wasn't exactly poor, Cilla told herself. She made $110,000 a year, much more than most women made. Her salary, in fact, put her in the top 1 percent for women.
Disgusted with herself for her spending habits, Cilla padded into the kitchen, where she prepared herself a glass of iced tea--sugarless, of course.
The ringing of the phone startled her as she was adding ice to the tall glass. Cilla stiffened, wondering if the caller was Lou. Lou slept poorly, and frequently worked at home until 2:30 or 3:00 A.M. He thought nothing of phoning his employees in the middle of the night to pick their brains or order them to do something. The asshole, Cilla thought, knowing her anger toward Lou was due to a lot more than just inconvenient phone calls.
The phone rang again, insistently. Cilla sighed, picking up.
"Hi, Mom," said her twenty-year-old daughter. "What's up?"
Dorm noises sounded in the background: the pound of music, the shrill of female voices. Albion was a small Methodist-affiliated college situated between Jackson and Battle Creek along 1-94, on a jewel-like campus studded with historic buildings and multimillion-dollar new buildings. A private college, it was one of the most expensive in the state. Even with Mindy's Cybelle employees' scholarship it cost more than $15,000 a year to keep her daughter there, but Cilla thought the expense well worth it. The placewas a relatively safe haven from the binge drinking, student riots and drugging that contaminated state-supported campuses.
"Oh, not much," said Cilla, pouring ice tea into a glass. "The usual, you know."
Mindy giggled. "Weight Watchers microwave dinners, huh? If they took away your microwave, Mom, you'd probably starve to death."
"Now, I cooked chicken this week."
"Really? Who made it, Stouffer's?"
"I got out the wok," said Cilla proudly. "Every bit of it was skinless, that's sixty percent lower in fat than chicken with the skin on."
Mindy seemed in a very good mood as she gave Cilla a long, detailed rundown on the classes she'd enrolled in and her new boyfriend, a junior named Dylan who came from Midland, a city about an hour and a half north of Detroit. Dylan had taken Mindy to a movie in nearby Jackson.
"Well, this Dylan sounds nice," said Cilla warmly.
"He is," said Mindy, giggling. "And he has a new Blazer that his parents let him drive. It's so cool."
"I hope he's a good driver," said Cilla, remembering certain incidents from her own college days at Michigan State.
They talked some more about Dylan, and then Mindy said, "So, who are you dating right now, Mom? Any more geeks like that one blind date you had? The one who let the waitress slip him her phone number?"
"A real charmer. I hope they're very happy."
They shared a laugh.
"Come on, Mom ...'fess up," insisted Mindy.
"I did get a phone call from a lawyer who works in Legal," Cilla finally admitted.
"Is he cute?"
"He's attractive enough," Cilla said, thinking of Shane's square jaw and deep blue eyes, the two dimples that scored his cheeks. Also his wide shoulders and firm buns, intriguinglyobvious even in the regulation business clothes he wore to work.
"Attractive enough?" Again Mindy giggled. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that he doesn't have a big beer gut and he hasn't got any really ugly facial moles. He still has most of his hair and his socks both match." This was the truth, certainly. She was just leaving out most of it.
"And where is he taking you?"
"To the St. Clair Inn, and then we're going out on Lake St. Clair, if the weather's good."
"Romantic."
"Not really."
"Does he like you, Mom?"
"I suppose, or he wouldn't have asked me to dinner."
"What's his name?"
"Shane Gancer," said Cilla, suddenly afraid that her daughter's next question was going to be Shane's age. "Look, Mindy, it's late and I'm still working on a report for Lou."
"Stupid Lou," said Mindy a bit sullenly. She had met Lou at a party Cilla had given last year and had not liked him.
"Yes, well, do you need any money?"
"Yeah, my checking balance is getting kinda low. And can I buy a new dress for the Delt fall mixer? And some shoes to go with it? My other shoes have a broken strap."
"They don't have a shoe repair place in Albion?" Cilla heard a sharpness in her voice and realized that something about this conversation had set her nerves on edge.
"Mom, when was the last time you got shoe repair? I need stuff. I can't keep wearing the same two dresses all of the time."
Cilla could sense an argument brewing, and she was too tired for it. She completed the financial arrangements, told Mindy to try to get something on sale, and hung up, feeling her heartbeat pounding irrationally fast.
She sat down at the table to sip her tea. She still felt edgy.
Finally she admitted to herself that the way Mindy had quizzed her about Shane had gotten on her nerves. Shane was twenty-four years younger than she was, and Cilla knew her daughter well enough to know that Mindy would be shocked, even angry at the age difference.
Cilla got up and rinsed out her iced tea glass, telling herself that she was worrying for nothing. In the first place, nothing permanent could possibly work out between her and Shane Gancer. Twenty-six-year-old men did not remain interested in fifty-year-old women ... not for more than one or two dates at the max.
So Mindy would never find out how old he was.
Cilla expelled her breath, feeling a sudden push of sadness.


By Wednesday, Karyn was settled into her new job. She had taken Raquel's advice about parking and had not lost her car again. She'd learned the shortcuts around the huge building, could now make her way down "Marble Walk," as the employees called the main, marble-floored hallway, as well as anyone. She explored the tiny, cluttered "ironing board room," with its ashtrays for clandestine smokes and handy back-door exit in case Lou ever came exploring. She'd already tried the ATM and visited the employee store where Cybelle workers could purchase clothing and houseware samples at incredibly low prices.
"Been doing a little shopping?" Raquel teased as Karyn walked back from the store lugging two huge sacks,
"I can't believe the bargains. I got this cute dress for Amber for only seven dollars."
"There are advantages to working here," declared Raquel smugly. Today, Raquel had swept her dark hair to one side of her face, securing it dramatically with a tortoiseshell comb. She wore a black-and-white dress that skimmed her petite, exquisite figure.
"This place is like a small town," marveled Karyn.
"Yeah--wait until you see the print shop. We do all our own printing. And there's a travel agency right here in the building. And a post office. They sort more mail here than some real towns. Oh, and HR has a computer over in their area. You can look up company job openings on it and see if you want to apply."
"I think I'll stay right here for now."
"Good, because I hated that other girl, Angela, who was here before you. She never sat with us for lunch, and she spent half the day on the phone making dates with guys."
"Why did she leave?" asked Karyn curiously.
"Oh, I don't know." Raquel looked away. "She was just a snot-face, that's all. And I don't think she liked us Hispanics too well, either. She was afraid some salsa might rub off on her or something," added Raquel, lifting her chin.


Cilla had set Karyn to doing a presentation in Power Point. Karyn enjoyed using the colorful software program, and experimented with several of the preset styles, pulling in graphics she had found on her computer's hard drive. She printed everything on the color printer. Karyn felt a surge of pride as she took the charts in and laid them on Cilla's desk.
"Why, these are gorgeous," Cilla exclaimed, pleased.
"Thank you." Karyn glowed. "I put in a few fly-in titles and a couple of other animations. You could look at them on my computer and see if you want to keep them for your presentation."
"Unfortunately, I'm not going to lug a computer to my meeting, but I'll be putting the presentation on overheads. Still, keep the animations in mind. I will want to use them sometime. Is everything going all right for you here, Karyn?" Cilla asked it almost anxiously, as if she thought Karyn might tell her it wasn't.
"Just great."
"No problems of any kind?"
"No, everything is fine. More than fine. I love it here."
Cilla seemed relieved. "Well, I don't have to worry about you then, do I? Look, Karyn, I've got about fourteen faxes I need you to send. If you have any trouble with the international codes, just ask Raquel to help you. International faxes can be tricky."
Standing in the fax room, Karyn was thrilled to discover that the faxes were to go to Paris, London and Tel Aviv, as well as Taiwan. These destinations seemed incredibly exotic to her.
Following Raquel's instructions about the international code, country and city codes, she began feeding papers into the machine.
Suddenly she heard footsteps, and before she could turn, someone had bumped into her back, colliding with her in such a way that their bodies touched. The other person's front hit against her right side, making nearly full-body contact.
"Oh!" Karyn jumped away, startled and annoyed at this too-personal contact. She had felt soft body parts ... .
"Sorry I ran into you. Are you almost done?"
Karyn looked up to see Lou Hechter standing there with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He was smiling at her, as if the collision had been totally unplanned but not all that unwelcome. "Hey, pardon my clumsiness. I get preoccupied when I'm in a hurry."
"It's all right," she said, wondering why he hadn't stopped to look before hurrying into the room like that.
"Since you're here, would you mind sending this for me? It's fifteen pages to London," said Lou. He handed her the papers, and Karyn had no choice but to take them. He was looking at the outfit she wore today, a dark blue twill skirt worn with a white shell and a melon-colored linen jacket.
"This is, let's see, J. C. Penney's, am I right?"
"Why, yes," she responded in surprise.
Lou's smile was triumphant. "See? I always can tell. Karyn, you're going to have to try to upgrade your clothes to the level of Cybelle," he went on firmly. "I know Penney's and Kmart are a lot cheaper, but they aren't what we are about. We have to set a fashion example here in our department."
"I'm afraid I have to buy the clothes I can afford."
"You look good in the Gemi line," he told her. "That's the line for you."
The expensive, sexy line, Karyn thought.
Lou left the room, and Karyn fumed as she bent over the fax machine, not feeling adventurous about it at all now. Was Lou going to put a rusty safety pin on her desk, the way Raquel had told her? She'd never received a comment at any of her other jobs about her attire being unacceptable and she resented it now.
To make matters worse, the number Lou had provided on his fax was incorrect. She kept getting some recorded message from a London operator. She was going to have to go back to him and ask him for the correct number, which she did not want to do right now while she was still simmering. She didn't want him to start thinking that she had an attitude.
She finished sending the rest of Cilla's faxes, then tried Lou's two more times, each time getting the same recorded message. Finally, Karyn walked down to Lou's office to ask him about the number.
"You just dialed it wrong," he told her brusquely.
"I keep getting a recorded message."
"If you'd followed my instructions, the fax would have gone through by now," Lou told her. He began waving her away as if she were an insect buzzing around his head. "Go--go--ask Raquel about it. She has the list of all my vendors. She'll check the number for you. It should have arrived fifteen minutes ago."




Karyn backed out of Lou's office feeling angry and humiliated. He was the one who'd given her the incorrect number, but now he was acting as if it were her fault.
She walked up to Raquel's desk and asked her to recheck the fax number.
Raquel grinned as she gave Karyn the correct number. "Lou always reads off the phone number, not the fax. Or he transposes the numbers. I think he's dyslexic. I keep a list of all the designers and companies Lou does business with, so if he gives you a fax number, just come to me, okay?"
Karyn smiled back, feeling a little better. "And my clothes," she added, pointing to the outfit she was wearing today.
"What's wrong with your clothes? That outfit's pretty."
"It's--Lou said--"
"Oh, don't pay any attention to Lou," said Raquel. "He's supposed to go upstairs for his weekly 'Up to Speed' meeting with Dom Carrara today. All. the vice presidents have to go. But Lou hates if, he used to be a big buddy of Vic Rondelli when he was CEO, and he doesn't like Dom."
"Hmm?" said Karyn, hoping to draw Raquel out.
"Oh, yeah, he and Dom are real rivals. But you know Lou wants to be the company president. Oh, yes," Raquel added as Karyn looked surprised. "Can you believe that? Sometimes I think, What if he really does it, what if he really makes it? Then I'll be the secretary of the company president." Raquel got up and began mincing around her alcove, putting on la-de-da airs. "Would you like some Oolong English tea, madam? Veddy good. And some, what are those things, crumpets?" She made her voice haughty. "Oh, I'm veddy sorry, but Mr. Hechter is in a meeting and won't be out for a year."
Karyn giggled. "You're funny, Raquel."
"I'd really like to be like Sondra Zapernick, though," the petite woman went on. "She's Dom Carrara's personal secretary.He brought her from New York when he came here; she's been with him for years. He doesn't rule this place, she does."
Karyn lingered at Raquel's desk, talking for a few minutes. There was something about Raquel's feisty good humor that made Karyn feel good.
Karyn was beginning to work on revisions of a letter for Cilla when Lou Hechter strode past her desk, heading in the direction of the main lobby. Lou no longer looked confident and smiling the way he had when he "bumped" into Karyn in the fax room. He now had a preoccupied expression on his face and was walking so fast that his tie flapped in the breeze.
Karyn couldn't help grinning to herself. Yeah, Lou looked edgy, all right. She guessed even vice presidents could receive pressure from above.
She wished she could be there to overhear his meeting with Dom Carrara.


Lou Hechter walked down the main corridor toward the lobby, where the executive elevator gave access to the fifth floor of the Executive Tower. Lou reached for a keypad and punched the elevator access code; the keypads had been installed last year when a deranged stockroom worker, employed in one of the department stores, had entered the building armed with a .45 revolver.
No longer could the president of a company like Cybelle peacefully go about his business. Instead, he was a potential target for crazies and disgruntled employees. However, Lou felt he could take all this in stride once he was settled in Dom's job. When Lou took over the reins, he would tighten security restrictions even further, and he certainly wouldn't keep that old bag, Sondra Zapernick, around. Dom Carrara's secretary had to be at least fifty-five, one of those old warhorses who had been around forever. She didn't even color her hair. Christ, even looking at her made Lou feel old.
In a few seconds the elevator had whispered up to the fifth floor, and the door slid open. Lou walked out and found himself facing a huge marble desk presided over by a pretty woman with silver hair attractively coifed in a modified wedge.
"Good morning, Sondra," Lou said, giving her a power smile. "I'm right on time, I assume."
"Yes, you are, but he's running a few minutes late," said Sondra. She was dressed in a dove-gray suit that brought out highlights in her short hair. "Would you mind taking a seat for a few minutes, Mr. Hechter? And would you like a cup of coffee while you're waiting? Or would you prefer tea?"
Lou glanced pointedly at his watch but finally sank into a leather-upholstered chair. "Black," he ordered grumpily. "Coffee."
In a few minutes. Sondra Zapernick had returned with a mug of steaming coffee. Lou didn't bother to thank her as he took it. She was a bitch, and he'd had run-ins with her before when she had tried to tell him that Dom Carrara was in a meeting when Lou knew damn well he wasn't.
Lou had nearly finished his coffee when a discreet buzzer rang at Sondra's desk, and she nodded at Lou, giving him a cool smile. "There. He can see you now, Mr. Hechter. Just go right in."
Lou left his cup on the coffee table, bounded up, and strode into Dom Carrara's office.
"Well, Lou," said Dom, who was sitting with a stack of reports, copies of the Wall Street Journal, USA Today, Women's Wear Daily, W, and other industry publications piled in front of him. "How are you this morning? Have a seat."
Lou sank into another leather chair, looking around him covetously. Hanging over Dom's credenza was a big oil painting of the original Cybelle department store. On another wall were dozens of eight-by-ten photographs showingCarrara with a whole roster of fashion designers, supermodels and politicians. Amber Valetta had her arm around Dom and was smiling into his eyes.
Shit, Lou thought. How did the guy do it? Everyone liked him. Several times a week Dom Carrara walked into the company cafeteria and sat at a table with the regular employees, talking with them as if they were equals.
Now Dom put aside a thickly bound report and looked straight at Lou. "Well, we have lots to talk about this week, don't we?" he said in a manner that Lou found faintly ominous.
"I'll say we do," began Lou. "I've got a new ad agency, Ruhnau Bravo, and I'm looking into a whole new advertising campaign. The theme is going to be 'Cybelle for the Glamour of It.' Doesn't that have a great ring? We're going to start running it around the holidays, and I'm betting it'll send holiday dresses through the roof. I'm very excited about this."
"Good. I want everything run past me first before any final decisions are made."
Lou didn't like being second-guessed.
"My campaign is going to go through the roof," Lou insisted. "Trust me on that. Too many people around here are dinosaurs," he added. "Afraid to think creatively, afraid to disturb the status quo. You know that's what happened to Kmart. They got a lot of old fogies in there, people who couldn't cut the mustard and didn't even want to try. They're still trying to struggle out from under."
Dom raised a silver eyebrow, smiling crookedly. "I think Kmart has successfully turned around its numbers. And 'cut the mustard,' Lou?"
Lou felt the color surge to his face as he realized he'd used an outdated phrase. "You know what I'm talking about," he forged on. "In this business if you're not leading the pack, you're running at the back with your nose up someone's asshole."
"Interesting analogy," said Carrara. He gazed at Lou with steely eyes. "All right, let's get to this sales report, let's talk about the numbers. And then we'll talk about that ad campaign of yours."
Forty minutes later Lou was in the elevator again, descending to the lobby. He'd been able to support all the figures, of course, and Carrara had approved the basic concept of the ad campaign.
Which was good. He was still cutting it around here, and then some. They'd better not discount Lou Hechter, not yet.


Raquel gave Karyn interesting tidbits of company gossip, including the fact that Roger Canton was divorced, with a ten-year-old daughter he seldom saw because she lived in California with her mother. "Lonely guy," hinted Raquel, giggling. "Ripe for the picking."
Karyn was beginning to realize that Cybelle was actually a hotbed of intrigue. Annie Fiacci, a designer, had also befriended Karyn, filling her in on some of the gossip about Raquel.
"She's a terrific secretary and she puts up with Lou, which ought to earn her double hazard pay. But ... well ..." Annie shrugged. "She's one of those women who won't take no for an answer. With men anyway."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, she has this ex-fiancé. Brett DiMaio. He dumped her last month but she refuses to admit it. She calls him about sixteen times a day on his voice mail. Leaves these love messages. And she goes up to his department all the time, at least she did until he told her to back off."
Karyn felt guilty for talking about Raquel this way. "Maybe they'll get back together."
"Dream on. I heard she was all over him, he couldn't even breathe. She's got this real hard-core Catholic family, you know? I mean, they're in church all the time. They pushher to get married and start having babies. That's the way those people are."
"What people?"
"Well, you know." Annie had the grace to look uncomfortable at her ethnic slur.
Karyn changed the subject, feeling disloyal to her new friend. No wonder Raquel had looked so sad in the cafeteria on that first day when she'd spotted her ex-fiancé across the room. But why was she still wearing an engagement ring if they'd broken it off?


"Don't forget we have a birthday party this afternoon," said Raquel around 11:00 A.M. "Annie. She's thirty-three. I'm running out on my lunch hour to buy the cake--do you want to come with me?"
Karyn felt a twinge of anger that Annie had called Raquel "those people" when Raquel was nice enough to collect money for and buy her a birthday cake.
Karyn and Raquel left the building and walked across the huge lot to Raquel's car, which was parked the closest. "Only one thing wrong with going out at noon," explained Raquel. "When you come back you really have to hike because you lose your parking space."
They drove to Sanford's Deli, which had an attached bakery with a glass window where customers could watch cakes being decorated. They had to stand in line for ten minutes before they could get the cake, and during that time Raquel began telling Karyn about her life. "My mother raised five of us girls waiting tables, usually working two jobs. Lots of times it was three jobs. My dad--he was gone by the time I was six. I learned to fight for what I wanted, though. I had to with four older sisters, and sometimes we didn't have enough food."
"Is your family still living in the area?" Karyn asked.
Raquel nodded. "Mama lives down in Ferndale in a little two-bedroom house that my sisters and I bought for her twoyears ago. Prices are low down there and it was all we could afford. Ana's my only sister who still lives around Detroit, though. Constanza and Neva are in L.A. now, and Mercedes is living in New York. She designs jewelry and I think she's gay and I know she doesn't go to mass. If Mama ever found out she would surely kill her."
"Are your other sisters married?"
"Yeah, big-time," said Raquel, grinning. "And trying to make me get that way, too. Well, I might just surprise them. When the time comes," she added, holding up the modest engagement ring that glittered on her left hand.


At 2:00 that afternoon, people were in the hallway conference room standing around a half-sheet cake with HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANNIE written on it in green frosting. Work in the department had slowed to a standstill, and almost everyone was packed into the room, with the exception of Lou Hechter and Cilla Westheim.
"That guy in Printing was a jerk again today," declared Raquel, scraping up a dollop of frosting with a plastic knife and putting it in her mouth. "You know, that guy who holds up the sheet of cardboard with the number on it when you walk past?"
"And what number did he give you, Raquel?" someone asked, laughing.
Raquel shrugged. "No number today. He was just making these licking sounds, you know, slurping with his tongue. Gross! Especially since he's got a tongue coated with white fur."
All the women laughed, a little hysterically.
"Everyone laughs, nobody reports the asshole," exclaimed Annie crossly.
"You first," Jenny said. "I don't want it in my employee folder. They'll think I'm a troublemaker."
The women began trading stories about on-the-job sexual shenanigans by men.
"At the job I had before this, I opened a supply closet door once and there was this salesman standing there with his pants down," said Renee Bugossi. "I shut it again on him and locked it. People had gone home for Good Friday and he didn't get out of there for three hours, when a security guard finally came by."
Howls of laughter.
There was a discreet knock on the conference room door. "I hope this is all business, people," said Cilla, looking in. She looked fantastic today in a long yellow skirt with a side slit, and a fitted yellow plaid jacket, coupled with high-heeled, strappy shoes. "Because you are having entirely too much fun for this to be legal."
The laughter died a little but didn't entirely stop. "Can I cut you a piece of cake, Cilla?" Karyn offered.
Cilla gazed at the cake with a mixed expression of longing and disgust.
"No, no, thanks. That butter cream frosting doesn't even reach my stomach; it goes directly to my hips. But I do need you to run down to the Travel Department and pick up my itinerary for that New York trip, Karyn. When you've finished your cake, of course."


As Karyn walked back into the department forty minutes later she could hear Lou's raised voice.
Suddenly, Raquel burst out of his office, her chin held defiantly high. The petite woman marched over to her alcove and sat down at her computer, staring at it with a grim expression. Her glossy, black hair seemed to quiver with indignation.
"Are you all right?" asked Karyn, going over to her.
"I'm just peachy fine. Just peachy. Mr. Vice President is on the rampage, that's all. He kills secretaries and eats them raw. But he's going to choke on me."
They could still hear Lou, speaking loudly now to someone else on the speakerphone.
Raquel grabbed her mouse, clicked on the Excel icon, and then, when the spreadsheet appeared on the screen, glared at it as if it were a dead snake. The chart, Karyn couldn't help noticing, had been named Loucrap.xls.
"Loucrap. It has a nice ring to it," Karyn dared to say. "Rather ... emphatic."
Raquel glanced at her startled, and then started to giggle. Karyn laughed, too, and then they were both doubled over, laughing and gasping. They tried to stifle their screams of merriment, and that only made them laugh harder. In a minute, Lou himself was going to hear them.
"Loucrap," gasped Karyn, dissolving in mirth again.
"Too funny," Raquel gasped. "Too, too funny. Oh, Karyn, I'm sb glad you came to work here."


