Matthew, she thought as she drove home, I owe you. Believing Johnny had the right to that tuition money because of his Whitaker bloodline was one thing, but Matthew didn’t believe that, and yet he had given without question or catch…

Once at home, she opened the door, set down her purse and was just hanging up her coat when the phone rang.

“Come over for coffee,” Freda croaked into the receiver. “Although actually, I’m having tea.”

“You’re home from work with a cold?” Lorna guessed.

“I never get colds. I’m playing hookey for the day,” Freda croaked. “And bring aspirin.”

Armed with aspirin, cold pills, cough medicine and a thermos of chamomile tea, Lorna walked the twenty steps to her neighbor’s apartment and let herself in. “Freda!”

“In here.”

“I can only stay a minute-I’ve got a ton of work to do today.” Lorna shed her coat and tossed it on the only empty chair in the living room. Toys, clothes, magazines and needlework took up the rest of the space. Freda always made Lorna feel like a model housekeeper. A smile playing at the corners of her lips, she wended her way through the chaos to the kitchen.

Red-nosed and sniffling, Freda was bundled up in a bathrobe with her feet propped up on a kitchen chair.

“Tell Brian to come over tonight after school,” Lorna ordered promptly, moving swiftly to line up the medicines on the table.

“I’ll be completely recovered by this afternoon,” Freda rasped.

“You look like something the cat rejected.” Familiar with Freda’s kitchen, Lorna reached for a second cup in the cupboard, filled it with instant coffee and water, and set it in the microwave.

“I always look like hell when you walk in the room. God knows why I even associate with a single female who looks the way you do. Masochism. Why don’t you dye your hair gray and gain forty pounds?”

Grinning, Lorna retrieved her cup of coffee, set it on the counter and ran a sinkful of soapy water. “Every time you talk, you breathe. If you give me that cold, Freda, I’m going to boil you in oil, so just sit back and drink your tea.”

“I didn’t ask you over to wash my dishes!”

Lorna paid no attention, adding the dirty dishes to the hot, sudsy water. Freda would have done the same for her if she were ill. The friendship was two years old and thriving. Lorna watched both boys after school until Freda came home from work; in return Freda babysat whenever Lorna wanted to go out for the evening. It was so easy, living next to each other; the boys even liked each other. Freda was a bitter divorcee, abandoned by her ex for a younger woman. Lorna had heard the story a hundred times; by nature compassionate, she would gladly listen to it another hundred times, or however often it took for Freda to get the residue out of her system.

Finishing the dishes, she turned to wipe her hands on a towel and found Freda staring bleary-eyed at her, a peculiar expression on her face. “What’s wrong?” She frowned absently. “You want me to throw a wash in the machine?”

“I want you to sit down for a minute,” Freda commanded hoarsely.

“I will. For a minute. But I’ve got a rush job I really have to finish today…” Lorna darted back to the bedrooms and returned a moment later with an armful of clothes. “What is it about boys? An allergy to clothes hampers that comes with the Y chromosome? Whenever I want to do laundry, the first place I look is under Johnny’s bed-”

“Sit.”

“I will.” Once the wash was started, Lorna blew back a strand of hair from her cheek, took her coffee cup to the far side of Freda’s table and settled down with a sigh. “You want your tea heated up?”

Freda sneezed and grabbed for the box of tissues. “What I want is to know if you’re still planning to go out with that man tomorrow night.”

Lorna took a sip of coffee, averting her eyes. “Obviously not, if you’re still sick.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Lorna Whitaker! The boys could care less if I’ve got a cold when they’re sleeping. That’s not why I asked. Honey, I don’t think you’ve really thought this out.”

“I’ve done nothing but think it out,” Lorna responded, with conscious control.

“And how did you explain Matthew to Johnny? The same last name and all that?”

“I haven’t explained.”

Freda gave her a pointed look and continued the attack. Gently, for Freda. “Honey, I’m just afraid you’re going to get hurt. What’s to be gained by your seeing anyone in that family again? You actually think he’s looking to be a father to Johnny after what happened with his brother? That you can both just forget what happened?”

Lorna stirred her coffee, making obsessive circles over and over. “I don’t know,” she admitted finally. She looked at Freda with an open, honest countenance. “I don’t seem to know…anything. Matthew has called at least twice a week for the last few weeks-and I’ve found myself laughing. No man has made me laugh for ages… Matthew always used to be able to make me laugh. We just keep…talking. And I tell myself that if I continue to see him, in time he’ll believe me about Johnny. In time, he might even see for himself the Whitaker characteristics I see in Johnny-”

“Lorna.”

