For a brief description of what takes place in each of the previous chapters, visit this page.
For a list of the characters from the story you are now reading, visit this page.
For a list of the characters from the previous two stories that you will encounter here as well, visit this page.
And now, dear readers, we make our way into the next installment. Read on…
by Rachael Yukey
Invisible hate inside me now
Invisible hate ‘cos I am down
Witchfinder General, 1982
“Here it is.” Vicky turned her laptop so Julie could see the images she’d pulled up. Julie moved the device from Vicky’s lap to hers, adjusting the angle of the screen a bit.
“Hmmm,” she murmured, scanning the listing Vicky had found on the Lute Society of America’s website. “Thirteen course baroque lute with bass rider after Burckholtzer/Edlinger. Constructed in twenty-twelve by luthier Jessop Goodall. Fifty-two hundy.” She pursed her lips, then grinned. “Gotta admit, the only part of that I understand is the price tag.”
“That means it’s a copy of a lute that was made by Hans Burckholtzer in the late Renaissance, then converted by Thomas Edlinger in the late baroque,” Patty Spisak put in from Vicky’s opposite side. “Edlinger was a violin maker in Prague in the eighteenth century, and he converted Renaissance instruments into baroque lutes as a sideline. He—”
She broke off as Vicky whipped around to face her. “Good grief, Patty—how do you know all that? You don’t even play!”
Patty colored, looking down at her hands. “Yeah, but you know me. I get just a little interested in something, I have to find out everything about it. You showed me the listing yesterday, and I kind of went down a rabbit hole on the web last night. There’s this luthier who has a blog, and he wrote an article about how they did these conversions. Did you know they actually just sawed the neck off at the block, then stuck a new one in its place?”
“Jeez,” said Vicky. “You literally know more about this than I do.”
Lifting her gaze, a blushing Patty looked first to Vicky, then Julie, then finally Mallory, who was occupying the love seat. “I read that whole blog last night, plus a bunch of other stuff. I was up till like two. Pretty weird of me, huh?”
Vicky slapped her arm. “Stop that. You shouldn’t ever be embarrassed about wanting to know about stuff.”
“You’d make one hell of a historian, it sounds like,” said Mallory. Patty gave her a grateful smile.
“What about the guy who actually made this thing?” Julie wanted to know.
“Goodall’s a big deal, as far as luthiers go,” said Vicky. “He’s made instruments for some of my favorite players. When he makes stuff on commission, they go for like ten thousand, and that’s if they don’t have any fancy inlays.” Patty let out a low whistle.
“That’s not a surprising amount of money for a pro-quality musical instrument,” Mallory put in. “Especially one built on commission.” She stretched, stifling a yawn. She was feeling a little run down this afternoon, and wondered if it was the baby or just a touch of a bug. Probably the former—she was also ravenously hungry.
She cast her eyes about, reflecting that the living room of Julie’s childhood home felt more like her own than her father’s house ever had. Her most vivid memories of feeling like part of a family were right here.
Four heads turned as the front door opened. Jason Hanson entered, plastic shopping bags dangling from both hands. Lisa was right behind him, similarly laden.
“Afternoon, ladies,” said Jason, kicking off his shoes and making his way across the room in the direction of the kitchen. Stepping out of her flats, Lisa trailed along in his wake. “Hi, girls,” she said as she passed them by.
“Is there more to bring in, Mom?” Vicky wanted to know.
“No, sweetie, this is all of it,” Lisa called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen.
Julie turned her attention back to the laptop screen, lips pressed together. “Just how many strings does this fuckin’ thing have, anyway?”
Vicky grinned. “Twenty-four.”
“And people actually play these things…?”
“Yeah!” Patty enthused. “Vicky’s been showing me videos. Some of the players are pretty awesome.”
“So—” Julie hesitated for a moment. “If you were going to commission a lute for yourself, is something like this what you’d want? Or is it just your first choice of what you can find used online?”
“This one’s perfect, actually,” said Vicky. “Checks all my boxes.”
Lisa appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed to kill in an ankle-length emerald skirt and light pink low-cut blouse. She smiled. “Julie, Mallory—are you staying for supper?”
Julie looked across the room to her lover. “Whaddya think, Mal? Free eats?”
“Sure.”
“Will you stay, Patty?” asked Lisa.