Cilla had closed her office door but she could still hear Lou shouting at Raquel, with the secretary giving back as good as she got. Lou should be damn grateful for her, Cilla thought in irritation, instead of badgering her. Raquel practically ran the department, and on more than one occasion the tiny, 4'9" woman had saved Lou's ass, stopping him from making a costly error.
There was a sudden silence in Lou's office, and she realized he'd ended his phone conversation. When her own phone started to ring, Cilla felt her gut squeeze.
The phone shrilled again, and Cilla's hand reluctantly moved to pick up the receiver.
"Cilla," said a familiar deep whisper. "Meet me."
"Lou, I have two meetings this afternoon," she responded stiffly.
"Cancel them."
"These aren't cancellable."
"Who do you think you are, Edsel Ford II? Any meeting is cancellable. Just get your butt out of here and meet me in our regular place. I'll join you in about twenty minutes."
He hung up on her.
Cilia's gorge rose, and she sat very still at her desk, fighting a sudden urge to throw up. Desperately her eyes darted around her office. Oh, Jesus ... she really was going to toss her cookies. How had this nightmare started? And how was she going to get out of it?
She swallowed, feeling perspiration cover her skin in a heavy sheen. But finally the urge to vomit passed, and she again reached for the phone, telling Karyn to cancel her two meetings.
When this was taken care of, Cilla gathered up her purse and walked down to the ladies' room, where she washed her face with a dampened paper towel. Oh, shit. Oh, hell. It was happening again, the nightmare. Each time Cilla thought it would be the last time, only it never was.
She walked briskly out of the building, nodding at Cherise, the security guard at the #2 door, as she went past.
"Great suit," commented Cherise, cheerful as always. Cilla had never seen Cherise in a bad mood.
"Thanks. It's one of our samples."
"Wish they had samples in a size twenty," lamented the black woman.
Then Cilla was descending the steps toward the pedestrian walkway, walking into a blindingly sunny September afternoon. Gentle, moist breezes tugged at Cilla's auburn hair, ruffling her bangs. The sun was like a kiss on her face.
Grimly she walked toward the back forty, where she had left her car. Somehow the wonderful fall day only made it all worse. Had she remembered to put a couple of latex condoms in her purse? She'd learned from hard experience always to carry one, along with a diaphragm. Although her periods were now irregular, it was still possible for her to turn up pregnant.
Lou, she thought in despair. You bastard. Why do you do this to me? What are you trying to prove?




The Auburn Hilton was a luxe high rise located about six miles away in Auburn Hills, serving the massive Daimler-Chrysler Corporation Headquarters as well as other Fortune 500 companies located in the burgeoning area. The hotel had a number of meeting rooms as well as several bars and restaurants. If Cilla and Lou were seen there, they could always say they had a business meeting. Fortunately, the facility was seldom used by people from Cybelle, who preferred a hotel only a block away from the headquarters building.
Cilia walked up to the desk and gave Lou's name, registering herself as Mrs. Lou Hechter. As always, the deception turned her stomach. But his wife would never see the bill. It went on Lou's personal American Express card.
The room this time was on the fifth floor.
She took the elevator up and began walking down the carpeted, impersonal hallway lined with doors. Someone had left a room service tray sitting on the floor. Sometimes, Cilia dreamed about this corridor, or one like it, and woke up covered with hot flash sweat.
The first time this had happened was three years ago, when Lou had insisted she join him here in the bar for a drink. It was right in the middle of Cilla's painful divorce, her husband leaving her for a much younger woman who dressed and looked like a Playboy bunny. A very tough blow for a woman who was then forty-seven years old. Cilia had suffered a tremendous blow to her self-confidence.
In fact, she'd been depressed as hell. However, Lou had been upbeat and jovial, complimenting her, talking shop with her, buying her drinks, telling her she was better-looking than Candice Bergen. Telling her she had legs like Tina Turner. That's why he insisted the women in the department wear skirts all the time, he admitted. He was a leg man.
Recklessly she'd drunk three Manhattans, two more than her usual limit. And when Lou had suggested they go upstairsto a room ... well, he had hit Cilla at a very weak point.
The truth was she'd just wanted to prove that she, too, could still get a partner. And Lou wasn't repulsive; in fact he was attractive--for a man in his fifties.
The sex was unmemorable--or maybe it was just that Cilla'd been too drunk to remember much of it.
However, driving home that night, she'd started sobering up, fast. What had she been doing? She didn't even like Lou very much, and here she'd given her body to him. She had vowed that she would never let it happen again.
What a major, big-time mistake, Cilla thought now, pacing the well-appointed hotel room like a lioness in a cage at the zoo. From the first, Lou had assumed that their relationship was going to be a continuing thing. When she tried to tell him it wasn't, he'd gotten tough on her, telling her that her job was in his hands.
And, of course, at that time Cybelle had been going through a reorganization under Vic Rondelli, and heads were rolling. Over five hundred people had been early-retired or let go. High-salaried managers on Cilla's level were the main targets. Fire someone who made $95,000, hire someone else who would work for $45,000. Or just not bother to fill the position at all.
She'd seen people walking down the hall carrying boxes and crying. Plus, Lou himself liked nothing better than to ax a few heads, most on the spur of the moment without even bothering to go through Human Resources except to announce to them what he had done. She knew he would do it to her ... .
She heard a sound at the door. As usual, her heart squeezed sharply inside her chest. Then Lou let himself into the room.
"Well," he said impatiently. "Didn't you order something from room service?"
"Sorry, I just got here," said Cilla, stretching her lips inwhat might pass for a smile. "What do you want, Lou?"
"Forget it," he snapped. "We'll send for drinks later. Why are you wearing that damn long skirt? Haven't I told you a hundred times that I like you in above-the-knee skirts?"
"Hemlines change."
"Bullshit," said Lou, his tone aggressive. "You just don't want to please me, that's all. You never did, Cilla."
Cilla stood with her hands fisted at her sides, trying to shut Lou's hectoring voice out of her ears.
Suddenly, Lou was standing close to her, and she saw something silvery flash in front of her. Startled, she glanced down and saw that Lou was waving a pair of gold sewing scissors.
"Lou!" she exclaimed, jumping back.
"Don't get in an uproar, it's just the scissors out of my desk drawer. Trust me, I'm not going to hurt you."
"But ... scissors, Lou?"
He snapped the scissors in the air a few times, snip-snip-snip. "I just want to pretend a little, that's all. Fantasize. So humor me."
"Lou, what are you talking about?"
"Just stand there, Cilla. Yeah ... don't move. Look like a beautiful statue for a couple of minutes, yeah, I know you can manage that ... ."
Lou bent over.
He was cutting away the bottom half of her skirt.
"Lou! Lou!" She uttered a horrified little scream, jumping back.
"Stand still, Cilla, will you? This is just my little game, my little fantasy," Lou murmured, moving in on her again. "I started wondering what it would be like to have a woman standing there while I cut her clothes off her ... every stitch she's wearing. Every stitch, Cilla," Lou whispered.
He had gone psycho on her, that had to be it. Or else he'd read some porno magazine and now wanted to play out the fantasy with her. The scissors' blades made a metallic,snipping sound. He was now slicing through the side seam of her expensive skirt, peeling her as if she were a banana.
"No," she groaned. "My clothes. Lou ... no, Lou, please ... oh, God, don't do this.:.."
"Stand still, stand still, oh, Jesus," he muttered, continuing to cut. Scraps of yellow dropped to the floor. Cilla's skirt fell. Lou slid off her jacket, then began cutting away at the silk shell she wore. He snipped off her lacy Olga bra. The blades slid under the waistband of her panty hose, next to her skin.
"Lou--Lou--"
"I'm not going to hurt you, Cilla. Trust me."
Standing there naked and vulnerable, she struggled not to cry.
"Lou ... Lou ... Lou ..." she kept whispering. "My clothes ... How will I go back to work?"
"They have a shop down in the lobby. Get on the bed, Cilla."
She could feel herself beginning to move into her robotlike mode as she obediently moved to the bed.
She wouldn't participate anymore; she wouldn't feel, or hear, or see.
She would be very far away, lying in the surf at Big Sur, and what happened would not be happening to her but to her body, which wasn't Cilla at all but a plastic sex doll.
"How was that, huh, baby? Was that good?" Lou asked after a frenzied two minutes, during which Cilla held on and thought about all the bills she had to pay, making a mental list of them and then pretending she was writing out checks. "God, this was the best it's ever been. The supreme, the total supreme."
She drew in a long, quivering breath. Her relief that it was over was intense. She pulled away from him and sat up, wrapping a sheet around her. Her genitals burned from lack of foreplay and the unwanted penetration. Sometimesthey stung for hours afterward. She had never told her gynecologist about this and she never would.
"I'm going to call down to the shop in the lobby and have some clothes sent up," she told Lou. "And I'm going to charge it to the room, Lou."
"Go ahead," he said, zipping his pants shut. He hadn't even bothered to undress. "Meanwhile, I'm going down to the bar, get myself something. I'll see you back at the office--and don't be too late."
Cilla felt a sudden, wild spurt of rage at the way he was treating her, like she was his private prostitute. She'd had enough ... more than enough. She didn't know who she hated more, herself or him.
"I've seen you looking at that new secretary, Karyn," she blurted recklessly. "Lou, you're starting it again, aren't you, that thing you do with certain assistants."
"What 'thing' is that?" said Lou.
"You know what," Cilla dared to say. "It's going to keep on escalating, isn't it? Until she's forced to quit like your other victims. Well, I'm not going to tolerate it this time. I like Karyn. I need a good secretary, and I'm going to keep her--"
Lou's face reddened. Suddenly he pounced on her, throwing Cilla back onto the bed. He had tough, stringy muscles, and his fingers were like claws, pressing into her forearms.
"Shut up, Cilla, don't you know when not to talk?"
"Lou--Lou--you're hurting me."
"You are mine. I made you, Cilla. I made you what you are. Is the price you pay all that bad?"
"Lou ..."
"Is it?"
"Let me up. How dare you manhandle me like this."
"Don't I give you a good fuck? Isn't that what all you women want, a good fuck?" With every word, Lou pinched Cilla's arms for emphasis. "Well, let me tell you this, sweetheart. You are going to keep your mouth shut about anythingwe do, and if I find out you've said even one word, well, you're going to be packing your desk in sixty seconds flat."
Lou sprang off the bed, adjusted his clothes, examined himself in the dresser mirror and combed his hair, then left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Cilla lay trembling, rubbing her upper arms, which were going to have finger bruises. Tears burned out of her eyes. Then slowly she sat up, beginning to take control of her life again.
She picked up the scraps of her clothes and dumped them in a wastebasket. The jacket was still wearable. Everything else had been trashed. She phoned down to the lobby dress shop, requesting that the clerk bring her up a skirt and shell in her size, plus some hosiery. She used the credit card to charge the garments, adding on a generous tip, and told the clerk just to leave them inside her door. That way she'd avoid the shame of having the woman see that Lou had cut her clothes off.
The incident with Lou was over, finished for now. And it might not happen again for a month or more, depending on Lou's mood. By then she would have worked up her courage to stop him.
This time, she vowed, she'd manage it.


Karyn spent an enjoyable hour in the ironing room, pressing some beautiful, lace-trimmed cotton blouses, made by one of the smaller New York design houses, that would retail for over $200 apiece. They were all in her size and she wished she could try them on. She wondered if these would actually end up in Cybelle's department stores or if she would see them later in the employees' store, sold as samples.
Back at her desk, she was checking out her E-mail when she glanced up to see Cilla Westheim returning from wherever she had been. Karyn gazed at her supervisor insurprise. Cilla was wearing a different skirt than the one she'd had on-this morning. The skirt was beige, not very flattering, and it looked like hell with the jonquil plaid jacket. Also, Cilla had added a beige silk shell, instead of the pale lemon one she'd had on before. The total effect was drab instead of striking.
Karyn drew in her breath. Had her supervisor had some sort of accident? But of course she would never dare ask Cilia why she had on a different outfit; it would be incredibly rude.
"Hold all of my calls, Karyn," Cilla said to her in a muffled voice. "I've got to crash on a couple of things. And you don't have to stay late, just go home at your regular time."
Karyn watched her boss go into her office and close the door.
Thoughtfully she returned to the E-mail program. Karyn had worked only a few more minutes when her phone rang.
"I managed to get your extension from Raquel. They don't have it in the directory yet." The voice was male and warm-sounding, vaguely familiar.
"Who is this?"
"Roger Canton. I was the guy who helped you scoop your lunch up off the floor on Tuesday. I hope it didn't do any lasting damage to your clothes."
Karyn's heart started racing nervously.
"No, I managed to wash everything off," she told him.
"I've been looking for you in the lunchroom," said Roger.
"Have you? Well, I've been going at different times. Lots of times we go early. And I have to work my lunches around Cilla."
"Maybe you could work one around me."
"What?" Karyn gripped the phone. He was asking her to lunch! And all she could do was say "What?" like a fool.
"There's a very nice Mexican restaurant right across the street from the company; we can walk over there. Theymake great fajitas and you can get served in forty minutes. Want to try it on Monday?"
"I ..." Karyn started to stammer, then clamped her mouth shut and started over again. "I don't know if I'm ready to date yet," she told Roger. "I mean, I've only been divorced for a few months."
"My divorce has been final for a year. Look, Karyn, this isn't really a date, it's just lunch. Lots of people from Cybelle go over to Hernando's all the time; the cafeteria gets pretty boring after a while and a change feels good. We can meet in the lobby if you want, at eleven forty-five and walk across."
Maybe she needed a little fun, Karyn told herself. And Roger was right, cafeteria lunches got to be "been there, done that" very fast.
"All right," she agreed.
"Good. I'll meet you by the fountain in the front lobby. Monday, now don't forget."
Karyn hung up.
A date. No, not a date. Lunch. How long ago was it since she'd done that? Years and years ago, when she and Mack first started dating, he'd taken her to lunch a couple of times. She couldn't even remember.


"Well?" said Raquel at quitting time. It was Friday afternoon, and not much work had been accomplished in the department as the younger, single employees were busy planning their weekends. "I don't suppose you have time to go somewhere and have a drink with me?"
Karyn was in the process of exiting from the Windows 97 program. She glanced at Raquel, surprised. "I'd love to, only I can't stay too long. I have to cook supper for Amber."
"No big plans?"
"Just watching a video on the VCR."
"I know a place just around the corner," said Raquel. Her dark eyes sparkled. "And right next door is this greatroasted chicken place, so on the way out you can buy dinner. All kids love chicken, right?"
Karyn laughed. "Yeah ... . Well, I guess I can. And I'll bring some back for Jinny Caribaldi so she won't be mad at me because I was late."
Karyn made a phone call to her sitter, who was delighted at the prospect of not having to cook dinner, and then she and Raquel walked out of the building together, joining the thousands of employees exiting the Cybelle complex.
It took them nearly twenty minutes to make it to the little bar called Klancy's, and by the time they got there the place was filled with wall-to-wall, bodies, most of them Cybelle employees.
There was no place to sit, but tiny Raquel managed to shoulder her way to the bar and return with two glasses of beer, and then a couple of men vacated a small, high bar table, so the two women grabbed it for themselves.
"Did you catch Cilla's change of outfit today?" Raquel inquired.
"Yeah ..."
"You think she spilled her lunch or what?"
"Maybe," said Karyn loyally. "You know how yellow shows everything."
"Right," muttered Raquel.
They talked for a while, Raquel gossiping about various people at Cybelle.
Finally, Raquel began talking about her "fiancé," telling Karyn about how she had become engaged. "I had to keep dropping hints," she confessed. "Like, I'm a good Catholic girl and I can't live with a guy, it's against my religion. Finally we went out to dinner at Mountain Jack's. He gave me my ring in a glass of ice water, isn't that cute?"
"Yeah."
"I nearly drank it all down before I saw the ring and then I just screamed. I cried so hard that a waitress had to bring me Kleenex."
Karyn shifted uncomfortably, remembering what Annie had told her about Raquel and Brett breaking up. She couldn't help staring at the ring on Raquel's finger, wondering if Annie had been wrong. Maybe they were back together now, and Annie just hadn't heard.
She told Raquel that Mack had asked her to marry him in the car one night after they'd been making out. "Not very romantic, I guess. But Mack wasn't big on romance. I was pregnant six weeks after we got married."
Raquel nodded. "Yeah ... the pregnancy thing. That scares me so much. I use three kinds of birth control when I'm with Brett. The pill, the condom and foam. And even then I worry. In my family, you're supposed to be a virgin when you marry, see? And birth control is a sin. So I'm really a sinner, huh? My sister Ana thinks I'm awful."
Finally, Karyn excused herself, saying she had to stop and buy the chicken, then go home.
"Hey, it's been great," said Raquel. "But I gotta go now, too--I've got to call my honey, see what he's up to."
Raquel was smiling brilliantly, every inch the happy, engaged bride-to-be.


Most of the department's employees had gone home over an hour ago. The PA system had stopped playing its usual elevator music, and Cilla could hear the roaring of a vacuum cleaner and floor polisher coming from somewhere down the hall. Several of the maintenance workers were laughing and joking.
She sat in her office, still trying to regain her composure after her nightmare afternoon with Lou Hechter.
Please, God, she prayed. Don't let it be repeated.
What was she going to do with this awful beige skirt and shell she'd purchased at the hotel shop? She hated beige. She would throw it out, she decided. After all, it was Lou's dollar, not hers.
Cilla forced herself to start reading a big stack of reports,and had gotten halfway through a mall-intercept survey when her phone rang.
"Well, Cilla, are you ready for our date tonight?"
"Tonight?" she squeaked. "Oh, lord."
"Don't tell me you forgot," said Shane Gancer, sounding crestfallen.
"No," said Cilla, breathing fast. "I didn't forget, I was just crunching at work: A million projects. I have to go home and change, shower, and then I'll drive over there to the lake."
Cripes, she was thinking. Lake St. Clair was an hour-and-a-half drive away. In rush hour traffic, with M-59 slowed by more construction, it could easily take her closer to two hours. Why had he suggested a place so far off? Right now she'd settle for something within ten minutes' drive of her condo. In fact, she'd be perfectly happy if she'd never even had the foolish impulse to say yes to his dinner invitation. She must have been totally out of her mind to agree to going out with a man so much younger than herself.
"I could pick you up," he suggested. "It would be much more fun if the two of us rode over there together; we could sort of talk along the way."
What she should really do was postpone this whole fiasco, Cilla thought. She was tired, and the ugly session with Lou that afternoon had drained her. She no longer felt like being adventuresome with a younger man.
"Or we can go somewhere closer to where you live," suggested Shane. "Then we wouldn't have to battle major gridlock. I know a little nightclub that just opened on Rochester Road. They've got a really great band. Top forty stuff," he added. "Not industrial or anything like that."
Cilla stifled a groan. Dance? But at least it wouldn't take them two hours to get there.
"All right, let's try it," she heard herself say.
"Great!" The enthusiasm in his voice speared her. He didn't sound tired at all. In fact, he sounded almost obnoxiouslybubbly and "up" as if he'd just been the forty-ninth caller on a rock radio station. But, hell, he was twenty-six, Cilla told herself wearily. Twenty-six-year-olds had enthusiasm for everything. They never got tired. It was nothing for them to work all day and dance all night.
She hadn't planned on going to a club. She'd heard Mindy talking about some music called "industrial" but had no idea what it was. Oh, he'd said they didn't have it. Still, what was she going to wear?
"I'm really looking forward to seeing you," said Shane Gancer, sounding eager.


"So," said Raquel's older sister, Ana, later that night. Ana had stopped by Raquel's apartment with a basket of homemade tortillas and some brownie squares. With her she'd brought her youngest child, Tonio, a chubby, adorable six month-old, who sat in his baby carrier seat bubbling spit out of his mouth and cooing.
"So how you been doing, sister? We never see you. Guess you don't want to be around your family anymore."
"It isn't that," said Raquel, flushing. If Ana only knew.
"Mama's been making remarks--well, you know how she gets. She says she bets you don't even go to church anymore, either. You missing mass, Raquel?"
"A couple of times," admitted Raquel sullenly.
Her sister went on. "What's the matter, you stay out too late to get up in the morning? Why don't you and Brett just go to the Saturday night services like we do? Then you can sleep in all you want."
"Ana--"
"Missing mass is a sin," insisted her sister, pressing her full lips together. "If Mama and I don't remind you, who will? Living in this apartment like this ... where's your roommate?"
"She's at her boyfriend's," responded Raquel tightly.
"And I can imagine what she's doing, huh? When yougive it to a man before marriage then why should he stick around and stand in front of the priest with you, huh, Raquel?" Ana shook her head. "You'd be better off, come back and live with Mama down in Ferndale. The house, it isn't much, but at least you wouldn't be tempted to sin." Ana paused significantly. "By the way, where is Brett?"
Raquel stared hotly at her older sister. "Why do you ask, Ana? Don't you know that they're asking the same thing about your husband, Fred? Where's Fred on Friday nights? Is he over at the lodge playing pool? Is he--"
Ana reached down and picked up the baby boy, who began to squirm in her arms, wailing as he sensed the changed mood of the two women. "You don't know nothing about Fred. You think life is all sweetness and pleasure, you can do what you want when you want. Well, that's not the way it is. There are rules to follow, God's rules. I follow them. So does my husband. We have a happy marriage under God. And you should be looking to have that, too. Where is Brett, Raquel? Mama heard them talking at church. They said they saw him with another girl."
"They did not!" Raquel cried in horror.
"Jeanetta Barclay and Maria Fernandez, they were having lunch at Chi Chi's and they saw him with her. It wasn't no business lunch, Raquel. They were sitting real close and they kissed," said her sister in a loud voice.
Raquel slumped in her chair. Waves of hot and cold traveled through her body, and her stomach twisted so violently she thought she might vomit.
"You're still wearing his ring," said Ana after a long moment.
"Yeah--I am." Raquel quickly recovered herself. "And we're still engaged, Ana ... we're still getting married. We just had a fight, that's all."
"You'd better get that man back again, Raquel. Before it's too late." Ana looked at Raquel with moist eyes. "I know I come down hard on you, but Mama sent me hereand I had to say it. You gotta get him back. We all love you, Raquel. Really. We just want what's best for you."
Raquel felt sick after Ana left, almost too ill to move. She stumbled to the living room couch and threw herself down on it, listening to the heavy, panicked thump of her heart.


Cilla was an expert at putting Lou out of her mind. She wasn't sure how she did it, she just knew that she could shove him into a tiny compartment of her brain, chaining him in with heavy chains and locking two or three padlocks. When she had finished locking him up, he no longer existed for her. That was the way it had to be.
By the time Cilla stood under a shower for the third time that day--once in the morning, once in the hotel room, and now, getting ready for her date--she started to feel better.
She hadn't danced in--when? A year? The last time a date had taken her dancing, he'd been so out of condition that he was puffing and panting after two fast songs and kept begging her to return to their table and rest. Yes, and he'd been fifty-eight years old.
She wondered how long Shane Gancer could dance. She'd bet it was an entire set without stopping.
Cilia stepped out of the shower and began rubbing body lotion over herself to soften her skin, which tended to be dry. Of course, he probably wanted to get her in bed, Cilla thought, her mood dropping a notch.
But she caught it before it descended too far. She certainly didn't have to sleep with Shane; in fact, she had absolutely no intention of doing so.
Sex was very low on Cilla's list of priorities right now. Not that it had ever been that high.
The bathroom was steamed up, and even the face of her little Cartier watch was befogged, but when Cilla picked it up and glanced at it, she was first galvanized, then panic stricken. Christ, it was already 7:50. Shane was going to bethere in ten minutes and she was totally naked, her hair dripping.