Freda could ferret out fibs like a fox. Lorna rolled her eyes and sighed, but she wasn’t smiling. “All right.” She shrugged. “The laughter does matter-desperately-to me. But it isn’t all that happens when he calls. When I hear his voice. It’s as if we’ve both found each other, found someone to talk to, someone who seems to understand all those things you don’t know how to say. Part of that closeness was there before, I can see that now. But Richard aside, a relationship between Matthew and me wouldn’t have worked then. Matthew was a man and he was just being kind to a frightened girl in those days. But now…”

“And it never occurred to you that he might be out to take you for a ride, Lorna?” Freda demanded. “You think he’s forgotten his brother? He still believes you cheated on Richard…”

Lorna’s smile died. She got up to take her empty cup to the counter. “I don’t know,” she said again. “Or maybe I do, a little. Matthew’s not motivated by revenge, if that’s what you’re trying to say, Freda. He’s too sensitive, too fair. He knew at the time that there were two sides to the story and that Richard wasn’t perfect. He was good to his brother, but they weren’t…close. He isn’t…pursuing me because of that. Sex might be another story.”

Freda sneezed. “Pardon?”

“Sex,” Lorna repeated clearly.

Freda’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Has a stranger just walked into this kitchen?”

“I’m just trying very hard to be honest with myself-”

“Honey, for two years I’ve been urging you to give free rein to your libido. But not with this man. You can’t build a relationship on sexual attraction alone, kiddo. You’ll get broken up into little pieces if that man uses you.”

Lorna shook her head and headed for the door, her eyes suddenly distant. “Only one man ever used me, Freda, and no one else is ever going to do it again. For now, not to worry. Pour yourself another cup of tea and crawl into bed.”


Lorna, wearing a pale coral slip, was riffling through her closet with a look of dissatisfaction. She worked at home and didn’t have to dress for success; consequently, her wardrobe was decidedly limited. So was her decision-making ability this evening. Everything was wrong. The raspberry shirtwaist was too bright. The coral print too busy. The mauve too dull. All the shirtwaists were boring. The suit she’d thought she loved she now hated… Her fingers touched the softness of an angora skirt and hesitated.

A few moments later, she’d exchanged the coral slip for a black one, pulled on a scoop-neck black cashmere sweater, and was stepping into the angora skirt, which had a bold black, gray and purple patchwork pattern. She’d made the skirt a year ago. The project had been fun. The dramatic colors appealed to her, and the angora added substance to her slim hips. So why haven’t you put it on before? she asked the mirror absently.

The answer came easily. Because she didn’t wear low-cut sweaters on dates, or skirts that kissed and told on her figure. You don’t advertise what you aren’t selling. The mirror was just full of answers she just wasn’t all that interested in hearing, so she turned away from it. She was looking in the closet for her black leather sandals when Johnny rapped on the door

“I’m going over to Brian’s now, Mom.”

“Fine, honey. Have a good time.” She emerged from the closet three inches taller. “Be good?”

Her son gave her a lazy grin. “What’s it worth?”

“To behave? Your hide.” She gave him a swift kiss and smile before heading back toward the dressing table, first applying a moisturizer and then a subtle mauve eyeshadow. Mascara and blusher, lipstick… She glanced up again and saw Johnny still standing in the doorway. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“Nothing.” He dug his hands in his coat pockets. “You gonna be late tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Lorna answered truthfully. Her silky hair crackled under the vigorous brushing, gleaming like mahogany in the soft bedroom light; she drew it back with a small jet comb at her crown, then let the gleaming waves fall to her shoulders. The effect pleased her and she reached for a perfume bottle.

“That Matthew guy’s been calling a lot. And you didn’t go out with Hal last weekend, even though he called, too.” Johnny hesitated, shifting his feet restlessly. Lorna knew he had more to say, but he wasn’t saying it. “Watch yourself,” he said finally, and promptly disappeared. A moment later Lorna heard the slam of the front door.

Watch yourself? She smiled ruefully. Who was taking care of whom in this household? She stood up, checking her image one last time in the mirror. The stark black sweater clung lovingly to her high breasts, showing off the pillow-soft flesh of her throat and her collarbones. The skirt stopped just below the knee, leaving a long expanse of shapely legs in dark, sheer stockings. Her eyes were a smoky gray, and her hair, freshly washed, radiated life, as well as the sheen of glossy chestnut. She felt feminine to her toes; the tingling of mixed anticipation and apprehension only increased when she saw the attractive reflection peering back at her. Watch yourself, Lorna, she told the mirror wryly.