“Oh, jeez—thanks, Ms. Hanson! I’ll text my mom and see.”
“You do that. And call me Lisa.” Turning around, she disappeared back into the kitchen.
Jason appeared a moment later, crossing the room to his chair. “What are you ladies up to?”
“Vicky was just showing me this lute she’s interested in,” said Julie. “I told her a few weeks ago that if she’s really serious, I’ll help you get her one.”
Jason raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. She said you offered to put up three grand?”
“Yup.”
“And I have a thousand saved,” Vicky put in.
Julie shook her head. “Hang onto your cash—you’ve got college to get ready for.” She turned to Mallory. “Think we can manage twenty-three hundred, babe?”
Mallory chuckled. “She’s jerking your chain, Vic. We already discussed it, and decided how much we’re ready to spend. Can I see what we’re buying?” She started to rise, but Julie beat her to it, pushing herself from the couch and crossing the room. Settling herself on the love seat next to Mallory, she handed her the laptop. Not bothering to read the advertisement, Mallory enlarged the first picture, then began scrolling through the rest.
“It sure looks gorgeous,” she observed. “And it’s in Milwaukee. Might even be worth a road trip to pick it up, so there’s no chance of it getting damaged in shipping.”
“Contact the seller, Vicky,” said Julie. “Tell ‘em you want it, and make the payment arrangements. We’ll hook you up.”
Vicky had tears in her eyes. “I—God, I don’t even know what to say. You guys are the best. You too, Dad.”
“Just promise you’ll make beautiful music on it, and we’ll be happy,” said Mallory.
“Oh, I will. Thank you so much!” She leaned into Patty, who squeezed her arm.
“In other news—” Julie put her arm around Mallory’s shoulders, drawing her close. “Lisa,” she called out, “come in here when you get a moment. We’ve got something kind of big to tell everyone.”
Lisa reappeared in the kitchen doorway almost at once, a bag of frozen peas clutched in her hand. “What’s up?”
“Um—is this something I should duck out for?” asked Patty.
“No, it’s okay,” said Mallory. She took a deep breath. “I hope you’re making a big meal, Lisa. These days, I’m eating for two.”
***
Shannon Brentshaw took another sip from the bottle of Old Crow that sat open on the coffee table before her, shuddering a little as the harsh liquor slid down her throat. Cheap, nasty, and to the point—just like everything else in my fucked-up excuse for a life.
She’d never developed much of a taste for straight whiskey, and the best she could afford these days was rough as a standing fuck in an alley, but the more palatable alternatives were nowhere near fast-acting enough to suit her. The way Shannon figured it, if you had to get up to pee before you got shitfaced, whatever you were drinking was for sissies.
Setting the bottle back down with a satisfying clunk, she adjusted the screen on her laptop, then typed a name into the search box of her browser, a name that had taken a second bedroom tryst with that smarmy, self-absorbed sheriff’s deputy to obtain. She hoped with a savage sort of bitterness that it was worth it. That fat fuck didn’t even try to get me off.
But he’d been able to dredge up what might be the answer she needed. Seems a DEA agent by the name of Bridgett Ramscone had come in to seek out the origin of the drugs that fat babysitter had been on, and brought with her some super-sleuth who’d cracked open the whole thing in just a few hours. What the worthless fucking pigs didn’t have was the super-sleuth’s name. Crossing mental fingers, Shannon double-checked the spelling of Ramscone’s name against the scrap of paper in her hand, then hit enter.
Paydirt right away. The DEA agent in question had made news just a few months ago. Seems this lady had been supervising agent on a high-profile drug bust in—Shannon sat up straight, her jaw dropping. Bronning, Minnesota was not a town she was likely to forget in either this lifetime or the next. Not after that catastrophe fifteen years ago.
There had been considerable press on the subject, because there’d been a number of overdose deaths, the shooting of a twelve-year-old girl, and a hostage situation that ended with national guard intervention up by International Falls. Also, a large cache of heroin had been found, and in the ensuing weeks they’d been able to link that to a major international drug kingpin who’d been on the radar for decades, finally obtaining enough evidence to make an arrest.
Ramscone had been much lauded for resolving the situation, but had insisted on sharing that credit with a consultant. This particular lady, it seemed, had connected the dots that had led to the discovery of the heroin stash, and subsequently found the bits of evidence necessary to pin down the infamous Gordon Musciari.