"You look beautiful," said Shane Gancer, gazing deeply at Cilia across the dinner table. He wore a black silk shirt and light tie, with pleated black trousers, his hair combed straight back from his face. He looked wonderful. He added, "I mean, you are gorgeous, you remind me of Sharon Stone."
Sharon Stone? Cilla had met Sharon personally and knew there was absolutely no resemblance.
"Thank you," she said demurely, stifling a laugh. Fortunately, he'd been twenty minutes late, giving her time to mousse and dry her hair, and climb into a slim black silk jumpsuit she'd found at Nordstrom's last week. It had a sexy, low neckline and a little half-attached vest covered with silver soutache embroidery. With it she wore a pair of Mindy's shoes that her daughter had forgotten to take back to college with her. High heels, clunky and saucy.
In fact, she'd better get the good out of the jumpsuit now, because as soon as Mindy spied it, it would probably end up in a suitcase on the way back to Albion.
The nightclub was getting crowded, every table filled. Most of the people, Cilla couldn't help noticing, were twenty-somethings. Cilla found herself searching the restaurant, looking for couples who might be around her own age. She felt a stab of relief when she finally spotted a couple on the other side of the room who looked to be in their late thirties. God, was Cilla the oldest person in the room?
She wrenched her mind away from the idea.
They looked over the menus. Cilla had been afraid that Shane would start talking about rock groups, but instead he began making conversation about the latest congressional scandal. She began to relax a little; at least she wouldn't be forced to admit that she got all of her information about current rock groups from her twenty-year-old daughter.
Their meals came, shrimp-and-vegetable stir-fry for her, and grilled ahi tuna for Shane. Shane started telling her about some of the Thai dishes he had learned to prepare from a law school roommate who had come from Bangkok.
"You cook?" Cilla had just assumed that men of Shane's age lived on pizza, tacos and fast food. Lord, she was making all sorts of assumptions about him that weren't even true.
"Love it. And I've been jumping since I was seventeen."
"Jumping?"
"Sky diving."
Cilla laughed, gazing at Shane and totally reassessing him. "You sky dive? Really?"
"Cilla, there is a moment when you have just jumped and you're freefalling through space and the plane has moved faraway from you. The sky overhead is this incredible, deep blue. Everything around you suddenly becomes awesomely quiet. I call it the blue silence. It's something you just have to experience."
"Blue silence. That's a wonderful phrase."
"It's a wonderful experience. You'll have to jump with me sometime, Cilla."
"Whoa," she said. "Me?"
Shane's face lit up. "You would love it. It's awesome."
"Oh, I couldn't."
"Yes, you could. Everyone is terrified their first time, but then that moment happens, and it's all worth it."
Cilla nodded, picturing herself crouched at the lip of some open hatch at the edge of the sky, screaming and begging to be taken back to earth. Probably wetting her pants as she swung from a harness four thousand feet up. She couldn't afford to be that crazy; she had a daughter to support, a job to do. Did Shane really want her to risk her life for some "awesome" experience? Did all of his girlfriends jump with him? But, of course, she wasn't going to be his girlfriend.




The band turned out to be an all-girl rock band who had opened for Salt 'N Peppa. They were curvaceous black women dressed in spandex and glitter, and they did two entire sets without one slow song.
The dance floor was jammed with dancers, everyone elbow to elbow, butt to butt. Cilla was astonished to see what an easy, fluid dancer Shane was, and also how tireless he was. And sexy. Oh, that, too.
By the end of the second set, Cilla thought she would be tired, but her adrenaline had kicked in, and she felt as fresh and energetic as all of the other women who were boogying. Her sessions with the aerobic videos had paid off. She was here with a good-looking man; she was keeping up with him, having a wonderful time.
"You are something," remarked Shane as he walked her back to their table while the band took a break. "Every man on that floor was looking at you."
Cilla could hardly believe this; some of the women had been only a year or two older than Mindy.
"The music is great," she responded, deflecting the compliment.
"You're great. I mean that. So classy-looking. You just look like class, Cilla."
"Shane--"
"Oh, I know, I'm coming on way too strong, but it's the way I am. We resonate together; I feel it, don't you? On that dance floor we are dynamite." The way he said it, Cilla knew Shane was implying they'd also be dynamite somewhere else.
Whoa, she thought. But wasn't she also enjoying this a great deal?
They spent the band break talking about themselves. Or rather, Cilla kept the conversation on Shane. She wasn't ready to tell him that she had a twenty-year-old daughter and had been already thirty when she gave birth.
Shane had two young nephews whose father had died ina plane crash at Selfridge Air National Guard Base during practice maneuvers. The boys lived in Chicago now. He regularly visited. He liked children, Cilla realized, feeling a small pang.
"I suppose you plan to have a family of your own someday," she began.
He looked at her. "Why do you say it like that, Cilla? I haven't got a mad urge to have a dozen children, no, if that's what you're thinking. I have a feeling I'll never have children, but it doesn't really bother me as long as I have Jeffie and Kurt. They're my children, really."
She looked down at the table top, feeling another surge of the same discomfort she'd felt when he first asked her out. Good heavens, she was at the end of child-bearing age. Yes, a few women of fifty-five or sixty had borne children, but they'd had to be pumped full of hormones--and didn't they use some other woman's eggs?
Suddenly her feeling of vibrancy about the evening evaporated. She was having a great time dancing, sure, but she was just fooling herself if she thought it could ever be more than that.
On the way home, Shane chatted cheerfully about the band, who he said had played in Ann Arbor when he'd been a student.
Gradually, Cilla became quieter and quieter. Yes, she'd kept up with younger women, and she supposed she was "classy," as he said, but ...
"I had a really superlative time," said Shane, pulling his Ford Explorer onto the driveway apron of Cilla's condo. He leaned across the gearshift and gave her a soft, searching kiss. His breath tasted as sweet as a slice of watermelon.
"I ... I really should get inside," Cilla mumbled, terrified he would want to come in with her.
"I know; I've got to get up early tomorrow and catch a flight to O'Hare," he told her. "I'm visiting my two nephews this weekend."
Cilla started; after all that sexiness on the dance floor she'd expected him to try to put the make on her, not to inform her he had to fly to Chicago. Every time she made an assumption about him, he surprised her.
"Good night," she whispered, opening the passenger door and stepping down out of the vehicle. Men she knew didn't generally drive sport utility vehicles.
Shane got out and walked her to the door. He didn't touch her again. "I'll call you."
Cilla looked at him, nodding, and then she fumbled in her purse for her house keys, in her nervousness dropping them on the pavement.
Grinning, Shane bent over and picked them up, handing them to her.
"For you, my lady."
She found herself looking into his eyes, seeing the kind, good humor there. And suddenly she was smiling back.
"My daughter is twenty," she blurted. "And I was thirty when I had her. Which makes me fifty, Shane."
His smile gentled. "You were born in, when, 1949?"
"Yes."
"A very good year, 1949. A vintage year for women."
He waved to her and was gone.


For Raquel, the weekend stretched on forever, endless chunks of time she was unable to fill satisfactorily. Her roommate, Heather, was staying most of the time at her boyfriend's now, and they were talking about living together, which meant Heather would be moving out soon and Raquel would have to find someone else to share the rent.
Raquel spent Saturday morning sleeping, her head hunched into the pillow as she tried to forget that Brett wouldn't return her phone messages and wasn't home anymore, was probably with a woman.
They'd seen him with her, seen them kissing ... .
Was it serious? Was he falling in love with this otherperson? Maybe it was just a casual thing, Raquel tried to tell herself. Maybe even a one-night stand Although Raquel didn't believe in promiscuity, for once she hoped that's all it was.
At 1:30 P.M. she finally dragged herself out of bed and phoned Brett at home, but of course, all she got was the machine again. Raquel left several messages, but her voice faltered. She really needed to see him in person.
She went shopping at Somerset, buying herself a clingy silk sweater, which she put on to wear on the drive over to Brett's house, just in case she'd find him home. Wrong. He wasn't there, and the plant hanging on the porch was beginning to droop slightly from lack of water, a sign Raquel didn't like at all.
She pulled into the neighbor's driveway and told a middle-aged woman that she was Brett's fiancee and was worried about him because he hadn't been home in several days. Had the neighbor seen his car in the driveway? Would she tell Brett that Raquel had been asking about him?
"Honey, I don't keep track of my neighbors' comings and goings," the woman told her kindly but firmly. "Call and leave a message on his answering tape, why don't you, and I'm sure he'll call you back when he can."
Raquel left, disconsolate. When she'd been seeing Brett their weekends had always been packed with activities. The comedy clubs down in Royal Oak, dance clubs, concerts, going to the Mongolian Barbecue, the movies, taking in the Auto Show at Cobo Hall, or doing things with his or her family.
Now what was she supposed to do?
She ended up going to her health club, working out on the exercise bike, then taking an aerobics class. Then she bought herself a sandwich at a restaurant the two of them had frequented, hoping she'd see him. She did this both Saturday and Sunday.
She had never felt so lonely and abandoned in her life.




"Morning ... . Good morning ... . Jim ... . Good morning ... . Hey, Raquel ... . Good morning ... ." Cherise, the security guard, was glancing at employee cards, greeting the hundreds of people who thronged past her on their way in to begin another Monday at Cybelle.
Raquel waved at her friend, then continued on down the marble walk, heading toward the center tower of the building instead of to the Fashion Department. Lou had a meeting this morning and wouldn't even notice she was late, and she just had to try to see Brett, even for two minutes.
Raquel boarded an elevator with a surge of arriving workers, riding up to the third floor, where she turned right, left, right again, progressing through a maze of cubicles, and rooms opening into other rooms. Around seventy women sat elbow-to-elbow at rows of computer monitors punching in data. Raquel always felt guilty when she walked past them. In Data Entry you were judged by how many characters you could enter in a minute, and supervisors were strict. The women couldn't even use the bathroom except on designated breaks.
Brett and the other programmers were located at the far end of the wing, and she made her way there, finding her ex-fiancé's cube empty, his computer turned off. He usually got to work about five or ten minutes late, Raquel knew.
There was an extra chair, so she sat down in it and began looking possessively around Brett's office space. He had a mouse pad printed with the logo of Amazon.com, the on-line bookstore. He had pinned several Detroit Redwings posters on his wall, along with a big map of Maui, Hawaii, where Brett had spent a summer working at a restaurant in Lahaina. They'd planned on going to Maui for their honeymoon.
Raquel blinked back hot tears. All the pictures of her were gone. But at least there wasn't a picture of any other woman ... . not yet. She sat there miserably, wanting him to arrive yet somehow dreading his arrival as well.
"Raquel." Brett came around the corner and stopped abruptly at the sight of her. He was wearing a new, blue-striped business shirt she hadn't seen before, and looked freshly showered, clean and handsome, his damp hair curling at his temples. She could smell his deodorant and cologne, the familiar scents hitting her like a punch to the gut.
"Hi," she said hoarsely.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"I ... we ... we have to talk."
"Please. I asked you not to come up here. Raquel, I've got a ton of work to do this morning."
"Two minutes."
"Which you'll turn into a hundred," he said bitterly. "Raquel, please, why can't you accept the fact that we're not together anymore?"
"I can't ... I can't accept it."
"We broke up. It's over."
"No, no, it's not!" She jumped to her feet, starting toward him, intending to fling her arms around him, but Brett stepped away, leaving her clutching at air. His face was creased with embarrassment and distress.
"Raquel, I know it's rough on you, but you've got to stop doing this to yourself. All those messages on my answering machine ... I don't even listen to them, I just erase them. You drive past my house all the time. And you're still wearing the ring I gave you. I'd like to have it back."
Raquel snatched her left hand behind her back. "No, please ... Please. I can't give it back."
"Why not?"
"Because we--we could work this out if we tried. Brett, you know we always were able to talk; you said I was too possessive but I can change, I can be more what you want me to be."
Another programmer, heading toward his cube, turned tostare curiously, and Raquel lowered her voice, shamed. "I need you," she whispered. "Please, Brett. Please let me keep the ring and we can work this out. Let's meet after work tonight and we'll have dinner, and then we'll go to your place and we'll--"
Brett looked miserable. "No, Raquel. I don't want to hurt you, but ... no."
"Brettie ... why? Why are you treating me like this?"
"Because I can't spend the rest of my life with you, Raquel. You suck a man dry." Brett rubbed his temples as if his head was aching. "Shit, Raquel. Please. Keep the ring if you want, if it means that much to you. It's yours. Just promise me that you'll go on with your life, okay? It'll be worth it to me if you'll just go away, Raquel. Don't call me. Don't bother me anymore."
She lifted her reddened eyes, stunned by the angry weariness in Brett's tone of voice.
"Brett," she whispered. She could barely force his name out past the hurtful lump in her esophagus.
He moved toward her, pulling her up by both hands and gently pushing her out of his cubicle. "I've got to turn on my tube and get to work, Raquel. Don't come up to this department again, okay? I mean it. Or I'll report you to Human Resources."
Raquel stumbled toward the elevator, forced to stand and wait while it picked up arriving employees on the main floor. All the horrible things that Brett had said were reverberating through her brain at once, like a racquetball bouncing around a court. She heard all of them and none of them; they pounded at her skull until she thought she'd scream.
Still, he'd let her keep the ring.
She clung to this precarious hope. He wouldn't have let her keep it if there wasn't a tiny chance for them to still be together.




Back at the Fashion Department, Karyn Cristophe was just arriving, hanging up her jacket in the departmental coat closet.
"Hi," said Raquel, giving her coworker a fake, too-brilliant smile.
Karyn looked at her. "You okay; Raquel? You look like you're coming down with something."
Raquel gave a little for-show cough. "Maybe just a cold. I stayed up late over the weekend," she volunteered. "It's bringing down my immune system."
"Well, I brought in some doughnuts from Dunkin' Donuts, that should help your immune system," said Karyn, holding up two colorful boxes imprinted with the chain's logo. "It always helps mine."
"Doughnuts! Great!" cried Raquel, reaching out greedily. "Any chocolate covered?"
"About a half dozen. You can grab one first if you want."
They walked to Karyn's alcove, where she opened both boxes and set them on the top ledge for people to take as they walked past. Raquel poked among the offerings, selecting her choice, then moved into Karyn's space, sinking into the extra chair. Delicately she took a nibble from the pastry.
"Men," she muttered. "I mean really. Men!"
Karyn looked up. "I know just what you mean."
"I don't understand what they do, why they are the way they are."
"They don't understand us, either, I guess," Karyn offered.
"They don't even try!" Raquel munched silently for several minutes. "My fiancé, Brett, doesn't want to talk about anything."
Karyn laughed a little bitterly. "My ex-husband wanted to talk too much. He wouldn't leave me alone even after it was over. I lost my job because he kept calling me at work."
Raquel did not want to hear this. "So why did you get divorced anyway?"
"A lot of things. We got along great in bed, but we argued all the time as soon as we got out of bed, and once Mack got an idea in his head ... well, he just wouldn't change, no matter what I said or how much I begged. He had some funny habits, too. Like a shopping neurosis."
"Shopping neurosis?"
"Yeah. He'd go to the department store and buy a blue jacket that he liked, and later he'd sneak back and buy it in eight other colors and hide the other ones away. I'd find them months later in the basement or in the back of his closet. It cost us a lot of money."
"That's weird," commented Raquel.
"One time Amber wanted a certain doll, and Mack went out and bought her thirty of them."
"Thirty!"
"But he only gave her two, the rest he stuffed in a box in the garage. The store took them back, thank God ... . Our bills were terrible, Raquel. He'd cry and tell me he wouldn't do it again, and then he would. I dreaded getting our charge card bills. Fortunately the cards were in his name, that was really lucky, because we were late making payments quite a bit."
"I'm sorry."
"He didn't hit me, but he ... threw things, like a VCR, and once some spaghetti. It got to be scary. When he threw the spaghetti in front of Amber, that's when I decided to see an attorney."
Raquel continued to eat her doughnut, wiping her fingers on a tissue she found in a box on Karyn's desk.
"So, are you glad you got your divorce?"
"Yes, I am." Karyn said it firmly. "Raquel, I know it sounds awful, but I couldn't love a man who did all those things. Every time I looked at those two dolls of Amber's,I hated him. I just didn't want to be near him anymore. Even if he gets better, I'll never want him back."


Neither Patrick nor Carrie, the two University of Michigan interns, were in today, so a bunch of their work fell on Karyn. She sent more than fifty two-page faxes to a group of people in Cilla's merchandising association, very time-consuming, especially when a number of the machines were busy and had to be redialed.
Lou Hechter had flown to New York early this morning and would be there for the remainder of the week. He also kept the machines jumping with faxes he was sending to Cilia.
In between sending her own faxes, Karyn trotted back and forth delivering Lou's faxes to Cilia.
"Thanks, Karyn--you're a godsend," said Cilla, accepting one of them. There were blue shadows under her eyes this morning and she kept yawning. "When the interns are here they'll do most of the faxing."
"It's no problem," insisted Karyn, smiling.
Returning to the fax room, she discovered the machine rolling out another six-page fax from Lou, this one addressed to her. It was a nearly illegible list of names, phone numbers and E-mail addresses, and Lou instructed her to give the list to Raquel so she could add it to his Lotus Notebook program.
It was the note at the bottom of the last page that startled Karyn, causing her to look twice. It said, "Thanks, luscious Karyn."
Karyn lifted up the fax and reread the note, wondering if she'd interpreted it correctly. Surely it couldn't say what it looked like.
But what other word was similar to luscious? Delicious? That wasn't much better. Well, it was probably just a mistake, she assured herself. Lou's handwriting was dreadful, and maybe he had been jet-lagged when he wrote it.
Anyway she didn't have time to wonder about it now.
It was time to go comb her hair and get ready to meet Roger for lunch.


At exactly 11:45, Karyn crossed the big Cybelle main lobby, a beautiful space that soared three stories high, domed over by a huge skylight. She'd heard that Dom Carrara frequently utilized the dramatic setting to hold press conferences right here.
A computerized water fountain splashed, played on by blue, pink and green lights. Seated on the edge of the fountain, looking just as nervous as Karyn felt, was Roger Canton.
He rose, starting toward her. "You're right on time," he remarked.
"I'm usually pretty prompt."
They smiled awkwardly. Sunlight fell down from the skylight onto Roger's head, revealing reddish highlights in his short brown hair. He had a smooth, ruddy face, just slightly padded, but on him the few extra pounds of weight looked good. He looked like a man who regularly watered his front lawn and spent Saturday afternoons washing his car. Cozy, comfortable, ordinary.
They walked out past the security desk. "You do have your employee ID with you, right?" asked Roger. "I mean, to get back in again."
"I always carry it," responded Karyn.
Traffic was three lanes in each direction in front of the complex, cars whizzing back and forth. They had to walk about one hundred yards down the street to the light, where knots of other Cybelle employees were also waiting to cross. Karyn recognized several familiar faces, including Dennis Gabriel, a menswear merchandiser from her own department.
"Hi, Karyn ... Roger," he said, looking at them both.
"Hey, Dennis," said Roger, managing to say it in such away that Dennis wasn't encouraged to join them.
They walked across with the light, then strolled a half block west to the Mexican restaurant, Roger telling her all about how a woman from Cybelle had jaywalked last year and ended up getting hit by a car.
"Pretty stiff price to pay for a couple of tacos," he said, smiling.
"I hope she's all right."
"Yeah, you see her every day. It's Cherise, the guard at the number-two gate. She broke her leg and over two hundred people signed her cast."
Karyn smiled back, ordering herself to relax.
The lunchtime crowd was gathering, the restaurant lobby jammed, but Roger had made reservations and they were escorted directly to a booth.
Roger recommended the fajitas, so Karyn ordered the chicken and he ordered beef. Tortilla chips and salsa arrived, something for them to do with their hands while they tried to get a conversation going.
She asked Roger how long he had been working at Cybelle.
"Over ten years, can you believe it?" he told her. "I started out in the Vic Rondelli regime. I've seen a lot, believe me. I've seen them come and go."
Roger began telling Cybelle stories. Then he got started on what it was like to attend the ready-to-wear shows in Paris. Actually, it was more like a lecture on the fashion industry. Somewhere in the middle of it their food came, and Karyn attempted to load up her fajita and eat it without dripping. She saw that Roger had spilled a dab of fried onion on his tie.
And all the while Roger continued to talk. About work. And the fashion shows. Then more Cybelle stories. She tried to be interested but felt her eyes begin to glaze. Karyn felt relieved when the lunch was finally over and the waitress deposited their check tactfully in the middle of the table.
"This has been fun," she lied as Roger put several bills in the folded leather case for the waitress to pick up.
"Hasn't it? We'll have to do it again."
They walked back across the street, caught in another crowd of returning Cybelle employees, while Karyn fought her sudden, deep disappointment. Roger had seemed so nice. But he didn't know what to talk about, and he didn't even know enough to ask her about herself. Face it, he was a dud.
They entered the lobby, both of them showing their employee cards to the guard behind the big main desk. Roger suddenly turned to Karyn and said, "Oh, hell, I really blew that one, didn't I?"
"Blew it?" But she knew what he meant.
"I acted like a total jerk, pounding your ears off with those boring stories. Karyn, I promise you, I'm not really like that. You intimidated me, I guess. I don't usually have diarrhea of the mouth like that. Honest I don't. Sometimes I even ask penetrating questions."
She couldn't help it; she laughed. "Roger, we were both nervous. I kept eating that fajita and wondering how much I was spilling."
"I did spill." Grimacing, Roger pointed to his tie.
"Am I really intimidating?" Karyn asked in a low voice.
"Yes. To me. Karyn, you may not be aware of this but you have the beauty of a fashion model. You're tall and you're a classic size eight. If you lived in New York, you could get a job on a runway. I know you could."
"A runway model?" Karyn giggled. "Not with the way I stumble all over my feet."
"Well, you'd have to have a training program, I guess."
"A very comprehensive training program."
They were both smiling now. "I'm glad you're not a model," said Roger. "I'm glad you're here at Cybelle. Do you suppose you might consent to try it again with me? Lunch, I mean, or even dinner. I promise not to talk like a company brochure."
Karyn hesitated, then reached in her purse for a pen and a scrap of paper. "This is my home number," she said. "But don't call after nine, that's when my daughter, Amber, goes to bed, and I don't want the phone to wake her."
Roger gave her a long, searching look. "You have a daughter? How old is she?"
"Eight."
Belatedly, Karyn remembered that Raquel had told her about Roger's divorce, his ten-year-old daughter now living with her mother in California. She could see the pain in his eyes.
"Well ..." she said awkwardly. "I have to stop at Travel on my way back to the office to pick up some E-tickets. I really enjoyed lunch."
"You didn't. But I promise you'll enjoy it a lot more in the future. I'll call you, Karyn."


The week passed quickly, and so did the following weekend, which Karyn spent hanging wallpaper borders in her small kitchen and picking out some curtains at Sears for the dining room window. She also took Amber and Caitlin to the movies and bought them McDonald's afterward, allowing Caitlin to sleep over.
Her parents called on Sunday night, and Karyn raved about her job, telling them how much she was enjoying it.
"Cybelle is just so big, there's always something interesting going on, and I love seeing all the new fashions. One day at lunch this week they had a fashion show in the cafeteria with employees modeling all the styles. That was a lot of fun. Raquel said I should sign up to model next time."
"Are you financially all right?" asked her father.
"I' m doing fine, Dad. The money you loaned me has been just a lifesaver. I'll start paying you back as soon as I'm on permanently."
"Now, we told you it was a gift, not a loan."
"I can't take your money, Dad. You and Mom need it for retirement."
It was heartwarming to talk to her parents, and she repeated all the fashion news for her mother when she came on the line, describing the styles that women would be wearing nearly a year from now. "Everything is getting more ladylike, but sexier, and you should see the tube tops and camisoles they're buying!"
Shortly afterward, Roger Canton called her. Again, Karyn received the impression that Roger was a kind, caring, ordinary man--but ordinary in a good sense.
He told her that his hobbies were skeet shooting, working on the two cars he owned--one an antique DeSoto--and reading. "Nothing fancy. Just the Tom Clancys, the John Grishams, and I like Dean Koontz, too."
"I should read more," Karyn admitted. "I watch TV too much. I'm trying to break myself of it. Sometimes I tape the afternoon talk shows on the VCR and watch them after Amber's gone to bed. Oprah's my favorite, though. I thought I might get some books from her book club."
"What's your favorite book of all time?" he asked her.
Just a pleasant conversation. She remembered his brown eyes and the sparkling interest in them. They arranged to have dinner.


They ate at Scallops, a seafood restaurant in Rochester, then strolled along the sidewalks of downtown, window-shopping and looking at the fashions displayed in the windows of Mitzelfeld's, the local department store, which catered to a slightly older crowd than Cybelle.
They capped off their evening by buying ice cream cones at the Baskin-Robbins across the street. Mocha almond chocolate for her, plain chocolate for him, both in waffle cones.
"I haven't walked along eating an ice cream cone in years," confided Roger.
"Me either."
"My ex-wife stopped wanting to do things with me. This is really great, Karyn. I can't tell you."
When they finished their cones, Roger found a trash receptacle for their napkins, and then he took Karyn's hand in his. They walked holding hands like high school kids, their shoulders occasionally brushing. They were almost the same height, and Karyn enjoyed being able to look straight at him, instead of up.
Finally, Roger drove Karyn home.
"Thank you for making my evening," Roger told her at the door of her apartment building. He gazed at her, smiling, attractive wrinkles fanning out from his eyes. A moment hung between them--would he kiss her, should he, did she want him to?
Karyn solved the problem by leaning forward and kissing him lightly on the lips. His mustache was faintly tickly. His lips were soft, and he smelled of a vanilla-scented aftershave and clean soap. Roger allowed the kiss to be light and didn't grab her or try to make it more than it was. Right then she realized how nice he was, and it almost scared her a little.
"I had a great time," she whispered.
"Me, too, Karyn."


The following Wednesday, Amber was in a talent show at school, and Cilla gave Karyn the afternoon off so she could go and see her daughter perform. Amber was going to be singing "Tomorrow," the song made famous in Annie, and had been practicing it all week at home.
Sitting in the audience, Karyn found her mind drifting back to the evening with Roger. If he'd tried to come on too strong, she knew, she would have backed off from him and ended their relationship.
There was enthusiastic applause for a young magician. The teacher who was serving as the emcee came out and announced that the next act would be Amber Cristophe singingher version of "Tomorrow." "Everybody give a big round of applause for Amber."
Karyn pounded her palms together until they hurt, pride swelling her chest as Amber walked up to the mike, her hair a cloud of gold, brushed until it shone. She was wearing a new red dress that Karyn had brought home from the sample store at Cybelle, adding a white collar. In it she looked like a real stage Annie.
The petite girl took the mike off its stand, waited for the background tape to start playing, then began belting out "Tomorrow" in a voice that--to Karyn--sounded professional enough to go on Broadway.
As her daughter sang, Karyn felt tears prick her eyelids. Just in time, she remembered to pull out her flash camera and take several pictures.
Amber received more applause than any of the other kids, accepting it with a radiant smile, waving over the top of the microphone at Karyn and blowing her mother repeated kisses. "Isn't she talented?" some woman in the row behind Karyn said. Karyn snapped more photos.
When it was all over, the parents were invited on the stage with their children for cookies and Hawaiian Punch. Amber ran up to Karyn and threw her arms around her mother. "Did I sing good?"
"You sang perfect! Amber, you were wonderful. And I'm not just saying that. You really, really were."
"I like singing," said the child complacently. "I like everything here. We aren't going to move again, are we?"
"No," said Karyn, feeling a choke in her throat. How many times had her daughter asked her that? "We're staying right where we are, cupcake. Michigan is our home now--for good."


The next morning, Roger called Karyn at her desk. "There's a chili fest going on Sunday out in Saline. They're going tohave clowns and an egg-drop contest, and plenty of chili to taste. Would you and Amber like to go?"
Karyn felt her skin go red as she remembered that sweet, light, on-the-lips kiss.
"I'd like to go," she agreed cautiously. "But Amber's having a busy weekend. I'll need to see if I can find a sitter for her."
"Oh? She'd have a lot of fun and a lot of other kids will be there."
"It's maybe a little too soon, Roger. It'll confuse her ..."
"Oh. I understand. Don't wear good clothes," he advised. "This is going to be kind of a messy day. You'll see what I mean."
When she arrived home that night, Karyn asked Jinny if she'd mind taking Amber on the following Sunday afternoon.
"If you'll take Caitlin on Thursday night and have her sleep over at your place." Jinny blushed. "An old friend of mine is going to be in town and, well, we haven't seen each other in a while."
Karyn stared at her, not realizing at first what her neighbor meant, but then she did and felt her mouth go dry. Jinny was going to have a man over, of course. Karyn felt the fiery blood throb through her skin. Sex with a man ... how long had it been for her? Well over a year.
Did she feel ... that way ... about Roger Canton? Could she?
Later, she sat down at the kitchen table with Amber and began going over math flash cards with her daughter, barely able to concentrate.
"Mom, ten times eight is eighty, not forty!" cried Amber, interrupting Karyn's thoughts. "I gave you the wrong answer on purpose and you didn't even hear me."
"Sorry, cupcake. Let's go over the stack of cards again."




Another busy day at Cybelle. Antwan Jones, the mail clerk, had just rolled his cart through the department, dropping off a pile of letters, periodicals, junk mail, FedEx and DHL packages, interoffice envelopes and memos accompanied by "buck" slips. A nursing student at nearby Oakland Community College, his skin so dark that it had bluish tinges, he greeted Karyn cheerfully. "Your usual humongous stack of mail and five DHL packages, isn't that nice? They're keeping you busy, I see."
"Well," said Lou, looking up from his desk as Karyn walked in to give him the internationally sent DHL packages. "Aren't we looking spiffy today."
Karyn flushed. It was a sunny, Indian summer day, and the sun streamed in through the windows, heating up the hallway, so she'd taken her jacket off. Underneath she was wearing a cotton blouse open at the throat.
She said quickly, "Antwan left three or four more packages for you, and a binder. I'll go get them." She turned and started to leave, but he stopped her.
"Wait. All those packages ... would you like to see what this firm in Amsterdam sent me yesterday?"
Reluctantly, Karyn paused.
"Come, come, come," said Lou impatiently, waving her behind his desk as he bent to take a manila envelope out of a drawer in his credenza. "I just want to show you some of the stuff we reject. It'll really educate you about the fashion business."
He opened up the clasp and shook out a pile of crudely printed brochures. One was a lingerie catalog, the garments garishly cheap, modeled by big-breasted blond women wearing "big hair" wigs and heavy makeup. And the poses
... Karyn stared, shocked, at a photo of one woman in a black lace teddy squatting down and toying with her own crotch.
"Really," she began, backing away in discomfort.
"Amazing, isn't it, what some of these foreigners will tryto sell us," Lou remarked, laughing jovially. "Looks like the models are a bunch of the pros that sit in the windows in Amsterdam trying to get customers."
Why was he showing her this stuff? He was acting like it was perfectly normal to show an employee suggestive pictures. Maybe for Lou it was. The male way of thinking
... Maybe Lou did not realize how distasteful she found it, Karyn tried to tell herself.
"I need to get you your packages because Cilla wants me to go down to Travel and pick up some airline tickets," blurted Karyn. She heard Lou laugh as she darted out of the office. She hurried back in with the remaining DHL shipments, anxious to get the chore over with and depart.
When she returned Lou had already put the brochures back in their envelope and was peering at a spreadsheet on his computer monitor. The incident might never have happened.
"Oh," he told her in an offhand manner. "Put those on the floor by my credenza."
Karyn did as she was told, then left, anger spurting through her. She strode fast down the hall, reaching her alcove, where she immediately put on her jacket again, despite the fact that the air hadn't gotten any cooler.
"You're wearing a jacket? It's so hot in here," remarked Raquel, coming into Karyn's alcove. "I called down to Building Systems; I think the air-conditioning is on, the fritz."
"I just--I just would feel better with my jacket on."
Raquel cocked her head to one side. "Anything wrong?"
"No ... I guess not." Karyn felt hot and flustered. "It's just that Lou showed me these pictures ... I mean, they were a little, well, awful."
"Underwear catalogs, you mean?"
"Yeah."
"He does that with new women, thinks he's going to impress them or something. If he does it again, you tell himit's against your religion and make the sign of the cross."
Karyn couldn't help laughing a little as she gazed at the petite, intense Raquel, who did, at this moment, have a small gold cross hanging on a chain around her neck. "It worked for you?"
"I called my priest, Father O'Meara. He came down here and had a short talk with Mr. Hechter."
"But what did the priest say?" Karyn wondered.
"I don't know. But Lou backed off all right. Ever since then it's been all business, no funny stuff--if you don't count the yelling. I hate him, he hates me, but I think he's afraid to fire me ... afraid the Catholic Church will roast him in hell or something."
Karyn nodded, the smile leaving her face. "Seriously. Why would Lou do that? Doesn't he know I'd find it offensive? Those pictures were ... more like porn than a real catalog."
"He didn't even do it," said Raquel bitterly. "That's the thing you have to realize about guys like Lou. If you react the wrong way he just gives you an excuse and puts a different spin on it, and suddenly you're the one who's acting out of line, not him, and the whole thing never happened."
A group of women from the buyers' floor were trooping down the hallway and began calling out. "Raquel ... Karyn
... we're going down to the mini-cafeteria for yogurt and strawberries. Come on with us." "Sure, why not--if it doesn't take too long," said Raquel. She grinned at Karyn, including her in the group."Karyn here needs to cool off.'
Walking down the hallway with the group of women, Karyn tried to put the incident with Lou Hechter out of her mind. This was a prestigious Fortune 50 company. Lou was one of the top-earning executives at Cybelle, and he was Karyn's boss's boss.
She didn't want to get on the wrong side of him. She couldn't afford to, not if she wanted to be hired on permanently.A company needed no excuses to end a temp's assignment--they could tell her on Friday afternoon at 4:45 P.M. that her assignment was over and that would be that.


On Saturday, Jinny Caribaldi's sister, Marie, and her husband were giving a picnic and had invited Karyn and Amber to come, along with Jinny and Caitlin.
Jinny's sister had a farm out near Ortonville. The place was enchantingly rural, with a falling-down red barn, a couple of horses, and a clutch of orange farm cats. In a field a crop of pumpkins in varying sizes awaited harvesting in a couple of weeks. Amber and Caitlin raced through the pumpkins, marveling at the biggest ones. Both girls were allowed to pick out small ones for themselves.
"One of the tabbies had kittens," said Jinny to Amber. "Do you want to see them?"
The kittens were eight-week-old, mewing balls of fur. Amber cradled first one, then another, oohing and aahing.
"Would you like to take one home?" offered Jinny. "If it's all right with your mother. Caitlin's going to get one, too."
Amber's face lit up. "Is it?" She rushed over to Karyn. "Oh, Mom, is it?"
They ended up taking home an adorable orange kitten that Amber named Missy, stopping at a pet store to stock up on cat food, cat treats, a cat pan, and kitty litter.
Amber.begged Karyn to buy a little carpeted shelf they could hook up to their window for the cat to sun herself on.
"Honey ... all this cat equipment is really adding up," said Karyn, thinking about her dwindling checking account balance.
"Please! Please!" Tired out from her long day, Amber seemed about ready to throw a tantrum in the pet store. "Missy needs a shelf! She needs this! You can't be cruel to her and not get it!"
"All right, then, you can pay for half of it out of your allowance," said Karyn finally.
At home, they settled the kitten into a cardboard box, which Amber planned to keep in her bedroom at night. "What will she do when I'm at school and you're at work?"
"She'll probably sit on the kitty shelf," remarked Karyn dryly. "She'd better, after all the money we paid for it. Scoot, Amber--go and take your shower and get ready for bed."
While Amber was in the shower, Roger Canton called.
"I tried calling you most of the day but you were out," he said. "I was just calling to say hi."
They talked for over forty-five minutes. About kittens and pumpkins, the chili fest he was taking her to tomorrow, his divorce and hers, and where they had both grown up.
"I was born in Norwalk, Connecticut," Karyn said, hearing the shower stop running. In a moment she saw Amber run past, wearing her sleep shirt. She motioned to her daughter to go to bed and that she'd be in in a minute.
"So that's why your accent isn't real thick Southern."
"I don't have an accent!" she cried indignantly.
"I think you picked up a little bit of an Atlanta drawl."
She laughed. "I don't drawl."
"If you say so," he teased.


The following morning, Roger picked Karyn up at 11:00 A.M. wearing a pair of well-worn jeans and a polo shirt that showed the effect of many dozens of washings. Karyn decided he looked much sexier in jeans than in work clothes.
Amber spoke politely to Roger when introduced, then immediately dragged him off to see the kitten in its box.
"Isn't she fuzzy?" Amber enthused.
"She's just about the fuzziest cat I ever saw."
"We bought a shelf so she can sit in the window and look out."
"She'll really enjoy that. We had one for our cat, Cleopatra,and she practically lived on the windowsill."
"Oh, you had a cat? Don't you have it anymore?"
"My daughter still has her." A cloud passed over Roger's face, and Karyn hastily intervened, saying she had to take Amber and the kitten upstairs to Jinny's.
"Mom," whispered Amber "as they climbed the stairs. "Are you going on a date?"
"Yes."
"Is he gonna, you know, kiss you and all that sex stuff?"
Karyn grimaced. When she was eight she hadn't even known the word sex but now kids picked up amazingly adult things from talk shows and sitcoms.
"He's going to be very polite. And you are, too, today, you and Caitlin. Jinny tells me that she's taking you two to the movies."
"Yeah! We're gonna see that movie with the parrot. I saw him on TV. He's so cuuuute."
While Roger waited downstairs in the hall, Karyn brought Amber upstairs to Jinny's, digging into her billfold and producing enough movie money for all three, handing it to Jinny. Jinny refused, but Karyn pressed it into her hand. She wanted the latchkey arrangement to work out and did not want to take advantage of her upstairs neighbor.
"I'll probably be back around seven or eight," she told Jinny.
"I saw your date out the window when he drove up. He's cute."
Karyn flushed. "You could say that."
Returning to the first floor, Karyn excused herself to fetch a jacket. She decided to change to a pair of black running shoes that would not show dirt or mud. As she was lacing the shoes, her phone rang.
She picked it up, at first hearing only breathing on the other end of the line.
"Hello? Hello?"
"You're just a little tease," said a male voice, hoarse andmuffled, with a ring of familiarity to it. "But I know what you want."
Quickly she slammed down the phone. She hadn't heard the voice clearly but ...
"You seem upset," Roger remarked as they got into his Ford minivan, its interior vacuumed spotlessly clean and smelling of leather upholstery.
"It's ... that was a heavy-breather phone call."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I've had them before, but it's always a little scary. I usually just hang up fast."
"Maybe you should think about getting Caller ID."
"I'll wait and see," she finally said. "My budget is already so tight. Also, now I'll have cat food to buy, and I can already tell Amber's going to want nothing but the best."


The rutted field near Saline, on the outskirts of Ann Arbor, was already lined up with cars, vans and pickups, and dozens of parked motorcycles, more roaring in by the minute.
The long tent held a double row of tables presided over by about thirty local chefs who were already heating up their versions of chili, with names like "Super Red Hot Mama Chili" and "Road Kill Special." At 2:00 the chili would be ready for tasting, Roger told her, served in tiny paper cups. Crowds would pour into the tent, people carrying the little chili cups, and everyone would soon be bumping into everyone else, slopping chili.
"And then there's the egg-drop contest," Roger added, pointing outside to a huge cherry picker. "A guy's going to stand in the top of that thing and drop eggs for people to catch, and if you think the chili gets messy, wait until you see what a flying egg can do."
"Oh, I want to catch an egg!" cried Karyn, suddenly caught up in the gala mood of the afternoon.
Roger laughed. "Wait until you see a few other people catch them before you decide if you want to enter the contest,.Karyn. Raw eggs can be mighty slippery."
Karyn quickly changed her mind when she saw the first contestant get splattered with yellow from hair to shoes. Roger and Karyn stood watching, standing at a safe distance from the yolk splatters.
"I have to admit, meeting your little girl made me feel a bit sad," remarked Roger. "She's younger than Annie but she looks something like her."
"Raquel told me you had some legal problems with visitation."
"I'm working them out."
A young, leather-clad biker was trying to catch an egg now, and after two tries managed to cup one in both hands without shattering it. The crowd whistled and applauded, and the loudspeaker blared that the kid had won two tickets to see Randy Travis.
"I'm not every woman's dream man," Roger admitted. "Renee told me I was boring. She said I didn't offer her enough excitement. But I feel that I'm exciting inside."
Karyn stood close to him, so that their shoulders brushed. "Maybe exciting isn't everything there is," she said. "Mack was exciting, but the downside of excitement is fear. I don't want to be afraid again. I don't want to worry about what's going to happen if a man gets mad. I don't want to scrape spaghetti off another wall, and I don't want to open another drawer and find nine identical windbreakers hidden in there, each one in a different color."
He grinned. "I only have three jackets, and one of them is eight years old, Karyn. And I cook spaghetti, not throw it."


There was another heavy-breather phone call on Sunday night, and again Karyn slammed down the phone. This time the muffled voice had sounded different--maybe it wasn't Lou. Still, she slept restlessly, waking several times during the night to go in and check on her daughter.
Thunder was rumbling on Monday morning when Karyn dragged herself out of bed, got Amber ready for school, and drove her and Caitlin to Simonton Elementary School. She watched her daughter and Caitlin run into the building, joining a group of other little girls.
At Cybelle, Karyn found her In basket filled with dictation tapes Cilla had done over the weekend at home. She put in the earpiece and began crashing on the work, typing letters and memos and a mail-merge letter to twelve recipients. In all, she created twenty-one letters. Karyn was proud of her fast typing and enjoyed having the opportunity to show it off.
By the time she looked up it was nearly noon, and she'd promised to meet Roger Canton in the cafeteria for a quick bite. But before she could gather up her purse, Lou Hechter suddenly appeared at her desk.
"Raquel left for lunch early and I need some faxes sent," he told her brusquely.
Karyn looked at him, wondering if he had been her unwanted phone caller.
"All right."
"Come into the fax room and I'll show you what has to be done."
This was the very last thing that Karyn wanted. But she felt she had little choice except to follow her employer into the fax room. Lou spent several minutes explaining that the same cover page was to go on all six faxes, then paused, staring at Karyn assessingly.
"How old are you?"
"What?"
Lou gave a quick, snorting laugh. "Not that you have to answer if you don't want to. With all these crazy new rules and laws, an employee could be eighty-two years old and no one would dare say a word."
Karyn shifted uncomfortably, remembering the "luscious Karyn" fax he had sent her a week or so ago. She decidedto ignore the question and just concentrate on punching phone numbers into the machine.
"You're very pretty, you know," he remarked. "Were you always this pretty? Were you one of those high school prom queens?"
What was she supposed to say? In Norwalk there had been a clique of wealthy girls who were the prom queens, not girls like Karyn. She finished one fax, started the next one.
"I'll bet you were. All dressed up in a pink gown with a big corsage on your wrist," said Lou, smiling. "Did you ride to the prom in one of those white limousines all the kids use?"
"We didn't use a limo," Karyn finally said. "His parents drove us."
"So sweet and Southern. What is your ancestry, Karyn?"
"I'm an American," she said evenly.
"Those cheekbones and those eyes," mused Lou. "I keep wondering if you might be, you know, Eurasian or maybe French. You know what they say about Frenchwomen," he added in an insinuating undertone.
"No, I don't," Karyn snapped.
Lou seemed startled at her negative response. But before he could react, Dennis Gabriel walked into the room with a paper in his hand.
"Uh, oh," Dennis said. "A long line for the fax?"
"No, I'm finished," said Karyn, walking out of the room.
She took a short break, walking down to the coffee room at the end of the hall, where vending machines dispensed coffee, soft drinks and snacks, and there was a telephone employees could use for private calls.
The truth was, she just didn't like Lou.
She found his personality grating and his innuendos offensive.
One of her ancestors had come over to this country from France right after the Revolutionary War. Some of her ancestorshad been mountain men and trappers, helping to open up the country to trade. She hated it that Lou had made this into a sniggering, off-color joke.


After lunch Karyn made some travel arrangements for two designers on the staff, typed up itineraries, dealt with a printer problem, helped Cilla fix a footer on one of her reports, and sent group E-mails to fifty people about a meeting.
"So you're dating Roger Canton," said Raquel that afternoon when she and Karyn walked down to the mini-cafeteria for a yogurt break. Only one man was getting a hamburger at the counter. The room seemed small, much more intimate than the huge regular cafeteria that served meals to thousands daily. Outside, it was drizzling gray rain. The good days of fall were disappearing.
They stood at the yogurt machine, mixing strawberry with vanilla into cardboard cups.
Karyn blushed. "How did you know?"
"Somebody saw you in Saline last weekend. They said you were holding hands."
Karyn felt a stab of annoyance. "Is there much that people don't know?"
Raquel giggled. "But, hey, this is one man you ought to grab. I mean it. He's a good catch, and there're tons of women who are after him."
"Oh," said Karyn, taken aback. Roger hadn't given her that impression somehow. In fact, he'd told her he'd dated very little, and she believed him.
"Do you like him?"
"Yes, but ... I don't want it to move too fast."
They took their yogurts to a table. From the cafeteria window they had a view of a cement patio where fifteen or twenty employees were gathered for a smoke break. One of the men was flirting with a woman, pretending to pull her long hair, and she was laughing.
"Food," advised Raquel. "Food is the way to a guy's heart. I hope you have lots of really special dishes you can cook up for him. That's what I do for my Brett. I have a recipe for beer-battered chicken he's crazy about. And I make chalupas and soufléed green chile enchilada; that's very good, and it's cheap." She shrugged. "You know, south-of-the-border, burn-your-mouth stuff."
"I'm more the microwave type," admitted Karyn. "Well, I do cook a little pasta once in a while."
"Then maybe you should buy some sexy underwear from Victoria's Secret."
"I'm more the bargain panties from Penney's type."
"Girl!" cried Raquel. "Revise some of that thinking! This is a man we're talking about. You've got to be exciting. Keep him just a little off kilter, always keep him guessing. Meet him at the door wrapped in pink Saran Wrap."
Karyn laughed. "Get back. Did you ever do that, Raquel?"
"Well, once. It made me sweat. I felt like a piece of fried chicken."
"What did Brett think?"
Raquel looked proud. "Well, let's put it this way. I didn't wear it too long."
They walked slowly back to the Fashion Department, Raquel carrying a tray with five yogurt cups on it for others who'd begged for a treat but couldn't leave their desks.
As soon as Karyn got back to the department, Cilla asked her to walk up to Dom Carrara's office and hand-deliver a report.
"Don't forget you'll have to ask the security guard to punch in the tower elevator code for you. He'll have to call up there first. So maybe you'd better call and tell Sondra Zapernick you're coming."