The news stories regarding the Bronning incident all made mention of this elusive consultant, but never dropped a name. Abandoning that line of research, Shannon clicked on an article that was specific to Musicari’s arrest. And there it was—towards the bottom of the story, a picture of Ramscone standing alongside that smarty-pants bitch who seemed to have the answers to everything, looking as if she’d rather be anyplace else in the world. Something about that face set off alarm bells in Shannon’s consciousness. Squinting a little, she read the ridiculously tiny font the caption was comprised of.
Her eyes widened. “Antoinette Hastings,” she murmured. Then louder. “Antoinette Hastings? No way. No fucking way at all. Holy shit.” A trembling hand closed on the whiskey bottle before her. She took a generous slug, barely noticing the rough burn as it slid down her throat.
***
Vicky Hanson awkwardly wrapped both arms around the unfamiliar instrument, shifting a bit on the piano stool. Avoiding the bass courses, she brushed across the higher-pitched strings with her right-hand thumb, then grinned up at the seller.
“That sounds great!” she said.
Lacey O’Donnell, an elegant, stately fiftyish woman, smiled. “I think so. I’m reluctant to let it go, but all of my professional work is on the theorbo these days. I haven’t had this lute out of the case in months, and a fine instrument unplayed is like a puppy forced to spend its waking days in a kennel. I want it to be with someone who’ll make music with it. ”
Vicky brushed the strings again, a frown creasing her brow. “Okay—so the top six courses are a minor chord, and the lower ones—” her right hand thumb plucked the bass strings one by one, moving down the scale. Finding the note she wanted, she placed the fingers of her left hand on the fingerboard, then began playing a simple melody on the highest-pitched string, hand moving up and down the neck. She plucked the melody notes with her right-hand fingers while repeatedly thumbing that same bass note.
“Cool!” she said, her face lighting up. “And as long as I just stay on the same bass, I can use some of the other strings as drone notes.” She began alternating the melody notes she was playing on the high string with notes on the open strings directly adjacent to it.
“Okay,” she said, “the basses are diatonic, so to do a chord change I can just change bass notes like—” The next sound that emanated from the instrument was shocking and discordant.
“Oh, damn,” said Vicky. She stopped playing, wearing a rueful expression.
“Pretty sure that wasn’t the right note, Vic,” Julie observed. She, Mallory, and Patty Spisak were seated on a couch upholstered in plush velvet. The music room in Lacey’s home was cozy and tastefully decorated. Paintings adorned the walls, with statuary displayed on the few shelves that weren’t lined with books of music.
A Steinway baby grand took up a fair chunk of the space, and one entire wall was devoted to historical plucked instruments. Another contained a well-stocked bar. It clearly was not just a room for practicing, but a social environment for a woman whose friends were mostly other musicians. It was a space that seemed to fit Lacey like a glove.
Lacey, facing Vicky in an antique armless chair with a carved wood back and upholstered seat, gave a wry chuckle. “Don’t feel bad, dear—that was a very good first try for someone who’s never played in the D minor tuning before, and who isn’t used to an extended open bass range. Maybe the best I’ve seen.”
Vicky tossed her a relieved smile. “How long does it take to get good?”
“Bearing in mind that she’s already a very accomplished classical guitarist,” Mallory chimed in.
Lacey thought for a moment, then smiled. “So was I, but even so—learning to consistently find the bass courses you want with your right-hand thumb is a bit of a journey, to say nothing of getting comfortable in this tuning. It probably took me a full year to really feel proficient. But if you have the fortitude to push through the rough patches, it’s well worth it in the end.”
“Can I hear you play it?” Vicky asked.
Leaning forward to take the instrument from the teenager, Lacey ran practiced fingers over the strings, pausing several times to tweak tuning pegs. “Do you have a favorite composer for the baroque lute, darling?”
Vicky pursed her lips. “I’d say Weiss, but then, every second recording you find is either Weiss, or a Bach transcription. What’s your favorite that isn’t Weiss?”
Lacey cast her eyes to the ceiling for a moment, then back to Vicky. “In the bookshelf right behind you, the second shelf from the top is all literature for the baroque lute. You’ll find a book there of music by Denis Gaultier. His name is on the binding. Would you get it down for me, please, and bring it over here along with the music stand next to the bookshelf?”