A visit to Dom Carrara's office! Karyn felt a buzz of excitement as she walked to the special executive elevator near the main lobby and gave her name to the security guard. Inthe business world, Dom Carrara was a semicelebrity. Since he'd taken over as CEO of Cybelle, he'd been on the covers of Fortune, Forbes, and on CBS and NBC, plus CNN.
To her he seemed so down-to-earth, and she really liked his smile, which seemed genuine. It was hard to grasp that he was paid over $12 million a year in salary and bonuses and was a multimillionaire.
The elevator whispered up five floors in a matter of seconds. A beautifully groomed woman with silvery-gray hair was seated at a marble desk and talking on the telephone. In a moment Sondra Zapernick hung up and smiled at Karyn. "You must be Karyn from Fashion."
"Yes ... Cilla Westheim has a report for Mr. Carrara," Karyn explained eagerly.
"I don't believe we have met before," said the corporation president, emerging from his office just as Karyn was handing the report to his secretary.
Karyn smiled with pleasure, beaming at the tall, handsome, gray-haired man who ultimately held the fate of her job in his hands.
"I'm Karyn Cristophe, I just started in Fashion. I'm Cilla Westheim's secretary." She didn't add that she was only temp to perm.
"I'm very glad to meet you, Karyn." Dom extended his hand and Karyn shook it. His handshake was pleasantly firm. "May all of your weeks be excellent here, Karyn. I know this is a big corporation, but I do try to keep in touch with our employees. If you have any problems or concerns, give my secretary a phone call or drop me a quick memo."
As Karyn nodded in surprise, he excused himself and went into one of the conference rooms on the floor.
Sondra Zapernick smiled kindly at Karyn. "I heard that Cilla had a new secretary who types over one hundred words a minute."
"Yes." Karyn blushed. "When I relax and I'm not thinking about my speed I can go even faster."
"I only type ninety," admitted Sondra. "But most of my job is being a gatekeeper anyway," she added. "I schedule just about everything Mr. Carrara does. And by the way, his offer to see you if you had a problem was genuine. He doesn't have a lot of time, but every week he sees two or three employees for about ten to twenty minutes each."
Karyn felt the urge to linger and talk to Sondra more, maybe ask her how she'd climbed the corporate ladder as she'd done, but she knew the woman was terribly busy.
"Thank you. It was great meeting you," she said.
"Good luck here, Karyn."
Riding back down in the executive elevator, Karyn's cheeks blazed pink. Not that she'd ever bother Dom Carrara with a memo or phone call. Still, she felt a sudden surge of pride that she was working at Cybelle, that she was a part of everything here. That he would talk to her if she really needed it.


After Karyn left to deliver the report to Dom Carrara, Cilla got up from her computer and went restlessly to the window, where she stared out at the reflecting pond, which was being dimpled right now by thousands of pelting raindrops.
She'd spent the weekend sitting by the phone, hoping for a phone call from Shane. Even though he was in Chicago, she'd hoped he might call her anyway. Finally she'd given up and gone shopping.
She'd found herself buying way too much, selecting clothing that was much younger and trendier than the garments she usually purchased for herself. Her chief extravagance was a Todd Oldham black sequin dress with spaghetti straps and naughty tassels at the neck and back-slitted hemline. Definitely not your average fifty-year-old's dress.
But turning in front of the three-way fitting room mirror, Cilla admitted to herself that she could still wear the young outfits. Her stomach was still flat. She didn't look her age. She looked great for fifty. Hey, she looked great for forty.
But as she changed back into her street clothes, a mood of depression swept over her.
Was she being a fool, picturing herself wearing that expensive Todd Oldham on another date with Shane? What was he doing this weekend while she was shopping and waiting? Were there other women he saw? A hunk like him, only twenty-six ... he could have his choice of women.
"Mom," Mindy had said, calling late on Sunday night as Cilla was in her home office, dictating some letters. "I just got back from Dylan's house--I met his whole family--they have a cottage on Elk Lake. I had such an awesome time."
"Mindy," said Cilla. "I thought you were going to be working with freshman women. Didn't you tell me those were your plans?"
"Sure, but they got someone else to fill in, Mom. I'm not tied down to Albion College; I can go somewhere for the weekend if I want. Anyway, why are you so concerned? You have that new guy you're dating, right? That Shane guy?"
"Yes," Cilla heard herself say, not quite the truth.
"Well, then. Hey, does he have kids?"
"No."
"He doesn't? I thought most older guys had a couple of grown kids."
Now, Cilia thought, now was the time to tell her daughter that Shane was only twenty-six. But he hadn't even asked her out for the weekend and she might never see him again, so why was his age important?
"Shane doesn't have kids," she responded nervously. "And I'm really not seeing him--"
"Shane, that's a funny name, don't you think?" Mindy giggled. "Most guys in the baby boomer generation have these awful names like Alan and Barry and Bruce. Or even Hoooowaaard." She stretched the vowels out, making fun of it.
"That'll be enough, Mindy," said Cilla crisply. "Next time you go to spend a weekend at a boy's house, I want to know about it ahead of time or you don't go, is that understood?"
"Mom--"
"You are still not twenty-one yet, and I'm responsible for you, Mindy."
"Oh, you are such a worryass," cried Mindy. "Honestly! I guess I can spend a weekend at a guy's house without you making a federal case out of it. Anyway, I didn't sleep with him there because his mother put me in a room way down the hall. But I have slept with him at Albion."
"Melinda. Are you using protection?" Cilla managed to say.
"Mom--"
"I want to know if you're using a condom and if you're still getting your pills refilled every month."
"Of course I am, do you think I'm stupid? I don't want to get knocked up like Daddy's girlfriend. Oh, I forget, she's his wife now. Gotta go, Mom. 'Bye."
Cilla stared at the phone in her hand, finally replacing the receiver, filled with an acute sensation of frustration and loss. Mindy had been such a cute, precocious little girl. Her first word had been "Buh Buh," after her beloved teddy, Billy Bear, then had come "Daddy" and "Mama." When Mindy had spinal meningitis as a six-year-old, Cilla sat by a hospital bed holding her daughter's hand, even sleeping on a cot in the room. She would have given her own life to save Mindy's--and still would.
Now, Cilla admitted to herself that Mindy was basically out of control. The divorce between her and Bob had come at a time when her daughter was very vulnerable. Mindy had gone through a traumatic year, deciding to place all of the blame on Cilla for "driving Daddy away."
Never mind that Bob had selected a bimbette with pneumatic breasts and buns and a few spots of teenage acne still on her face, getting her pregnant like any stupid high schoolboy. Never mind that Bob had drained their savings accounts and cashed in an account earmarked for Mindy's college expenses. Sure, the judge had later made them divvy up what was left semi fairly, but Mindy was unable to see how selfish her father was, and she didn't want to see it.
The desk phone rang, jerking Cilia away from her unpleasant thoughts.
"I catch you at a bad time?" said Shane Gancer.
Cilia flushed. "Just catching up on some work."
"Hey, I've got a ton of things to tell you about. I went to Mt. Pleasant with the Sky Jumpers. We were practicing this incredible circle jump with seventy-five people all diving in a huge circle. It was awesome. Sorry I didn't call but somehow I left your number at home and you're unlisted. Well, anyway, I'm back and the Sky Jumpers are giving a party next weekend, want to come along with me?"
She thought about refusing, but the idea only lasted a nanosecond. "I guess I could."
"You won't be pressured into jumping, if that's what you're worried about. We have plenty of spouses and girlfriends who just participate in the social events. Anyway, I really want everyone to meet you. They're a great group--and I know you'd have a lot in common with them."
They talked a while longer, then Cilla said good-bye and hung up. Her heartbeat was surging, adrenaline dancing through her again.
He'd called. He wanted to see her again. Deep in her heart she had believed he would not. She sat in her swivel chair, laughing. This was so crazy ... .
Maybe she would call her hair stylist and see if Bobbi could fit her in for a cut. Something a little different. A little younger.


The restaurant located in the top of a Troy high rise was crowded with businesspeople eating on expense accounts and enjoying a sweeping view that stretched for miles acrossOakland County, giving glimpses of Pontiac's white Silverdome stadium and the Daimler-Chrysler Corporation Headquarters complex in Auburn Hills.
Lou Hechter sat across a booth from Chuck Krantz, a gray-haired vice president of Legal Operations. Chuck was one of the company's veterans who had been around even longer than Lou. He and Chuck had climbed the ranks together. Together with Vic Rondelli, Ray Karmer and a few others, they now comprised a formidable bloc on the company's executive committee.
The executive committee was meeting tomorrow, and Lou and Chuck had a few matters they wanted to get straight.
"So how's it hanging, Lou?" Chuck wanted to know as a waitress brought them drinks.
"The usual. Gets to be boring after a while, the same-old, same-old," complained Lou. "Only bright light on the horizon is a new lady in my department, looks like Michelle Pfeiffer on Demi Moore's body."
"Hey, I'll have to swing by and take a look at her."
"She's sexy, all right. A natural-born flirt," said Lou.
"You know how to pick 'em," said Chuck, gazing at his crony admiringly. "Every woman in your department looks like she just stepped out of Playboy. Even Cilla. For an old lady, I sure wouldn't push her out of bed."
Both men grinned. They knew Lou hadn't. Chuck was one of the few people Lou'd told about Cilla, and as far as Lou knew, Chuck had kept totally quiet about Lou's relationship with his employee. Hey, Chuck couldn't afford to talk, either; he'd been banging his secretary for years, giving her raises way out of line with raises other women at her level were getting. Chuck had also bought the woman a summer home near Traverse City.
Lou had helped him out a few times with the suspicious wife thing, providing a cover when Chuck wanted to get away for a weekend.
"This new lady, you think you can get in her pants?" Chuck wanted to know.
"Does a beaver wear a fur coat? Of course I can get in her drawers. I always do, don't I?" Lou drained his Manhattan and waved at the waitress to bring him another one. "It'll just take some time to work on her, is all."
"Are you ready to order, gentlemen?" asked the waitress, a woman in her thirties.
"Yeah, sweetie, I think we are. Give us good service, pretty darling, and we'll give you a nice tip. And if your phone number comes with the check, the tip will be extra big."
The waitress tightened her lips, getting out her pad to take their orders.


Karyn was feeling more at home at Cybelle every day. Cilla sent her on many errands, and she now was friendly with five or six departmental secretaries, various travel agents, and other employees scattered over the huge headquarters building.
One morning she got a phone call from Cherise, at the #2 door. "A Russell Brandon is here at the guard desk to see Cilla Westheim. Can someone come and get him?"
"I'll be right down."
Karyn's heart skipped a beat as she got up from her desk. Russell Brandon was a male model sent by a local agency to appear in a resort season ad. He was here to meet Cilla and several of the merchandisers, who would talk to him about the shoot. Karyn had never met a male model before and was looking forward to the experience.
When Karyn reached the door, however, she saw no one standing at the guard desk except for two security guards.
"Is Mr. Brandon here?"
Cherise grinned. "He's in the men's room, primping. Said he'd be right back."
Ten minutes later, Karyn was still pacing around andglancing at her watch. Cripes, she thought, he was taking more time than she did. But finally the model appeared, strolling down the hallway from the direction of the nearby rest rooms, attracting more than a few stares from passing employees.
Karyn, too, couldn't help staring.
Brandon was dressed as if he were already at the ad shoot, wearing tight jeans and a white leather vest hanging open to reveal a muscular, suntanned chest and a washboard stomach. Underneath the vest was nothing but skin. Hadn't he realized he was going to be entering a standard, shirt-and-tie office environment?
"Russell Brandon?" asked Karyn, feeling a strong urge to laugh.
"Yeah ..."
"This way. It's kind of a long walk, and it's confusing around here, that's why I had to come and get you."
On the eight-minute walk back to the department, Karyn tried to make conversation, but Brandon answered mostly in monosyllables. His walk was more of a strut. As they passed knots of Cybelle employees, people did double takes at the sight of the partially dressed model. Karyn felt as if she were leading around a Chippendale dancer.
When they reached the Fashion Department, Raquel was busily typing at her computer screen and barely looked up, even though she'd known the model was arriving this afternoon. Karyn wanted to giggle--was Raquel really that blasé? Then, just as the model passed, she observed Raquel taking a discreet peek.
Karyn knocked on Cilla's office door. Two of the merchandisers, Mary and Jenny, were already in her office. "Cilla, Russell Brandon is here."
"Oh, good," said Cilla. "Show him right in."
Karyn stepped aside to usher Brandon into the office, then was startled when the model suddenly ripped off his vest,exposing his bare, ripplingly muscular chest to the three women in the room.
"This is how I'll look in the ad," he told the three executives. "I just wanted to show you."
He turned and strutted and preened, naked from the waist up.
Neither Cilla nor the others showed a change of expression, keeping poker faces. Surely this couldn't be standard procedure, could it?
Karyn backed out of the room and went to her desk, sinking into her chair and giving way to waves of giggles. Only at Cybelle, she thought. And the way Cilla and the others had kept straight faces ... It had been hilarious.
"Did you see him?" she whispered to Raquel when she passed her alcove to go to the color copier.
"Did I ever."
"He just--and they--" Karyn sank into Raquel's extra chair, still giggling. "They didn't even crack a smile."
Raquel grinned impishly. "They're trying to keep it professional. After he leaves they'll get down and talk about his lats and his pecs and all that. I've heard them arguing about models before. Cilla hates it when they have moles. You wouldn't believe. Everybody wants to be in the Cybelle ads because they're so sexy and appear in the major women's magazines."
Ten minutes later, the model reappeared at Karyn's desk. "Okay, now how do I get out of this maze?"
She jumped to her feet. "I'll show you back to the door again. You'll have to sign out in the guest book."
He had his vest back on and was gazing at Karyn intently. "I really want the exposure here," he told her. "Put in a good word for me, will you?"
"I ... I'm not sure my opinions have that much weight."
"But try," he pleaded.
Karyn felt flattered to realize that this man believed her opinions would be listened to. "I'll do what I can."
To her amazement, about half an hour later Cilla buzzed her on her private line. "So, what did you think of our would-be model, Karyn? Do you think women are going to go for him?"
Guiltily remembering her promise, Karyn thought a minute. She could tell this was a serious question. "To tell you the truth, I can't remember his face, I was so busy looking at his chest. His body did remind me of that romance cover model, Fabio. His body was great. But ..."
"Go on," said Cilla. "I want your full, honest opinion."
"Okay. He seemed just too cocky. His smile was too hard--I can't explain it. When I'm looking at magazine ads, and there's a male model, the first thing I look at is his smile. I want him to look nice, not all full of himself. I don't care for those snotty, bad-boy type of ads."
"Thank you very much, Karyn. You've been a big help."
Cilla hung up, leaving Karyn bemused. She had mentioned the man's good points ... but had she killed his chance at getting the job? She hoped not, but then maybe she had. So this was the fashion industry.
She loved it.


On Friday night, Shane invited Cilla out to dinner before the skydiving club party, taking her to a Thai restaurant in Rochester Hills.
It was obvious that he was a regular, for both the waitress and the restaurant owner seemed to know him, and Shane suggested that he order for both of them.
"I hope you don't think I'm being sexist," he apologized. "I just wanted to make sure that you got the house specialty, Cilla. If I was a condemned man, this is the place I'd choose to eat my last meal."
The dish was some type of spicy, stir-fried shrimp that was described on the menu as "Angry Young Shrimp." There were subtly flavored vegetables and transparent noodles, and it was delicious. However, Cilla pushed the foodaround on her plate, unable to do justice to it. Her stomach muscles were clenched tight with nerves.
Shane just looked so great tonight, in an eggplant-colored shirt and tie, his blond hair again slicked straight back from his face. Cilla had worn a pair of stovepipe black pants and a black surplice sweater by Jazz Sport with a hint of metallic weave in it. With this she wore a pair of high-heeled slides. The outfit was a success; Shane's eyes had widened when he first saw her in it, and now he was leaning across the table, his pupils dilated very large and black.
Dilated pupils were a sign, Cilia had read, of extreme sexual interest.
"The Sky Jumpers range in age from twenty to over sixty," he was saying. "About twenty percent of the active jumpers are women. One of them, Jill, is amazing; she is fifty-eight years old and she has over two hundred and fifty jumps to her credit. She's an instructor."
A couple was entering the restaurant, but totally caught up in Shane, Cilla paid them no attention until she heard her name being called.
"Cilla Westheim! Cilla, is that really you?"
A man and woman in their mid-fifties were headed in their direction, the woman dressed in a long, rather matronly beige jacket dress with a designer silk scarf pinned at the neck. The man wore a business suit.
"Aileen ... Bill ..." Cilla felt a surge of dismay. Aileen and Bill Hanran were members of a theater group that she and Bob had belonged to before their divorce. Aileen was on the boards of several charities, considering herself a "pillar of the community," and Bill was early-retired from an upper-management job at Daimler-Chrysler Corporation.
Politely, Shane rose to his feet, and Cilla was forced to introduce the Hanrans.
"Well, how nice to meet you, Shane," said Aileen, her eyes resting on Shane with curiosity and interest. In the dim restaurant light he looked incredibly young, Cilla realizedin embarrassment. "What company do you work for, Shane?" Aileen inquired.
"I'm with Cybelle," responded Shane courteously. "In Legal."
"Legal? Oh ... well, don't let us interrupt your meeting," said Aileen, saying a few more pleasantries and then taking her husband's arm as they followed the host to their own table on the opposite end of the room. As the host pulled out Aileen's chair, Cilla saw her dart one more curious glance in their direction.
Cilla sat rigidly, her cheeks stinging. She knew that if Shane had been fifty instead of twenty-six, Aileen would have assumed they were on a date, instead of having a business meeting. Why hadn't she spoken up, why had she allowed Aileen to make the incorrect assumption?
"Relax," Shane said.
"What?" Cilla jumped.
"You have a right to go out with any man you choose without being judged or made to feel uncomfortable."
"I know, but ..." She faltered. "I couldn't believe she assumed we had to be having a meeting."
"My age," said Shane. "It really bothers you, doesn't it?"
She looked down at the covered serving dish that held their "angry" shrimp. "Well ..."
Shane's smile was warm. "Cilia, I need to tell you that I like older woman, and I always have. I've dated plenty of women my own age, but I've usually found them to be too shallow, wanting to talk about rock concerts, TV shows, their roommate, their annoying job, or the bars they like to go to. I start cracking yawns after about an hour of being with them."
"Oh." She raised her eyes to his, searching his face to see if he was telling her the truth.
"Older women have so much more--of all the inner things," Shane explained. "They've had more years to learn how to love, and they are so much more interesting. Likeyou, Cilla. I love it that you're a beautiful, intelligent and powerful woman who has her life together and knows who she is and what she wants."
Was that how he saw her?
"And I also find you incredibly sexy," Shane added huskily. "You must have guessed that."
"Yes." She couldn't stop flushing. The hot flashes kept surging over her skin, overheating her body.
Shane's eyes were locked on hers. "I need to tell you this so that you'll understand me better. My first sexual experience happened when I was fifteen, with one of my mother's close friends. We were all staying at a condo on Daytona Beach. The others went out to the beach but I came back to get some money so I could buy myself a boogie board so I could body surf. Georgia was taking a shower. She came out with this towel wrapped around her ... well, it was an amazing experience for me, just amazing. She told me that women were always going to love me, that I could have just about any woman I wanted, that I could have her anytime, all I had to do was call her."
"I see," said Cilla, stunned at the mind pictures Shane was conjuring up in her head. "How old was Georgia?"
"At the time she was forty. Nowadays they would probably have pressed charges against her, like they did that teacher who had an affair with her fourteen-year-old student, but we kept it a secret. We saw each other off and on for nearly three years. Then Georgia's husband got transferred and they moved away. She marked me for life, Cilla. After knowing her, high school girls seemed immature. They didn't know how to talk. They couldn't make love. All they thought about was themselves."
Cilla was silent, thinking that it was almost a cliché, The Graduate reenacted. And it had happened only eleven years ago.
"Does that story bother you, Cilla?"
"No, not really," she lied.
"I haven't had that many lovers," Shane went on. "There was one of my professors at Michigan. And a woman I met while I was in Cozumel one time."
Aileen Hanran was still staring, Cilla noticed. It irritated her. I'm not a damn cradle robber, she found herself thinking angrily. I'm just out to enjoy a pleasant evening.
She lifted her hand and finger-waved to the woman, and Aileen gave an uncertain smile and looked away.
"Please," Cilla said, hoping to stop Shane from making any more of these revelations about his sexual history. "I don't need to hear any more. I accept it that you like older women. Let's just take it one step at a time, all right?"
"Cilla, we are two adults, right? Adulthood covers a wide range, from about age twenty to ninety. We both fit in that range. Why do we have to worry about what small-minded people like your friends over there think?" He reached out and took her hand in his. His flesh felt warm, full of vitality. "I want you to promise me that you'll just enjoy being with me, and stop worrying."


The fall evening was crisp, a gala yellow harvest moon hanging overhead like part of the party decor.
The party was being held in a big, rambling house in Bloomfield Township, more than 150 people crowded around a bar and a buffet table loaded with a huge variety of hors d'oeuvres apparently brought by the club members.
Shane introduced her around, and everyone seemed to accept her as Shane's date.
"Are you going to jump?" asked Jill Brewton, a vibrant-looking woman with dark brown hair and fine wrinkles on her face. Jill must be the fifty-eight-year-old jumper that Shane had told her about earlier. Startled, Cilia realized that Jill was actually very beautiful. Had Shane dated her? Did his taste for older women extend to women thirty years older than himself?
"Oh, no, I don't think so," she responded.
"Jumping is a peak life experience," said Jill. "Even if you only do it once, you'll never forget it. If you ever decide to try, our club offers classes for beginners. You can take the class and jump all in the same day. Some people jump two or three times in that one day."
"Interesting."
Later, Shane and Cilla walked out on the lawn, where some of the guests were dancing to Top forty music in a large, Victorian-style gazebo equipped with stereo speakers.
"What did you think of Jill?" asked Shane, putting his arm around Cilla.
"She's very unusual."
Shane leaned closer. "I've never dated her, Cilla, if that's what you're wondering. Oh, I saw your face when you met her," he went on, smiling. "Jill has a live-in lover who is also a member of this club. He's sixty. She's a wonderful friend, but that's as far as it goes."
He'd been sensitive enough to read her mind on that one. Cilla relaxed a little. "Age, age, age," she said lightly. "How about if we forget it for the rest of the evening, okay? And maybe we could dance. I think they're just starting to play a slow one."
"My pleasure," said Shane, leading her toward the gazebo.


It was nearly 2:30 A.M. before Shane finally drove his Ford Explorer into Cilla's driveway. Outdoor floodlights lit up the condo complex, but otherwise nearly all of the windows were dark. Most of Cilla's neighbors were in their forties or older, and seldom stayed up much past midnight.
Shane shut off his motor and headlights, and they sat in the vehicle, enclosed by glass and steel. It was a privacy much more stringent than a hotel room.
The kiss began softly but within seconds became deep and seeking, and Cilla wrapped her arms around Shane,straining to get her body closer to his over the gearshift box. Her heartbeat was slamming.
"Cilla ... ah, God, Cilla ..." Shane pulled away briefly to mutter her name, then they were locked onto each other again, urgent need consuming them.
Cilia felt her vulva beginning to moisten, honeylike ripples of pleasure traveling through her pelvis. She felt panic rush over her. All she had to do was say one word and he'd be inside her condo and then her bedroom.
"You're so incredibly sexy," murmured Shane, sliding his hands up and down Cilla's sides in such a way that his palms brushed the bases of her breasts. His touch was unbearably tingling, and Cilla couldn't help thrusting herself toward him again, willing him to cup her breasts in his hands.
He had just the right touch, his fingers gently kneading her tautened nipples. Panting, Cilia lifted up the front of her sweater.
"Ah, God," husked Shane, sliding both hands inside to caress her curves through the barely-there lace bra she wore. "Ah, Jesus."
Caught up in the rapture, Cilia was totally focused on the physical sensations. It wasn't until a pair of headlights flared on the street that she realized she was sitting in a sport utility vehicle in her driveway, necking and half naked, in full sight of any of the condominium residents who might happen by.
"Let's go inside," whispered Shane, instantly catching her mood.
Cilia nodded, too excited to speak.
Within seconds she had punched her code into the security pad. Cilla had several lamps on timers, but only one of them was still on in the living room, casting a dim, pinkish glow. Shane slid her sweater up over her head, slipping off the bra, kissing her nipples greedily, his tongue sucking and licking until Cilla thought she would have an orgasm just from this.
"Clothes," she muttered.
They started stripping right there in her foyer, tearing the clothes off each other. Shane had an incredible body, deep-chested and muscular, with a mat of blond hair that began on his chest, wandered down in a thin line to his navel, then broadened again in a springy mass of curly hair. He was already erect, his penis so thick that Cilia wondered how her body could possibly take the breadth of him.
"Bedroom?" she whispered, but Shane was already lifting her up and carrying her to the middle of the living room, where he laid her down on the carpet, spreading her open as if she were an artichoke he intended to nibble bite by bite.
"Please!" she managed to gasp with the last shreds of her common sense. "What about--we need to use a condom. And ... have you been tested?"
"Yes to both. I tested free of virus. And I put a couple of condoms in my billfold tonight; they're fresh and new."
"I was tested last year and I haven't had sex since then. I'm fine, too." She caught her breath. "A couple of them?"
"Well ... actually I brought four. I had high aspirations."
She didn't know whether to laugh or to flush bright red the entire length of her body. She settled for both.


Cilia fought under a blaze of pleasure so intense that it burned her like a fire, while she gripped Shane's shoulders, digging her fingernails into his skin.
It was the second orgasm he had given her in two hours, even more piercing than the first one, which had lifted her to heights she hadn't believed possible. In fact, the heights hadn't been possible before. During her marriage to Bob, her climaxes had been few and mild. And, of course, with Lou there was no question of orgasm. Now, Cilla had been stunned to hear herself utter a muffled scream of ecstasy.
Just as Cilla came down, Shane began to climax, stiffening and grunting slightly, his head rocked backward, hismouth moving. Cilla opened her eyes, feeling like a voyeur as she watched him, but she couldn't stop herself. Caught out of control, Shane's face seemed beautified, almost angelic. And young. God, he only looked about fifteen, the same age he'd been when he'd had his first sexual experience.
In a moment his orgasm was over; it hadn't been nearly as intense as hers.
Cilla felt a wave of drugged satisfaction. She folded herself over, lying with her head cradled on Shane's chest. The carpeting was fuzzy and not really that comfortable, but she didn't have the energy to suggest that they move.
When was the last time she'd made love on the floor? Maybe when she first met Bob, she thought. And then he had complained about rug burn. Well, she'd bet that Shane had a hell of a case of rug burn tonight.
"You're like a fantasy come true," Shane murmured sleepily.
"And so are you, Shane, believe me."
"Good. I want to be your fantasy for a long, long time."
Shane folded both arms around her, his breathing becoming deep and regular. Perversely, Cilla wasn't sleepy. She tried to lie still, so as not to disturb him. Damn ... carpeting was very prickly on bare, damp skin, wasn't it? She wanted to scratch herself but didn't dare. Finally she settled for wiggling her butt a little, but that didn't really take care of the itch all along her back.
Lying there, she became aware of ambient night sounds. A siren somewhere on the main road. The on-off humming of her refrigerator's motor. The crackle of ice inside the icemaker. It occurred to her that they'd stained the carpet with their love juices. In the morning, she was going to have to use a carpet-cleaning solution.
In the morning. Oh, lord, was Shane planning to stay all night? Or even worse, did he plan to sleep on her carpeting all night?
Her mantel clock gave a little click that meant it was the hour, and by stretching a little, Cilla could see where the clock hands were positioned.
Five o'clock A.M.
Suddenly, Cilla remembered her maid, Kristi, a college student who came in twice a month to do a deep cleaning. Oh, lord, Kristi was due to arrive today at 7:30 A.M. If they didn't move, the young woman would walk right in and see both of them naked as jaybirds right in the middle of the living room floor.
Cilla sat up anxiously.
"Shane."
"Huh?"
"You have to get dressed now. I've got a maid coming at seven-thirty this morning--really, I'm not lying. You'd better go. I've got to straighten up a few things before she gets here."
Shane woke up quickly and easily. He sat up, the lamplight flashing off his bare, beautiful body.
"Cilla, this was wonderful. I can't tell you how wonderful. I want to see you again and again. Can I call you later tomorrow? I mean, today."
"Yes, please do."
He leaned over and kissed her again, this time gently. "I think I'm going to become very addicted to you, Cilia Westheim."
Cilia put on a bathrobe to say good-bye to Shane, who repeated his promise to call her later in the day. It was still pitch-black as he backed out of her driveway.
As soon as Shane's Explorer turned the corner, Cilla rushed into her kitchen, where she rummaged under her countertop until she had found an aerosol container of carpet-cleaning solution.
She had to switch on all of the living room lights in order to see where the stain was. Crouched in the middle of her floor in the first light of dawn, Cilla could still smell themusky odors of their bodies, the delirious scent of sex.
Instead of spraying, she sank with a groan onto the living room couch.
What was happening to her?
Her life was spinning out of control. She'd made love to a man twenty-four years her junior--on the floor. And now he wanted to see her "again and again" and had declared that he intended to become "very addicted" to her.
And she wanted it to happen! She was glorying in it.
She breathed deeply. Maybe it could work for a while, she told herself. She deserved something good to happen to her. She'd worked hard for years, she'd been in a bad marriage all that time, and then there'd been the nightmare with Lou Hechter. The financial mess. Her problems with Mindy.
Please, God, she prayed. Just a few months with him. It's all I ask. I deserve a little happiness


Saturday morning for Raquel meant depression. She lay in bed as long as she could, feeling too blue to get out of bed, and then finally awakened around 1:00, only to repeat her usual futile phone calls to Brett's answering machine. It was as if Brett never picked up his phone anymore. Or maybe he had thrown the answering machine onto a basement shelf, forgotten.
"Come on over to the house," said her sister, Ana, calling at around 2:00. "We got a new big-screen TV plus we got digital cable, and it's really fun. You've gotta come and see how great it is. It's like having a computer on your TV screen."
"I don't know ... . Brett and I were going to do some stuff."
"Yeah?" said Ana, not believing.
"Yeah. I'm helping him wallpaper his bathroom," lied Raquel.
She made an excuse, ending the conversation, then took a shower, and dipped her engagement ring in a cleaningsolution so it would sparkle as brightly as her love for Brett. She fussed with her hair, finally piling it high on her head and securing it with a clip. Defiantly she added a touch of lipstick and some plum-colored eye shadow.
Maybe she wouldn't drive by Brett's house today. He was never there anyway. Instead, decided Raquel, she would visit his health club. She'd gotten a cheap, three-days-a-week membership when she'd been going with him, and Saturday was one of the days she was allowed to use the club. Brett used to go there every Saturday afternoon ... . Why hadn't she thought of this before?
Carefully, Raquel packed her gym bag with the sexiest workout clothes she owned.
The club was located on Telegraph Road. Raquel cruised the parking lot, not seeing Brett's Cherokee. She fought her disappointment, but then told herself that he could have bought or leased another vehicle just to throw her offtrack.
She walked into the lobby, which was crowded with StairMaster machines and rows of exercise bikes, most of them being used, swiveling her eyes to see if she could spot Brett. After showing her card at the desk, Raquel walked through the various free weight rooms, the jogging track, the aerobic room, and even looked through the steamy windows at the pool, where members were swimming laps or relaxing in the Jacuzzi.
No Brett.
Well, maybe he was in the locker room or hadn't arrived yet. She'd make her stay here last a long time, and she'd stick to the lobby machines. It would be tough, using nothing but the StairMaster or the bikes, but at least she'd be more likely to see him if he did appear.
She was on the computerized exercise bike, pedaling along steadily, constantly monitoring the lobby door while CNN played on the television set suspended over the bike area.
Suddenly the man on the bike next to hers spoke up.
"Do you come in here every Saturday at this time?"
Raquel jerked around, startled.
"Are you speaking to me?"
"Yeah." He was about thirty, a slim, compact man with dark hair slightly receding from his forehead. His smile was amused, friendly. "I've seen you here occasionally. Don't you do the aerobics classes?"
"Yeah. And sometimes I do the step classes."
"I've done those; that's really a workout."
They talked about the club for a while, then the topic branched out to personal trainers. "Ever use one?" he asked her.
Brett had been the closest Raquel got to a personal trainer; he had often supervised her on the free weights.
"No ... I get enough nagging from my family," she quipped. "My mother and my sisters, they try to run my life enough as it is, I don't need a personal trainer to do it for me, too."
He grinned. "I know exactly what you mean. Well, look. I'm going onto the running track for a while, but I've enjoyed talking to you. Would you mind if I gave you my business card? Maybe you could call me sometime if you wanted to have lunch or a drink together."
Raquel wondered where on his workout outfit he could possibly put a business card.
He pulled one out of a pocket in his shorts, and handed it to her. "Hopefully it's not sweaty. I'm John Burgee, by the way. My office number and home number are written down. I'm not married and I'm not living with anyone. I'm heterosexual and I test clean. I don't smoke and I drink socially. I even go to church once in a while."
"I'm Raquel." By now she was laughing. "Do you really carry cards to the club, hoping to meet women?"
"In your case, I do. I saw you outside in the parking lot and I knew I wanted to meet you."
"You're too funny, John."
He inclined his head, giving her a cute, rakish look. "Thanks. Call."
He got up and left, and Raquel followed him with her eyes as he left the bike area and went down the corridor that led to the track. John was taller than Brett, and thinner, his arms and legs all wiry muscle. He had a nice, firm butt, she couldn't help noticing. But she'd bet anything he wasn't Catholic. Catholics didn't go to church "once in a while." They either went every Sunday or they never went.
She didn't know where to put the card he had given her, since her leotard did not have a pocket, so she slid it inside her sock.
He'd been cute, yes, but she probably wouldn't call him.
She loved Brett; she couldn't betray him with another man. Even if he'd betrayed her.
She spent over two hours in the lobby, alternately riding the bikes, climbing the StairMaster, and sitting at the juice bar. Brett did not show up.


Cilla and her girlfriend Eleanor Dishman met occasionally for Saturday brunch and a long gossip session. Today, Cilla realized as she was finally standing in the shower, washing off the fluids from her lovemaking with Shane Gancer, was her day to see Eleanor.
Well, she'd certainly have a lot to tell her, wouldn't she? Cilia could feel every tissue in her body glow.
As she exited the shower, her phone rang. Naked except for a towel, Cilla answered it.
"Don't you play-back your answering tape at all?" demanded Lou Hechter. "I called you about six times last night. I was working on something and wanted your take on it."
Cilla felt her glow flicker like a candle going out.
"Sorry, Lou, I was out for the evening," she said evenly.
"Oh? Well, I'm going into the office today and I need your input. I want you to come in for a couple of hours."
"Lou, I've already made plans for the day."
"What plans?"
"Just personal plans, Lou."
In the background, Cilla could hear a woman's voice saying something sharp. Lou was married to Marty Seligman, of the automotive Seligmans, and Marty was also a senior partner in a prestigious Bloomfield Hills law firm. Cilla had always wondered how much Marty knew, or suspected, about her and Lou. There were wild moments when she thought about phoning Marty and telling her everything, but Cilla knew that would be the end of her job for sure.
"Cilla, I'm working up the new TV ad campaign, trying to get some ideas. I have a kickoff meeting next week with Ruhnau Bravo, our new ad agency, and I want to have something decent to bring them so they can run right out of the gate."
"But--"
"Be there, all right?"
Cilla agreed to go in for a few hours after her brunch with Eleanor.
She hung up, feeling a flood of irritation mixed with fear. She had no doubt that when she played back her answering tape there'd be the messages from Lou, each one more demanding than the next. Lou Hechter seemed to labor under the impression that he owned her--an impression Cilla certainly hadn't managed to dispel, had she?
Lou was a huge problem. He was the albatross around her neck.
She had to do something about him, especially now that she was seeing Shane Gancer.
Especially now.


"So you have a new maaaan," Eleanor teased when she and Cilla were seated at a table at Sanford's. Both had ordered toasted bagels, along with coffee. Cilla specified that her bagel was to be unbuttered, with no cream cheese. Temptingodors from the adjoining baked goods counter drifted through the room, but Cilia didn't dare even think about getting a raspberry Danish, which was what she really wanted.
"New man?" she parried the question.
Eleanor laughed. "Hey, I can tell by your bloodshot eyes. You look as if you haven't had a wink of sleep since yesterday. Tell Eleanor all about him."
Eleanor Dishman was fifty-two, dieted reed-thin, and had been divorced for nearly ten years, in that time going through at least five serial relationships. Lately, though, she hadn't been able to find a man who appealed to her--or so she said.
"There's not a lot to tell," demurred Cilla.
"Oh, right. You've got that postcoital look in your eyes, big-time. Come on, you can tell me. Who is this guy? What does he do? Or more to the point, what did you and he do?"
Cilla couldn't help laughing at Eleanor's irrepressible nosiness. "We went to a party last night."
"Oh, whose party?"
"A skydiving club."
"Skydiving? Just who is this guy anyway?"
"His name is Shane Gancer, and he's in the Legal Department at Cybelle," Cilla began, and then she rushed on. "He's twenty-six years old, Eleanor."
Eleanor put down her coffee cup. "Twenty-six? Did I hear that right?"
"Yes."
"Let's see, that's ..." Eleanor began counting on her fingers.
"You don't have to count it up, Eleanor. It's a lot of years."
Eleanor gazed at her, her glance both curious and admiring. "Well, it looks as if you still have what it takes, Cilla. I'm assuming this guy is a real hunk."
"Why do you assume that?"
But the remark rolled right over Eleanor's head. "Is he good in bed?"
"I don't know; I haven't been to bed with him yet," said Cilla, telling the literal truth. "Not to bed. But he was very good."
Eleanor giggled. "Maybe this is just what you need, Cilla, a good fling with a handsome younger guy before you really settle down and get your life squared away."
"I suppose." Pensively, Cilla nibbled her plain bagel. A fling? Was that what this was? It didn't feel like a fling at all to her. It felt as if something a lot more was happening.
"I'm thinking of getting some lipo done," said Eleanor, changing the subject.
"Liposuction?"
"Yes ... my stomach is getting loose and poochy, and my waistline has gotten two inches bigger in the past two years. My clothes aren't hanging right anymore."
Eleanor was always talking like this--she and Cilla had been debating the pros and cons of liposuction, collagen injections and plastic surgery for years. But before, they'd both agreed that it was silly to take surgical risks, and what if the doctor botched the job? Eleanor's college friend had actually died on the table while getting a neck job.
"I'm serious this time," said Eleanor.
"But you're thin. You're too thin, Eleanor. I've always told you, you'd look better with ten extra pounds."
Eleanor tossed her carefully streaked blond hair. "You can never be too rich or too thin. Well, I'm not rich so I'd better go for thin. Besides ..." She hesitated. "When I go to a party now, it seems as if I'm not getting the attention I used to. Guys aren't interested in fifty-two-year-old women who look their age. They want the younger chicks."
Cilla frowned. "It's not all looks, Eleanor."
"Is that what this twenty-six-year-old tells you? Face it, Cilla, he probably thinks you're rich and wants to be your boy toy."
Cilla caught her breath. Eleanor could sometimes be cuttingly frank, but this was too much. "I really can't believe you said that."
"But--the age thing. Aren't you worried about the fact that he's so much younger? Twenty-four years, Cilla."
Cilia heard the sharpness in Eleanor's tone.
"Both of us are handling it," she said. "And to think that just a few minutes ago you were glad I was having a good fling."
"Cilla, do the math. You're fifty now and you're very attractive. No wonder he wants to take you out. But when he's forty, you're going to be sixty-six. And when he's sixty-six, you're going to be either dead or in a nursing home celebrating your ninetieth birthday."
"Oh, thanks for helping me figure that out," snapped Cilla angrily. She tossed her napkin onto her plate. "Anything else you want to tell me about why this will never work?"
"Well, there's the fact that you're always going to be worried about younger women coming along. You'll end up having a lot of plastic surgery, always being afraid you'll lose him if you don't get it. You'll become a plastic surgery junkie."
"You mean like you're going to be?" Cilla snapped.
Eleanor bit her lip, reddening unbecomingly. "Cilla ..."
Cilla grabbed her purse, fishing in her wallet for a $20 bill. She dropped it on the table. "Enjoy breakfast on me, Eleanor. I've got to drop into the office this morning, and I really have to fly."
"Cilla, I'm sorry--"
"Look, so am I. But I'm not ready for the damn nursing home yet. Sorry to disappoint you. And oh, by the way, if you'd focus a little more on being fun to be around instead of a stupid two extra inches on your waistline, you'd probably get asked out a hell of a lot more."
Cilla rushed out of the restaurant, her eyes stinging. She and Eleanor had had their tiffs before, but never like this--never about a topic that seemed to cut right into Cilla's vulnerability.


Cilla managed to put her tiff with Eleanor out of her mind, and helped Lou brainstorm ideas for the ad campaign, snapping at him when he suggested lunch.
"I came here to work, not to ingest calories," she heard herself say.
Lou had nodded. Female diet strictures were very familiar to him. Besides, he was enough of a workaholic not to want to stop to eat anyway.
Cilla left Cybelle by 4:00, driving back to her condo. She had a couple of Weight Watchers dinners in the freezer but they didn't sound appealing. Actually, what she wanted was a half order of baby back spareribs--totally forbidden fare now. She decided to have some water-pack tuna right out of the can, with a small salad. She exercised to her video, pushing the workout. Sweat ... get past the pain ... .
She had showered and was looking at the previews for pay-per-view when the phone rang.
"Cilla," said Shane, his voice low, sexy.
"Hi."
"I just called to say I've been thinking about you ... a lot."
Again that slow, all-body flush crept over Cilla's skin, coupled with alarmingly sensual feelings that radiated up from her genitals. Those orgasms he had given her ... it was as if parts of them had remained in her body cells and were now regenerating.
"Well, I had to go into the office for a few hours," she said.
"Work, on a day like today?"
"It's been known to happen."
"I know a place where we can go and see a boat race tomorrow on the St. Clair River," Shane said. "Since we never got over there the other week. High-powered boatsthat go about a hundred and fifty miles an hour. Are you game?"
Cilla laughed. Did he ever do anything "nice and easy," as the old Ike and Tina Turner song said? He was so brimming with energy that he wanted to go all the time.
"Whoa. Whoa, there. Sunday is my day to unwind, not rev up. How about if we do something peaceful?"
"Like what?"
"Like ... oh ... maybe renting a movie. Tonight I was going to see what was on pay-per-view but there's nothing on except slasher movies and some flick about U.S. soldiers fighting giant cockroaches the size of three-story houses. Who watches those things anyway, psychopaths?"
He laughed. "I think fifteen-year-olds. I've got a great rental place near my condo. What movie does milady wish to view tonight? Oh, and it comes with Chinese takeout, popcorn and me."
Cilla felt a stab of sexual desire so intense that she stopped breathing.
"The American President," she said. "I know it's an old one, but I've seen it twice and I just love the romance."
"Well, I've never seen it. I'll pick it up. What time do you want me over there?"
Her heart. Pounding, pitty-pat. She tried to imagine sitting on the couch holding hands with Shane while watching one of her favorite "girl flicks." He'd probably have his hand on her knee or thigh ... she could feel herself melt.
"As soon as you can get here," she whispered.


On Monday morning Karyn was typing a travel itinerary when Cilla came striding in, nearly two hours late and looking wonderful.
Karyn looked at her boss. Cilla's face seemed more glowing, her color high. Her eyes sparkled. She was wearing a fitted Gemi suit with a wide collar and no blouse--a trendy, sexy look that Cilia carried off exceptionally well. And herhair. It feathered appealingly around her face, looking brighter, more glossy.
"You really look great today," Karyn couldn't help saying. Raquel had told her that Cilla was fifty, but Cilla didn't seem like any fifty-year-old that Karyn had ever met.
"Thanks. I had my hair cut and highlighted. Not too red? God forbid I should look like Lucille Ball."
"Trust me, you don't look a thing like Lucy."
"Good." Cilla walked into her office, her steps swingy and young.
Ten minutes later there was a call from the security desk--flowers had arrived for Cilla Westheim. Karyn trotted down to the door to pick them up.
"Somebody's got somebody special," remarked Cherise, handing her the heavy arrangement swathed in the usual green floral paper.
But when Karyn carried the flowers into her supervisor's office, Cilla made no move to open the wrapping. "I'll open them later," she said, flushing. "I really don't like getting flowers at work. I'll have to find some inconspicuous place to put them."
Karyn nodded and left the room, dying of curiosity. Cilla obviously hadn't wanted to open the flowers in front of her--so who had sent them?
Half an hour later, Karyn was leaving voice mail messages regarding a meeting Cilla had called, when Lou Hechter paused at her desk.
"Did anyone ever tell you what a sexy voice you have?"
Startled out of her concentration, Karyn stopped in mid-message.
"A very sexy voice," he repeated. His eyes raked up and down her, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath the white blouse she wore. "In fact, you could get a job on one of those phone-in sex lines if you wanted to, Karyn. I'd certainly call your number. In fact, I'd call it again and again."
Karyn stared at him, startled and repelled. As usual, no one was around; Raquel had gone off somewhere, and Cilla's office door was closed. The hallway was temporarily deserted, not even a maintenance man in sight. Lou seemed to have the uncanny ability to pick times when no one would hear his off-color remarks but her.
"Please, Mr. Hechter, I don't appreciate being spoken to like that."
"Oh? What have I said? I was just flirting a little, Miss. Karyn. Surely you've been flirted with before. It's all very harmless. Just a little fun."
Fun? Being compared to a sex line worker?
"I prefer to stick to business," she said firmly. "And I do need to send these phone messages, Mr. Hechter," she added, hoping he would go away.
Lou's eyes glinted. "Well, don't let me stop you, Karyn. By all means send your messages. Be a good little employee ."
He walked into his office, shutting the door loudly.
Tears suddenly stung Karyn's eyes, and she got up from her desk, walking quickly to the women's room. She went into a stall and closed the latch, sitting on the commode with tears running down her cheeks. They were as much tears of anger as they were of frustration.
It wasn't that she couldn't handle this. She could. She'd run into jerks before on her previous jobs. One boss regularly had yelled obscenities. The office had reverberated with words like "shit," and "fuck," but management had condoned his behavior, promoting him. Fed up, Karyn had phoned her temporary agency and asked for another assignment.
She could do that again; Aunt Connie's agency could get her another temping job within days. But Karyn didn't want to temp any longer. She couldn't afford to. Now that she was divorced, she had the full responsibility of Amber. She desperately needed benefits and some kind of job security. Besides, she loved Cybelle. It was more than "just a job."It was fun and interesting every day, and the people--except for Lou--were great.
All jobs had their downside, she reminded herself. Difficult people ... unpleasant personalities ... you found them in almost every company. You just had to avoid them as much as possible, stay out of their way.
She blew her nose and left the ladies' room, returning to her desk.
Her phone rang.
"Karyn?" said Roger Canton. "How about going across the street with me today for lunch at a different place? I know a really great Italian place and it's only a short hike."
"I'd love to," said Karyn, but without her usual enthusiasm.
"Everything okay? Your voice sounds a little funny."
"I'm fine."
She wanted to pour out her feelings to Roger. She could really use a little TLC and sympathy right now, but quickly she stopped herself. Lou was Roger's boss, too.
No, she would fight her own battles, she wouldn't involve Roger. And she didn't want to say too much to Raquel, either. She was afraid of what might happen if Lou heard she'd been complaining about him.