Rising from the piano stool, Vicky located the requested tome, and brought it over along with an elegantly carved wooden music stand. Hanging onto the instrument with one arm, Lacey flipped through the book’s pages to find the one she wanted. When she spoke, it was in reverent tones.
“Denis Gaultier was a French lutenist and composer during the seventeenth century, following in the footsteps of his older cousin Edumond. The piece you’re about to hear is a tombeau, which is intended as a sort of musical tombstone, dedicated to a dearly departed. The dedication in this title is to Charles Racquet, Gaultier’s teacher. The resulting work is, in my opinion, a great masterpiece.”
A blissful expression on her face, Lacey placed her fingers on the strings and began. It was a piece of simple, melancholy beauty, and Lacey brought out its emotional overtones with exquisite artistry. When she finished, all eyes were riveted on her.
Mallory had tears on her cheeks, yet was the first to find her voice. “That was—extraordinarily beautiful.” There was a chorus of agreement from the others. Mallory wiped her face with the back of her hand.
Lacey favored her with a smile. “There’s tissues on that side table, dear. This is a place where overly sensitive people of an artistic persuasion—and I include myself in that count—come to tug on each other’s heartstrings. Yours aren’t the first tears to be shed in here. I’m glad to see I’ve returned the favor; I was in the audience for your performance at U of W Milwaukee in February, and shed tears of my own during the Debussy, as well as your own work entitled ‘Frosted Moonlight’.”
Drying her eyes, Mallory smiled. “Wow—you even remembered the title. Thanks. I have an album coming out on Naxos late next month, and that piece is on it. I’ll mail you a copy. What’s your preference for format?”
“You’ll do no such thing—I’ll buy a copy. It’s lean times for our particular art form; we have to support each other, don’t we? Now then.” Lacey turned her attention to Vicky. “What do you think, then? Is that what you were hoping for?”
“It sounds exactly like I dreamed it would,” said Vicky. “I just hope that one day I can make music on it the way you did just now.”
“Oh, I think you will,” Lacey murmured. “You have the soul of a musician, my dear. It’s there in your eyes; your hands.”
Vicky’s cheeks pinked slightly. “It’s not all me,” she insisted. “An instrument like yours… it’s hard not to shine when you’re playing it.”
Julie spoke up. “I liked it, too, but it’s not what I expected,” she said. “I was thinking it’d be like a big-sounding classical guitar, but it isn’t at all. It’s a lot brighter—almost a glassy sound.”
Lacey nodded agreement, casually stroking the lute’s neck. “A delicate, intimate instrument. One for bringing out exquisite threads of emotion in small groups of people, not so much for filling a concert hall with sound.”
She rose, bending over to gently place the lute in an open case next to the piano stool Vicky was perched on. “In any event, it’s yours now, Vicky. Your payment came through with no issues, and thank you very much.”
Straightening to her full height, she plucked the book from the music stand, returning it to its place on the bookshelf. Brushing her fingers across the spines of her collection, she selected another. Returning to the chair, she sat, then solemnly handed the book to Vicky.
“Also, a gift. This is a facsimile copy of the lutebook of the Princess von Wurtemburg, otherwise known as the Rostock Manuscript. It hails from the middle of the eighteenth century, when the German-speaking countries were the last bastion of the lute’s time in the sun. It’s filled with charming little pieces by mostly anonymous composers, none more than moderately difficult, and some quite easy to play. I use it pretty extensively for students, and I have a list of the pieces graded by difficulty, which I’ll email to you. Start with the easiest, master each one before moving on to the next, and a young lady of your talents is bound to succeed.”
Vicky’s face lit up. “Oh, wow—thank you, Lacey!”
“You’re quite welcome, my dear. Now—I must insist that you all stay for dinner. When I was informed that this many would be traveling to collect the instrument, I prepared accordingly, and it’d be unconscionable for all that food to go to waste.”
***
The three-person council of war met in the living room of Ellen Brentshaw’s musty-smelling trailer. Ellen rocked gently in her glider, a Marlboro clenched between gnarled fingers that shook slightly with a now-perpetual palsy. Her daughter Shannon perched on the edge of the sofa, while the quiet, brooding man in the olive drab jacket occupied an armchair.