That night, Jinny Caribaldi didn't have to work her usual shift and could stay home with the girls, so Caitlin invited Amber to sleep over.
"Can I? Oh, can I?" Amber begged. "And Caitlin says bring my kitty. Missy can play with Fluff Ball."
"It's a school night, honey. And it's Mrs. Caribaldi's night off; she probably needs the rest."
"Mrs. Caribaldi says it's okay. She says we have to go to bed at nine. Caitlin has bunk beds and she said I could sleep on top. Please, Mom! Huh? Huh?"
"All right," agreed Karyn, after calling Jinny to confirm that Amber was welcome. The two women made arrangementsthat Caitlin would sleep over one weekend night so that Jinny could go out.
Karyn then called and invited Roger Canton over for dinner. "If you don't mind simple cooking," she specified.
"I love simple cooking."
Karyn had found a new chicken recipe that could be prepared in half an hour, adding a salad from one of those prepackaged envelopes that already contained baby mixed lettuce, garlic croutons and raspberry vinaigrette dressing. With it she warmed up a loaf of French bread she had sprinkled with herbs.
Roger raved about the food as if it was of gourmet quality.
"I can't tell you how pleasant it is to have some home-cooked food," he told her. "I have to confess I eat so often at the Big Boy near my house that all the waitresses know my name."
Dessert was freshly sliced Michigan-grown peaches served over ice cream. Then Karyn and Roger cleaned up the kitchen together like a couple married for fifteen years. She had to admit it felt very comfortable to be doing that. Mack had never helped in the kitchen. He'd acted as if anything in the kitchen was all her domain.
"Tell me more about Lou Hechter," Karyn said casually as they were loading the apartment-size dishwasher. "I mean--what is he really like?"
"Lou? He's quite a force at Cybelle. Well, you already know that by now."
"How long has he been around?"
"Oh, forever. Lou was manager of a Cybelle in Shaker Heights before he came to the International Headquarters. He's really done a lot to build up the business and give Cybelle the glamour image it has now. You have to give him credit for that."
Roger went on telling her Lou stories, some funny, some not. Once Lou had given fifteen buyers Christmas stockingswith lumps of coal in them. Another time he had asked Maintenance to dump over fifteen hundred pounds of unsold merchandise in a man's office, piling the unwanted garments all over the buyer's desk, chair and floor. Shortly after that, the man had quit.
"Lou is ... well, Lou. His talent is undeniable, Karyn. No one disputes that. But the way he chooses to express himself, well, you have to develop a tough shell when you're around him. And woe to you if you don't produce."
When the kitchen was cleared up, the counters wiped, Karyn suggested they go into the living room. She had rented a movie at Blockbuster Video.
She slid the tape into the VCR, but before she could push Play, Roger gently pulled her into his arms. They sank onto the couch, awkwardly locked together. Karyn's heartbeat pounded thickly as Roger opened his mouth on hers.
His kiss felt unfamiliar. She'd only kissed three other men before, two high school boyfriends and, of course, Mack. Mack had had very thin, hard lips. Roger's lips were fuller, softer, and there was the mustache.
Roger planted soft kisses on her cheeks, her neck, her ears, then groaned with desire as he returned to her mouth, deep-kissing her until Karyn thought she would collapse from nerves and desire. Did this mean ... Were they going to sleep together? She could feel her heart fluttering, but abruptly the anticipation faded.
She barely knew Roger Canton. She liked him, yes, but ...
"Is everything all right?" asked Roger, pulling away slightly as he sensed her change of mood.
"It's ... I guess ... I think maybe we'd better stop right here before we go too far."
"All right. I'm sorry if I got too pushy."
"It wasn't that." She sat up. "It's just that I'm new at divorce, and ... I didn't really expect to be dating this soon."
"I understand," he said quietly. "Look, Karyn, I have plenty of time and plenty of patience. I like you, and you like me. We don't have to rush."
She smiled at him, feeling a sense of deep relief. "You're a nice man."
"I aim to be."
"So let's turn on the movie, huh? Let's see what Harrison Ford is up to."
"Sounds like a plan to me," agreed Roger comfortably.


Cilla was running on adrenaline.
All week she'd felt that way, as if her own, personal body time was on double speed. At work she flew through her daily meetings, phone calls and computer work. Yet still her mind kept breaking off for short, intense fantasies that were almost impossible to put aside. Shane holding her ... kissing her ... bringing her to fantastic orgasms ...
By the time she went home from work she was still wired, and she dictated letters and worked on her laptop, waiting breathlessly to see whether or not he was going to call that night.
Those phone calls. Hours long.
They talked about everything, from their preferences in wine to crazy things they'd done in high school. Once, Shane told her, he and two friends had hitched a ride on a freight train and traveled all the way to Atlanta, where they'd been stranded in a railroad yard, unable to get off the train car because a security guard would see them. They'd been trapped there for more than twenty-four hours, parched with thirst, until the guard finally went away and they could sneak off.
"That's really adventuresome," said Cilla. "A lot more than me."
"What's the craziest thing you ever did, Cilla?" Shane wanted to know.
"I don't think I was that crazy, actually."
"You must have done something wild."
"Well, I did get a tattoo once."
"A tattoo!" Shane laughed. "What kind of a tattoo?"
"It was the name of the Beatles." Cilla flushed scarlet. "I was wild for them. I had it tattooed on my shoulder. My parents made me have it taken off. I still have a scar there."
"I wish I could have known you then, Cilla," he'd said softly, not making any remark about how old the group was or how it dated her. "I'll bet you were awesome."


On Wednesday, Cilla glanced up as Karyn brought her in the typed agenda for a meeting.
"Good job, Karyn," she said, looking it over. "No changes, just copy this and have it in the meeting room in fifteen minutes. I'm going to run down to the vending room and get myself some coffee."
"I'd be glad to get it for you," offered Karyn.
"Oh, no. I never ask my assistant to fetch coffee for me. But I do want to say, Karyn, that I am just so pleased at the way you're catching on here. Your attitude is definitely great."
Cilla found some change in her desk drawer, got up from her desk and headed down the hall to the vending room. She put three quarters in the coffee machine, pushing the button for cream. The machine was slow, taking its time about dribbling fluid into the flimsy-looking plastic cup.
She heard the door open and glanced up automatically to see who had entered.
Lou.
"Well, helloooo," he drawled, closing the door behind him.
"I was just getting some fast coffee before my meeting," Cilla said, not liking the gleaming look in Lou's eyes.
"How about a fast something else, right here and now?"
"Lou." Cilla was horrified.
"It'd be exciting, wouldn't it? I'd pull your panties down,pull your skirt up around your waist. We could do it standing up, Cilla. You could straddle your legs around me and I'd hold you right against my dick ... push it in and out of you ... . You'd come until you screamed."
Have sex right there in the coffee room, where anyone could walk through the door and catch them in the act? Cilla realized that Lou was only bluffing--he had to be. Even he wouldn't risk his job and reputation by being caught with his pants down, screwing his coworker ... would he? Anger filled her. Lou loved having her in his power, pushing her further every time.
The machine had finally finished dispensing her coffee, and she opened the plastic door and grabbed the cup, lifting it up high, putting the hot liquid between her and him.
"Got to get back, Lou. Better move, because I don't want to spill this on you."
"We're going to get together soon, Cilla," he said, but he did back away. "By the way, I saw the flowers in your office. You hid them in a corner, didn't you?" His voice mocked her. "Who're they from?"
"A friend," responded Cilla defiantly.
"Yeah, right." He laughed nastily, but she knew him well enough to know he really did want to know who it was. Thank God she'd torn up the card from Shane and thrown it away in the women's room wastebasket. She should have tossed out the whole bouquet or taken it home, but she'd been afraid Lou would see her in the hall with it.
Holding up the coffee, Cilia managed to slip past her employer and push open the door, just as a couple of accounting clerks were walking in. She nodded at them, making her escape down the hall, walking so fast that the coffee sloshed onto the floor.
How could this have happened to her? Cilia wondered as she proceeded to the meeting. Where had she gone wrong? It had to be her fault. If she hadn't gone to bed with Lou that first, foolish time ... If she'd been stronger ...
She'd started out in the business so starry-eyed, She'd loved retailing from almost her first day of work. It held such excitement for her.
And now ...


That night Cilla didn't stay late, but left at 5:00 along with everyone else. She just wanted to escape ... to put Cybelle behind her for an evening.
Walking through the kitchen of her condo, Cilla saw that the hand-painted wicker basket was still piled up with bills. She was going to have to juggle Peter to pay Paul, she realized with a sinking feeling, but she didn't have the heart to get into it tonight. She decided to procrastinate again.
She played back her answering machine messages, two cute, sexy ones from Shane that made her laugh, and a message from Mindy asking her to call her at the dorm.
She dialed Albion and managed to catch her daughter.
"Mom, your voice sounds funny," said Mindy, her own voice sounding as if she was chewing.
"Are you eating something?"
"Just some microwave popcorn. Look, Mom, I really need another check. I know you just sent me one, but I need to get another dress and some clothes and things. And my roomie and I need a new microwave; the one we have is practically broken."
"But you're eating microwave popcorn right now," Cilla protested.
"Yeah, and it blew a fuse and it's shooting out sparks."
Cilla thought about the humongous stack of bills, and reluctantly agreed to send a check to cover the microwave and a few clothes. "You have Kelly pay half of the cost of the microwave," she told her daughter, feeling frugal. "How are things with Dylan?" she added.
"Oh, he--he has another girlfriend," Mindy responded, starting to cry.
"Honey, I'm sorry."
"All. guys are jerks. I hate guys, I really, really do." Mindy went on in this manner, telling Cilla all about how Dylan had asked two girls to attend the same dance, then bailed out on Mindy after he had the second girl locked in. He also had told everyone that Mindy's breasts were too small.
"He is a jerk," said Cilla, surprised.
"I wish I could get saline implants," Mindy went on. "I know three or four girls who have them. Mom, they have this new procedure now; they go in through this little cut above your navel, you hardly even have a scar."
"Mindy, you don't need implants. And the jury's still out on this breast implant safety thing."
"Mom ... saline ones are the safe kind, and I'm practically flat."
"You are a very pretty, slender girl, and you don't need implants. Besides, it's elective surgery and I haven't got the funds right now."
"I'm ugly this way! He laughed at me, Mom."
Cilla felt a pang of sympathy for Mindy. She remembered how unsure she had felt about her own body when she'd been her daughter's age. And young men always sensed that vulnerability, didn't they? They'd tease a woman about being chubby, or having big hips or tiny breasts ... . It was terribly ironic, Cilia thought. By the time you finally developed some self-love of your own figure, if you ever really did, it was already beginning to sag into middle age.
"Mindy, if you could see my bill basket you wouldn't even ask about elective surgery."
"But I want--"
"Mindy."
The college student expelled her breath in an irritated sigh, making sure Cilla knew her disappointment. "I'll go to Dad. Dad will listen to me. I'll make him listen ... . Mom, are you still dating that guy you told me about, that Shane guy?"
"Yes, I am."
"He's not Shane Gancer, is he?"
"Why ... yes."
"Because this girl at school knows Shane's younger sister, Jennie. She says he's a lawyer and just got a job at Cybelle so I knew it had to be the same guy ... but it can't be, can it?" said Mindy. "I told her it wasn't the same one, because this Shane Gancer's only twenty-six years old."
A beat of silence throbbed along the phone wire. Cilia felt totally stopped, unsure of what to say.
Mindy jumped in. "You're dating a guy who's only twenty-six?"
"Well, yes."
"Mom ..." Mindy's voice rose in a wail. "It's disgusting! He's only six years older than me!"
Cilia caught her breath, stung by her daughter's careless, hurtful statement. "Mindy, it's not so simple," she began.
"I think it's really, really gross and disgusting. It's just a horrid menopausal crisis! I hate you. You're so selfish. You never think of me, Mom, not even once! If my friends ever find out about this they'll laugh at me, they'll say he's your boy toy!"
"Mindy--"
But then Cilla heard the dial tone. Her daughter had hung up on her.
She rubbed her burning eyes, tamping down the anger she felt at Mindy's reaction. When adolescence had hit Mindy at age twelve, she had changed drastically from the loving little girl who used to cuddle up to Cilla. She'd always used Bob against Cilla, even though Bob wasn't the one who paid out the serious money, nor was he the one who was dependable and available. Now his second family took all of his attention and poor Mindy was only an obligation--if he remembered her at all.
Mindy was in denial about a lot of things, and she would be devastated to have reality rubbed into her face. Eventhough Cilla was angry at her daughter right now, she didn't wish that on a vulnerable young woman.
Cilla sank into a chair. She wished she could go back, somewhere along the line, and change things between her and Mindy. But where would she start? It all seemed so complicated.
Her whole life was complicated.
When am I going to be happy? Cilla wondered. She had waited all her life for some far-off dream called "happiness," and now she was fifty and it still hadn't arrived.


Karyn and Roger were in the living room watching television while Amber sat at the kitchen table, scrunched over a book report she was writing. The kitten crouched on the table top next to the young girl, waving its fluffy orange tail. Every two or three minutes, Amber would reach out and pet the cat, then return to her work.
To Karyn the sight was beautiful. Amber looked happy, content. Karyn just hoped she could keep things that way for her daughter. The strain of worrying about Lou Hechter and her own job was beginning to tell on Karyn, and she hadn't been sleeping well for several weeks.
"How's the book report coming, Amber?" called Roger.
"Okay. How do you spell awesome?"
Karyn smiled as Roger spelled out the word.
A local news program was playing on the TV set.
"And going back to two big cases that garnered a lot of attention, the accusations of misconduct against Sergeant Major Gene McKinney in the military, and the accusations against Bill Clinton, I would say that both of these cases certainly sent a negative message to women."
A caption underneath one of the women speakers said that she was Kathy Ellefson, president of a group called Concerned Women for America.
"What sort of negative message?" said the anchor.
"That if you speak out when you are sexually harassed,people are not going to take you seriously." Ellefson explained, "Number one, your character is going to be verbally attacked, and number two, you may not get your day in court."
"Let's see if we can get a movie," suggested Roger.
But Karyn was still staring at the screen. The host was now introducing the second guest, an African-American woman about thirty-five years old, wearing a gray business suit coupled with a red silk blouse, its color reminding Karyn of a red flag.
"Malia Roberts, a Juris Doctor graduate of the University of Michigan Law School and a member of several feminist groups, has been specializing in sexual harassment cases. Malia, have we become too worried about sexual harassment? Has the definition of it become too broad? Remember that little boy who was suspended from school because he kissed a little girl?"
"Yes, I remember that very, very well. Diane, there's a huge difference between what an innocent little child does, or a few flirtatious words, and downright crude or suggestive things. Most people know where that line is; they know when they've offended someone. Except for a few, and those are the harassers."
"Harassment has become a weapon on both sides," put in the host. "I've talked to men who say they were unfairly accused of--"
"Now, wait a minute," said Malia. "Wait just a minute. I've been in the trenches here. I've prosecuted cases for women who were actually raped on a factory floor. Women who were forced to walk down a row of machines with the men reaching out and grabbing their butts. Who had to put up with pornographic pictures in their lunchroom and being taped to their computers. These women did not abuse the weapon of sexual harassment. They told the truth. And we proved it in court."
Karyn sat with the clicker in her hand, fully absorbed in the discussion.
When the half-hour program was over, she sat still for a minute, her mind whirling. This Malia Roberts seemed so tough and savvy--she had really impressed Karyn. And she was local; she had her offices somewhere in Detroit, the anchor had said.
But of course she wouldn't be seeing a lawyer about Lou Hechter. No one in Karyn's family had ever seen a lawyer, aside from Karyn's own divorce proceedings. And the harassment in her case wasn't really severe. It was bearable. And it sure beat the alternative, which was losing her job.
"Karyn?" Roger was saying.
"What?" Karyn was jerked away from her thoughts.
"Anything wrong? The way you stared at that program ..."
She reddened. "I was just interested, that's all."
Roger hesitated. "Karyn, I hope I'm not prying too much here, but something's going on with you, isn't it? You're worried about something. Can you talk to me about it?"
"I ... I don't know if I can or if I should."
"I promise whatever you tell me I'll keep in confidence."
She drew in a deep breath. Part of her wanted to tell him, but she was afraid of the repercussions it could have if for some reason Roger wasn't able to keep her secret or chose not to.
"It's ... something I have to deal with," she finally told him.
"I see." He bit his lip. "Well, I brought some work home tonight, so maybe I'd better leave and try to catch up on it." He got to his feet, and Karyn could tell that she'd offended him.
"Roger ..." She jumped up, too. "I didn't mean ... This is just something that I have to work through by myself. I will tell you all about it, I promise, but I can't do it rightnow. Please understand that I would never hurt you. I would never want to do that."
"I know." They both looked at each other, and Karyn saw the love plainly in Roger's eyes, shining out of them.
"I ..." she started to say.
He moved toward her, pulling her into his arms, and she stood pressed against his solidness, breathing in the clean, familiar smells of the fabric softener he'd used on his shirt, his skin and shampoo. Gratefully she stayed in the circle of his arms, loving the safe feeling, which she had never had with Mack.
"Karyn, is it sexual harassment that's happening to you?" he whispered into her neck.
"I ..."
"Is it Lou Hechter?"
"Oh, God, Roger." Anxiously, she pulled away. "Yes, but ... Please don't say anything. Please! Not yet. I'm not ready. I'm handling it right now."
"I'm so sorry, Karyn."
"It happens sometimes," she choked.
"I've heard rumors about Lou over the years. Some of the women who've worked for him before ... they've said things."
"Like what things?" she couldn't help asking.
Roger hesitated. "I heard it fourthhand, so I can't really speak for the truth of what was said. Just that some things were said. Anyway, I'm there for you, Karyn. Anything you need--anytime. I don't care what."
She hugged him again. "Thank you," she responded. Her eyes blurred with moisture. "But I don't want you to get involved, Roger. Lou is your boss, too. No sense both of us getting into trouble over this. Really and honestly."
Roger lingered for a few more minutes, saying good-night to both Amber and Karyn before heading for home. He and Karyn walked out of the apartment and stood in the hallway, wrapped in each other's arms for another long minute. Hiskisses were sweet and deep. He was much gentler than Mack had been, much more loving. But she was still afraid.
"I love you," whispered Roger. "Karyn--"
"I'm beginning to love you, too," Karyn whispered back. "At least I think I am. But I just don't give my emotions as fast, so please give me time."
"All the time you want. Whatever you need. I'm so glad you're in my life, Karyn."
Finally he left, walking out of the building. Karyn moved to the narrow glass panel that had been installed by the building's outer door, watching him cross the parking lot to his van. An ordinary man, no one who would stand out in a crowd, just a regular Joe. Rather like her father, Karyn realized.
He loved her. She was starting to love him. Was that what she wanted?
"Mom," Amber said a half hour later, as Karyn tucked her in, the kitten curled up on the child's pillow, a purring ball of yellow with green eyes. "Do you like Roger?"
"Yes, babydoll. I like him."
"A real, real lot?"
"Yes, but I like you more," Karyn reassured her daughter. "You'll always be number one in my life, Amber, forever and ever and ever."
Amber sighed, hugging her mother, then sinking into the pillow. "What about Daddy?" she said.
"Daddy loves you, too, even though he can't see you right now."
"When will I see him?"
"We'll talk about that later," said Karyn reluctantly. She had no intention of keeping Amber away from her father forever. That would be much too cruel. "When your daddy's better and is back to living his regular life again, we might be able to drive down to Atlanta and you could see him for a while."
Amber nodded. "If he doesn't throw spaghetti."
"That's right. If he doesn't throw spaghetti."


Shane called and wanted to take Cilla out for pizza. "I know it's last-minute, but ..."
"I'd love to," said Cilla, realizing that she badly wanted to escape from the condo and her gloomy thoughts about her own life. And she wanted to see him. Just being with him seemed so pleasurable. She realized she was beginning to think and fantasize about him more and more.
"You look a little pensive tonight, Cilla," remarked Shane when they were seated in a booth at a popular pizza establishment and had ordered a pizza with low-fat cheese, sweet red pepper, chicken and sun-dried tomatoes.
Cilla sipped at her wine. "It wasn't the greatest day in the world," she admitted.
He looked at her questioningly.
"Work ... well, you know how that goes." She couldn't possibly tell him about Lou's sexual proposition in the coffee room. "And my daughter hung up on me."
She started to tell Shane about Mindy's conversation, then decided to leave out the demand for breast implants because she felt that would be violating her daughter's privacy. She also omitted Mindy's horrified accusations about Shane's age, and her calling him a "boy toy" and Cilia "menopausal." Which actually left not much else to describe.
"She's at the age where she thinks parents are money machines," Cilla explained awkwardly.
"She doesn't work part-time at school?"
"No. She's an officer in her sorority, and that takes up quite a bit of time. She does work summers temping for Kelly Services, though, as a receptionist. Not that she puts in a full summer, but it's something," Cilla admitted. "She has excellent grades, though I don't know how she manages it with her extensive social life. It must be a special talent you have when you're twenty."
"Does she look like you?"
"She doesn't think so, but yes, we do have quite a resemblance."
"Then she must be very pretty."
"Oh, she is."
"Will I meet her sometime?"
Cilla hesitated picturing the possible fireworks. "Sometime, but ... we'll have to see."
"The age thing," he said. It was a statement, not a question.
Cilla flushed. "She's young. Her father left us for a twenty-three-year-old bimbo and she's still very angry, even though she blocks most of it out. You'll have to be patient with her, Shane. God knows I'm trying to be."
Later, Shane drove Cilla back to her condominium and came inside for coffee, but when he slid his arms around her and began kissing her neck, Cilia moved out of his embrace. "It's not you, Shane," she said uncomfortably. "It's just--well, today took a lot out of me."
"I understand. I'm sorry if I was insensitive."
"You could never be insensitive."
"I'd certainly feel badly if I ever was. Cilla, I wonder if you realize just how special you really are. I've never met a woman quite like you."
Suddenly she wasn't in the mood for nattery--if that's what this was. Maybe he meant it, maybe he didn't--Lord, how was she to know? Maybe this was what a twenty-six-year-old thought a fifty-year-old woman would want to hear. Or maybe she was just wasted from her long, disturbing day.
"I'm really tired, Shane," she said. "Ordinarily it would be great if you stayed longer, but not tonight."
"I want to see you again."
"Yes. All right."
He kissed her gently and left. Cilla went into her bedroom, slipping into a comfortable nightie, a cotton one, not the type she'd ever wear with a man around. She had twoor three novels she'd been meaning to read, one of them the latest Patricia Cornwall.
But she'd read only four or five pages when her thoughts segued back to Lou. Lou, her great tormentor. If Lou even suspected she felt this way about another man, a man young enough to be his son ...


Waiters bustled back and forth, moving with swivel-hipped alacrity while holding huge trays on their shoulders. Lou Hechter stared across the table at his wife, Marty, who was pushing her bass-and-lobster Veronique around on her plate. She was still an attractive woman at forty-nine, the soft femininity of her appearance at odds with the steel power of her mind.
"I'm going to bill nearly eighty hours this week," Marty boasted, taking a bite of lobster. "That's more than our hungriest associate; he only billed seventy-eight hours last week."
"How can you bill eighty hours when you don't work eighty hours?" Lou couldn't help asking.
"Everything counts--even the dictation I do in my car," his wife told him with a smirk of satisfaction. "Too bad you don't get paid for your commuting time, Lou--maybe you could buy that condo at Myrtle Beach if you did."
Lou pressed his lips together. "Who said I wanted a condo at Myrtle Beach?"
"You did, dear--just the other week. Well, I'll have you know it's not coming out of my checkbook, it's all going to be your expenses, if you can afford it."
He couldn't, and Marty knew it full well. Lou had invested in a theme restaurant last year that had gone belly-up. He was still paying off sizable debts and would not be clear of them for some time.
"If I want one, I'll get it," he snapped.
"Oh? My, we're assertive today, aren't we, Louie-Louie? If we had talked to a few people, learned the restaurantbusiness, done our homework, we wouldn't be in this situation, would we? I told you it was a poor location but you wouldn't listen to me. You don't like listening to women's advice, do you?"
He didn't; she'd gotten that right. But Lou clamped his lips shut on a sarcastic remark. Marty had inherited a sizable trust fund from her father and was also due to inherit more millions from her mother. He was still hoping eventually she'd help him clear off his debts. Still, it rankled to be subservient to her ... to know she was the one in the household with the major money, not him, the one who truly called the shots.
"How was everything?" queried a young waiter, sidling, up to their table with an expectant smile.
"Not great," Lou snapped. "The service was abysmally slow. It'll be reflected in your tip, believe me."
As the waiter looked shocked and tried to apologize, Lou felt his bad mood come to a peak. "We won't be coming back here, believe me," he said, tossing his napkin down on the table, along with a bill just large enough to cover the cost of their lavish meal. For a tip, he fished out a dime from his pocket and plunked it on the tablecloth.
He rose, perfunctorily helping Marty up from her chair, and the two of them walked out of the restaurant without another glance back at the crestfallen waiter.
"Pansy little shit," Lou remarked as he and his wife reached the parking lot, where they would take separate cars back to their offices, both of them to put in more hours at their desks. "It took him forever to bring the menus."
"You're a sweetheart, Lou," murmured Marty as she got into her Lexus, showing plenty of long, lean, nyloned leg. "No wonder you're so beloved."
Lou grunted something and got into his Mercedes, starting up the motor. Glancing to his left, he could see their waiter standing on the steps of the restaurant, gesturing angrily.
Ignoring him, Lou proceeded to drive out of the lot, turning in the direction of Cybelle. His stomach was still churning. He fumbled in his pocket for a Gaviscon and began chewing down the antacid tablet.
Then gradually his thoughts turned to Karyn Cristophe.
Sexy. The way she walked, showing off that sweet behind of hers ... Lou believed that she did it all deliberately. She was being provocative just for him, and her protests over his flirtatious advances were only token no's.
Lou smiled, grinning to himself inside the privacy of his car. He knew all about women like Karyn. You approached them gradually, escalating the game just a bit more every week. Soon they were caught up in it, confused and aroused.
Excited.
And then you let them know who had the power.


As was her daily habit, Karyn phoned home around 3:30 to make sure Amber had gotten home from school all right.
"How was school today, gumdrop?"
"Boys. You know," responded Amber, giggling. "They're so weird."
"I guess so. What are you doing right now?"
"I'm watching Animal Planet. I'm watching a program about vets. I want to be a vet when I grow up, and I'll take care of kitties like Missy and Fluff Ball. I watched a lady vet give a kitty a shot. And there was this dog that swallowed a cassette tape. The tape stuff was hanging out of his mouth. That was really grotty."
Karyn finished the conversation, then left her desk to go to the basement level of the building, where she had to pick up a stack of reports that had been copied and spiral-bound in the company's print shop.
By the time she returned to the department, lugging the big box, over an hour had passed.
Walking into her alcove, Karyn was startled to see that her usual screen saver--the Microsoft Star Field--had beenreplaced by Marquee, a scrolling banner with a pink background and white lettering. There wasn't much contrast so she had to strain to read the letters as they slowly crawled past on her screen.
I'd like you to lick my dick and balls ... . I'd like you to lick my dick and balls ... . It repeated itself endlessly.
Karyn slammed her hand on the mouse, the movement causing the screen saver immediately to vanish. Who had done this?
She glanced at Raquel's alcove, then remembered that Raquel had taken several hours off for a doctor's appointment. If Raquel had been here, she would have seen anyone walking into Karyn's alcove. But with her gone, and if no one had been in the hallway, it would only have taken someone a few minutes to reformat Karyn's screen saver.
Perspiring, Karyn gazed down the hallway, where Lou's office door stood halfway open. She heard amplified voices as he conversed on the speakerphone. Lou could have done it. He knew his way around a computer, and his own screen saver, she happened to know, was also a Marquee banner that said simply Whatever works ... . , repeated again and again.
Quickly she went into the Windows program and erased the obscene screen saver, putting her usual Star Field back in place. Her head was pounding, stress pinching the center of her forehead between her eyes.
It was Lou who had done it.
She just knew it. Who else in the department would dare to enter such a profanity on her computer screen? She felt soiled, dirty. She wanted to go home and take a long, hot shower just to wash the ugliness off herself. Instead she settled for walking down to the women's room and dampening several paper towels.
Returning to her alcove, she obsessively cleaned her computer keyboard, monitor screen, keyboard and desk top, wipingoff all traces of the man's body oils. For good measure, she also washed her phone.
By this time, Raquel had returned carrying a fragrant-smelling bag from Burger King.
"Want some fries?" she offered.
"No, thanks. I'm not very hungry."
"You spill something on your computer?" Raquel asked, observing the way that Karyn was trying to clean between her keys with a straightened-out paper clip.
"No, I wish I had. Somebody came into my alcove and wrote a dirty message on my computer screen."
Raquel's eyes widened. "Again?"
"You mean it's happened before?"
"Yeah, off and on. The woman before you, Angela, she used to get nasty messages once in a while. Nobody ever found out who did it. What did yours say?"
Karyn couldn't repeat it. "It was just sickening, that's all."
"Tell you what," said Raquel. "I'll show you how to do a locking screen saver. Then nobody can get in your computer when you're gone unless they have the password."
Karyn's headache lasted all the rest of the day. Even a couple of ibuprofen didn't lessen its intensity.
She did her usual work, resenting Lou Hechter for forcing her to worry whether or not the culprit might be him. Why couldn't he have been nice and courteous and laid-back, like some other male bosses she'd had in the past? They'd been a pleasure to work with. Cilla, too, was a great supervisor, piling on the work but seeming to really care about Karyn, and never scolding her or being bitchy.
Good bosses did exist, she had to remind herself.


The rest of the week passed in a nervous haze. Karyn had put the lock on her computer, so she didn't have to worry about further intrusions there, but now her working hours became pervaded with tension. She found herself always checking out the hallway to see if Lou was in his office. Ifhe was, her stomach began churning. Only if he was out of the office or in a meeting could Karyn completely relax.
Karyn was relieved when the weekend finally came and she didn't have to think about work for two whole days. Amber's birthday was on Saturday, and Karyn was giving a small party for her daughter. Roger had begged to come over and help.
Karyn's first instinct was to say no. She still didn't want to take the chance of disappointing Amber if the relationship should break up, but Roger was so smiling and appealing that she couldn't bring herself to refuse.
"Do you know a really good place to get a cake?" she asked him.
"Let's see ... There's a bakery in downtown Birmingham, but it's really expensive. But Farmer Jack's has pretty good cakes. I think I saw a Barbie doll cake there once ... that's what you should buy her." Roger smiled. "Twenty years of NOW and kids still want Barbie. Can you believe it?"
Roger arrived at noon, and together they hung the decorations and blew up party balloons. Karyn had bought small prizes for each girl, and those had to be wrapped as well. Six children were coming, including Caitlin, all of them from Amber's class in school. Jinny Caribaldi was keeping Amber upstairs until the party began so it wouldn't spoil the surprise.
Roger helped Karyn decide how much pizza to order, and then he helped her wrap her gift for Amber, an enormous Barbie dollhouse for which Amber had been begging for months. Roger's own gift was already wrapped in shiny pink paper.
Suddenly the apartment door burst open and Amber and Caitlin burst into the living room. Ten minutes after that the apartment was overrun by little girls.
They watched the Walt Disney video Karyn had rented.
They screamed and giggled; they munched pizza, fastidiouslypicking off the pepperoni; they told stories and teased; they played Barbie dolls.
Roger and Karyn retreated to the kitchen, where they watched CNN on a small, portable TV and munched their own pizza, taking about comfortable things.
Suddenly Amber burst into the kitchen, demanding that Karyn and Roger come into the living room so she could open her presents.
Watching her daughter tearing off paper, her eyes alight as she uncovered boxes of games, clothes, jewelry, and various Barbie accessories, Karyn felt a rush of pure love for her child.
Yes, it was tough trying to survive in her job at Cybelle, and the job hadn't turned out exactly as she'd fantasized. There were definitely some major drawbacks. But she was doing it for Amber. And Karyn had such big plans. As soon as she was permanent at Cybelle, she was going to start saving for a down payment on a small house ... . Or maybe she could get a rental with an option to buy.
Now Amber was tearing open Roger's pink package.
"Barbie clothes!" she squealed, lifting up the shrink-wrapped package.
The package contained a long, blue lace evening gown trimmed with sequins. There was a tiny plastic pair of high heels, a little evening bag, and a matching shawl. Plus a comb and brush for Barbie, and a tiny package of "makeup."
It wasn't an expensive gift, but it had been unerringly chosen.
"Thank you," said Amber shyly, looking at Roger. "She needed another evening gown."
"And now you have one."
By 4:00 the mothers began arriving to collect their daughters. Roger spent a half hour helping Karyn clear up the mess, and then left, saying that he was sure both Karyn and Amber would probably like some well-earned rest.
"You want to enjoy your little girl, and I don't want to horn in too much."
Karyn was touched at his thoughtfulness. "Yeah, we've done a lot of giggling today, haven't we?"
"She's a beautiful girl, Karyn. You've raised her well."
"Thanks so much," Karyn said, saying good-bye to him at the door. "It was nice having you here."
Amber was still hyperexcited from the party, insisting on having all of her presents out and playing with all of the Barbie dolls and accessories. She wasn't hungry for dinner, but agreed to drink a glass of milk and eat a small bowl of cereal.
"Mom," she said as she was fitting one of the Barbies into the gown Roger had given her. "That guy, Roger. Do we like him?"
Karyn smiled at the "we." "Yes, I do, and I hope we do, too."
"He can come here lots of times," Amber decided.


That same day, Cilla and Shane drove up to Mt. Pleasant, where the Sky Jumpers had scheduled a one-day course for beginners that would culminate with a jump from 3,500 feet. The club had insisted that all first-time jumpers get a physical exam before they jumped, which Cilla had completed the previous day.
"You're healthy enough, and your bone density test shows you don't suffer from osteoporosis," said Cilla's doctor, Jenny Wagner. "Your heart's in great shape, and your lung capacity is excellent. In many ways you're physically more like a woman of forty than one of fifty. Still, I have to wonder. Most jumpers are in their twenties or early thirties. Why are you going to do this?"
Cilla blushed. "I'm still not sure I am. I'm going to take the course, though."
Jenny Wagner had eyed Cilla. "Well, you've got more guts than I have."
"I've met a man," Cilla finally had confessed. "He's ... younger."
"Ah."
"I don't know if I'm doing this to please him or to please myself. I guess I want to feel that I can do it," Cilia tried to explain. "I don't want to feel old in front of him."
"Cilla, you know as well as I do that age is a relative number once we pass forty. I've got forty-two-year-old patients who suffer from high blood pressure, stomach problems and bad backs, and they act like they're sixty. And I have another patient, she's seventy-four. This past summer she biked all the way across lower Michigan. Who's younger? Who's more fit? Who has more fun?"
Cilla had grinned. "Thanks for the encouragement"
The class sounded do-able, Cilla thought now. It would last four hours and cover everything from equipment to aircraft exit, count and position, plus (the brochure had said) "unusual situations and emergency procedures," which she devoutly hoped she would never experience firsthand. The activation of her main chute would be done by the jumpmaster when she let go. Five seconds later the canopy was supposed to be completely open, and an instructor on the ground would assist her, via radio, in providing guidance during the descent.
The ground instructor would be Shane.
"You really don't have to do it," said Shane, touching her hand. "This isn't mandatory for us to have a relationship, you know."
"I said I would, and I will."
He grinned. "You're awesome, Cilla. You really are."


The other two people in Cilla's class were Tom and Derek, young men who attended nearby Central Michigan University. The two college students kept staring at Cilla, as if wondering what she was doing there. The class was interesting, Cilla had to admit, but by the time they broke for abox lunch she was so nervous she could barely pick at the ham-and-cheese croissant sandwich and crisp apple that had been provided.
Indian summer had touched the area's farms and fields with seventy-five-degree temperatures. The sky was a fresh-washed blue, brushed with only a few faint cirrus clouds. The wind was perfect, Shane told her.
They sat at picnic tables watching as two others jumped from the Cessna 182. Dark spots ejected from the small plane. Suddenly the chute packs opened and puffed out, balloons of red and yellow, tiny black dots hanging from them. Cilla watched in awe and fear as the jumpers floated to earth.
"Okay," said Jill Brewton, the fifty-eight-year-old woman she'd met at the party, who was the class instructor. "We'd better double-check your gear."
Cilla lunged to her feet. Shane was behind her, checking straps, clips, pins.
"Too tight?" said Jill, yanking each one of Cilla's shoulder straps.
"No, I think they're fine."
"They'd better be fine, because once you get up there, it's a little bit too late to make adjustments."
"Okay," said Cilla nervously.
"Make sure your privates are free of the leg straps."
Cilla gave a ladylike wiggle. "They are."
Nervously she waited while both Shane and Jill checked her again, rechecking her radio and her pack, hooking and unhooking the clips again. There were two square chutes in her pack--that she knew for certain. She had passed beyond fear now and was merely numb. What if she got killed today? What if her chute never opened and the emergency chute failed, and she just kept on falling and falling until she crashed to the ground?
The Cessna was circling down to the small airfield for a landing.
"You and Tom go up in the next group," said Shane, sliding his arm around her. "Are you excited?"
"Yes," she said in a monotone.
He laughed. "Just hang in there, because this is the tough part right now, the waiting. Oh, Cilla, I love you for doing this. You are such a trouper."
"Mmm," said Cilla, fighting a sudden urge to be sick.
"I'm going to be right with you, as close as the earpiece in your ear. I'll talk you through everything. Just relax and let it happen. The weather is perfect; we couldn't ask for a better day."


The Cessna's motor roared in Cilla's ears, wind battering the small plane.
Jill Brewton pointed her finger at her eyes to remind Cilia that she was supposed to maintain eye contact with her instructor.
"Ready?" she shouted above the roar of the wind.
"Yes." She had to yell it twice to be heard. Her heartbeat was pounding, and she felt sick, vertiginously afraid. Why, why had she agreed to do this?
"Get your feet out the way I told you!"
Slowly, Cilla moved her behind to the edge of the hold, placing one leg, then the other, outside the door. She put her feet on the step that had been positioned alongside the plane. God ... oh, God ...
"Don't look down!" Jill shouted into the wind.
Cilla swallowed dryly, fighting not to stare downward. She knew if she did she'd be dizzy and sick; she'd make a terrible screaming fool of herself.
Jill leaned closer and shouted into her ear. "Climb all the way out!"
Automatically, Cilla's hands reached out to the beam connected to the wing of the plane. She was supposed to pull herself to a standing position now--outside the plane.
Oh, no, she thought desperately. She couldn't do it.Never, never. Still, somehow she was doing it, her hands clutching as the wind attacked her, lashing her jumpsuit, flapping the cloth, nearly blowing her off the step. Desperate for her life, she clung to the beam and cursed herself for her foolishness.
"Okay, okay!" Jill was calling. "Cilla, remember the training. Your chute is safe and you're going to be safe. I'm going to activate your chute so you don't have to. It's going to be beautiful."
"God in heaven," said Cilla, and then she looked down.


The plane vanished above her and Cilla realized that she was falling. She uttered a hoarse groan, or maybe it was a scream, and suddenly the roar of the aircraft motor was gone and she was falling into perfect blue silence.
The noise, the clamor, the fear were gone.
There was just ... her and the sky, and the softness of air. It didn't feel as if she was falling; she was just floating.
Beautiful.
Abruptly she felt a jerk, and looked up to see her chute, fully deployed, snapping above her in the wind, a huge, rainbow-colored balloon of cloth, suspending her.
Then she heard the voice from the earpiece, coming from Shane on the ground. "Cilla, it's Shane. Your chute looks great. After clearing your brakes do a hard right turn so I know you can hear me."
Cilla pulled the right-hand toggle, the way she'd learned in class, and obediently the chute shifted around.
"Great ... great ... you're doing fabulous," called Shane. "Just relax. The hard part is over. Look around. Isn't it beautiful?"
As she continued to float down, Shane's voice in her ear like a heavenly guide, Cilla became so exhilarated that she shouted and laughed. Her life on earth fell away from her, all of her problems that seemed so weighty when she was down on the ground. Her credit card debts, her problemswith Mindy, her job, the horrible situation with Lou Hechter. Up here they were less than motes of dust.
Blue sky surrounded her, searing her eyes. A patchwork of farmland and highways spread itself below her, fading to blue-gray at the horizon,
She descended in the blue, and she knew she had never been happier and never would be this happy again. Oh, she prayed, all of her emotions surging to the surface. Please, God. Help me to be happy. Help me to be loving.
Was that the right prayer? Should she have prayed for something better or different? Cilla felt such peace and calm that she knew the words of her prayer did not really matter. She was alive. She was part of life, part of the sky, part of the sun.
She reached the ground, bending her knees and running forward as the chute fell, and in the distance she could see Shane, running toward her.
Cilla laughed, sitting down on the grassy field, her knees suddenly so rubbery she couldn't stand. She watched her lover run toward her, and saw what a beautiful man he was, sun and wind tousling his light hair.
He reached her, kneeling down to take her anxiously into his arms. "Are you okay? You didn't sprain anything, did you?"
"Not a thing." She laughed joyfully. "It was ... I was part of God! Oh, Shane. I'll never forget it. Never."
"I love you," he said hoarsely, pulling her close.
Cilla hugged him back, knowing he'd said it just in the flash of exhilaration--it didn't mean love love. But still, to hear him say it gave the final, wonderful cachet to her beautiful day.


"Jazzy Kulture is just what Cybelle is looking for in a new celebrity line," said Cilla, pacing Lou's office the following Monday. She had a few muscle aches from her skydiving adventure, but otherwise she felt energetic and rejuvenated.She'd even tentatively told Shane she might jump again ... provided that he went art gallery hopping with her in downtown Birmingham, one of her favorite occupations for a Saturday afternoon with nothing to do.
She continued, "You know what a star she is, and that sexy new video of hers ... well, girls are dying to dress exactly as she does. I've already been in touch with her manager and he's very enthusiastic."
Lou shrugged. "Isn't she into that grunge look? Ugly to start with and good riddance now that it's finally going out."
"Not the old grunge look but a totally new one!" cried Cilla. "Lou, you said yourself that Cybelle isn't attracting enough women age fifteen to twenty. Well, Jazzy's the answer! They love her. They're imitating her style all over the country right now ... sleeveless tanks with low-cut armholes. Girls are actually cutting their own tanks. The tabloids are calling her the tank girl. I'm telling you, Lou, if we don't grab onto this, someone else will."
"Let me think about it," said Lou.
Annoyed, Cilla pressed her lips together.
"Dammit, Lou, don't do this to me," she said. "This is a great idea. It'll boost our numbers, which we need," she emphasized.
"I said I'll think about it," Lou snapped, but in a way that told Cilia her idea had taken root.


Lou waited until Cilla had left his office before jotting down detailed notes on the Jazzy Kulture promotion. Of course, since Cilla worked for him, all of her ideas were basically his, and he felt no compunction about taking Cilla's idea and running with it.
Maybe they'd commission some mannequins to be made that would be modeled on Jazzy herself. Yeah, girls would walk into Cybelle, they'd see Jazzy everywhere.
Lou leaned back in his chair, beginning to embellish onCilla's idea, making it his own. When his private phone rang, he picked up.
"I've got a business trip to Chicago; I'm leaving from the office tonight," said his wife's crisp voice. "I'll be back Thursday." He heard voices in the background, someone laughing. "And now I've got to get back into a meeting. Oh, and when I get in on Thursday night I have a dinner meeting, which means I won't be home until elevenish."
Lou and Marty were often ships that passed in the night, each putting in workaholic hours that frequently did not mesh.
"No rest for the wicked," he said flatly.
"Let's not talk about who's wicked," she said. "They need me in the meeting. See you at the end of the week."
"Fine," he said, hanging up.
He sat for a minute, rubbing his temples.
What had his wife meant by saying, "Let's not talk about who's wicked"?
The idea of her knowing about Cilla Westheim, or even suspecting, made him shudder. Not to mention all the other little escapades he'd had over the years.
But swiftly he calmed himself. He'd been circumspect, and Marty didn't know anything. Besides, he was getting weary of Cilla. She'd begun to lose her freshness and enthusiasm. Fucking her was beginning to be a chore.
But now there was the new secretary, Karyn, rejuvenating him every day with fresh interest. He was in the game with her now; they were both playing it. Oh, hell, yes, she knew exactly what was going on. She wasn't fooling him with her pretense of being angry when he flirted with her. It was a blatant case of no really meaning yes.
Suddenly, Lou was in the middle of a sexual fantasy so intense that it rocked him.
Karyn Cristophe.
The prettiest woman he'd come across in years ... and this was one game he was definitely going to win.
UNDER PRESSURE Copyright © 2000 by Abigail Reed All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.