These two are going to get me locked up as an accessory, she told herself. The thought did not carry much emotional resonance for Ellen. She’d spent her share of time in jail during her younger days, including two stints in the Iowa state pen that added up to a little over eight years. And now? She was old and infirm, her encroaching COPD and CHF virtually guaranteeing that any further incarceration would be of short duration. Might be worth it. Won’t have to cook my own damn meals anymore.
Because they were going to get caught; Ellen had little doubt of that. She’d known as much twenty years ago, when she’d sent a nosy cop off on the wrong tangent, just barely staving off catastrophe. It was that incident that had clued her into what her daughter was involved with, leaving her with a hard choice to make.
What these two psych-ward cases were up to was a shock, even to someone who had operated on the wrong side of the law for damn near her entire life. Then again, was it really so different from that time back in the seventies when she’d scragged that pimply-faced teenager before he could blow open their trade in duty-free cigarettes? Or when she’d held a gun to the head of the sniveling brat whose dad was refusing to cough up what was owed for the Oxys he’d scored from her?
She’d decided it was not. Some needs were their own imperative, and besides—this was family. You always protected family.
But of course, she’d been right—they got caught. And now these two idiots wanted to go after a goddamn DEA consultant, when all they really needed to do was lay low for a while and not do anything stupid. Ellen at least understood what was driving Shannon to this act of lunacy; it was the same blind rage that fueled her entire existence. Ellen understood it because—well—it ran in the family. As for the other member of their council, did anyone really understand his motivations? Ellen suspected there wasn’t anything there you could really pin down. The man was just deeply, hopelessly insane.
One more try to make these fools see sense, she decided. “Think this through before you both end up in the hoosegow,” she said.
“Jesus, Ma, that’s what I’m trying to avoid,” Shannon’s voice was petulant, bitter. “If she’s as good as everyone seems to think she is—”
“You just hush up and listen to me.” The old woman’s voice was suddenly harsh, a reminder of the commanding presence that had made Ellen Brentshaw the undisputed queen bee of the region’s trade in low-level contraband. It was the voice of a woman who had once been well on her way to achieving real wealth and power. That is, until her second trip up the river, which gave her fool husband the chance to run their operations himself. His terrible business decisions had wiped them out, a calamity from which the Brentshaw clan had never recovered. Shannon subsided, scooching back on the cushion and folding her arms, her jaw set in a pout.
“That’s better,” said Ellen, returning to her vaguely pleasant dear-old-granny tone of voice. “Now listen. She might be good, but she’s not God. The feds buy smart investigators in packs of ten. You got tracked down before, and it wasn’t her that was looking for you.”
Ellen took a drag on her cigarette, taking a moment to gather her wind. It didn’t take much talking these days to whisk it away from her. “Let’s say you get the job done. She ain’t just some random consultant, she’s the one that got rescued in the raid all those years ago. She disappears, or dies in a way that don’t look natural, just who the hell you think they’re gonna be looking at?”
A closed, mulish expression stole over Shannon’s face, confirming what Ellen already knew. This wasn’t about closing down the investigation. It was about revenge. It was either this tall, dark-haired cunt or her bitch sister who’d gotten her hands on the phone that had derailed everything and got Jacob sent up all those years ago. And now here she was again, sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. Okay, that wasn’t great, but Shannon was too concerned about payback and not nearly enough about risk.
The man in the armchair spoke for the first time. “She has a point, Shannon.”
Shannon’s head whipped in his direction, betrayal written all over her face, while Ellen raised her eyebrows, surprised to receive support from this unexpected quarter. “If she dies,” he went on, “the feds are going to suspect a revenge killing. Why wouldn’t they? And who would they be looking at first? The family of Jacob Brentshaw. You’d have agents crawling up your ass with a microscope, and probably down your throat, too.”
“Hell, they’d meet in the middle,” Ellen observed with a nod of the head. “I think you’re better off staying with what you were doing in the first place: keeping your noses clean and your heads down. What does she have to work with, really? Nothing that points to us. I mean, it has to have crossed her mind, but if they had anything solid, they’d have been here to talk to all of us by now.”
That stormy expression had yet to leave Shannon’s face, and her arms were still folded defensively over her chest. But she grudgingly nodded assent. “Fine, whatever. But we need to keep an eye on things. If this, this Hastings woman shows up around here, starts asking questions—”
“Then we chew the fat some more,” said Ellen. “Until then—just wait.”
***
As the last note faded away, Patty burst into applause. Julie, who had a drink in her hand, clapped the other against a denim-clad thigh. Vicky looked up from the classical guitar on her lap, face lit up in a delighted grin. Mallory, seated at the baby grand in Lacey O’Donnell’s music room, gave a gracious nod. Lacey inclined her head. She was holding a theorbo, an enormous lute-like bass instrument that Vicky reckoned was probably a real menace to poor, unsuspecting tchotchkes if one wasn’t keeping track of where the bass course extension was pointing.
A smiling Lacey looked up at their audience of two. Her cheeks were a little flushed, whether from the exertion of music-making or from the wine she’d consumed over the course of the evening, Vicky wasn’t sure.
“You’re both very kind,” said Lacey. She looked to Vicky. “You improvise well.”
Vicky blushed with pleasure. “Thanks. To be honest, I feel like I’m kind of faking it a little. I mean—I can jam all day in a rock or blues situation, but this kind of improv is a little different. I’m just going off the chord progression and playing what I know will work.”
“Which is an excellent start, and leads to very pleasing results if your ear is good enough—and yours clearly is. I’m not surprised that you haven’t learned to play from a figured bass; it’s not a part of any standard classical guitar curriculum I know of, even at the university level.” She turned her attention to Mallory. “Or piano, for that matter. Where did you pick it up?”
“It was an elective in a conservatory prep program I attended in high school,” said Mallory. “I learned the basics there, and kept on learning because I got into playing with historical ensembles for awhile. Lots of baroque music, mostly on the harpsichord. Fun stuff. I’m working on an original piece for baroque ensemble; it’ll have figured bass accompaniment in some parts.”
Lacey’s eyes lit up. “If you haven’t already lined up an ensemble to premier it with, I’m the director of our historical music division here at U of W. I’d be interested.” She turned back to Vicky. “Now that you’re taking on the baroque lute, I recommend learning this style of playing in the strongest possible terms. It’s very much like a jazz ensemble playing from a lead sheet, although the learning curve is steeper. But at the time that lutes like yours were in vogue, it was a thing that any competent musician knew as a matter of course. I’m already planning to email you some instructional material; I’ll add to that a doctoral thesis written by a student of mine some years ago. It’s a beginner-level treatise on continuo playing, with instructions specific to the baroque lute’s tuning. That should get you started.”
Patty spoke up from her place on the couch. “Improvisation isn’t really a thing you picture when you think of classical music. What you guys just did was so cool.”
Lacey inclined her head. “Many things have changed over the past century where our art is concerned, little of it for the better. Complex art music has become almost exclusively the property of academia, and that’s led to a certain—calcification. The rigid lines drawn between performer and composer, for example—that’s a modern phenomenon, with no equivalent before the turn of the twentieth century.” She looked back at Mallory. “I applaud you for daring to perform and record your own compositions. It’s much needed. As is a return of the noble art of improvisation. I know a number of virtuoso performers with astounding technique, who if I asked them to play ‘Happy Birthday’ in C, would ask me if I had the sheet music for it. I imagine you’ve encountered a few such players yourself.”
Mallory screwed up her face. “More than a few.”
“Just so.” Lacey rose with the theorbo, handling the lengthy instrument with care. She carried it to the wall where her other plucked instruments were displayed, hanging it from a set of hooks that had clearly been custom–designed for it. Crossing the room to the smaller of the two sofas, she settled in.
“This has been very exciting,” she said. “Vicky, it’s a thrill to see someone as young as you choose the baroque lute; most people don’t gravitate towards it until at least their university-level classical guitar studies. But honestly, you’ve all been a delight to have as guests. Mallory, Julie—” she hesitated, then plunged ahead. “It’s so good to see a lesbian couple openly enjoying a life together, yet not going out of your way to call attention to it. So comfortable in your own skin. Twenty-five years ago, when I moved in with my partner at the time, it was something of an act of defiance, daring the system to retaliate.”
Julie’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t realize—”
“That I’m a lesbian? I suppose not. That’s how far we’ve come—I don’t feel compelled to make a statement of it anymore.”
She turned her eyes to Vicky. “I think I sense something between you and the tall young lady sitting next to your sister. Am I mistaken?”
Vicky colored. “Can I talk about it, Patty?”
Patty gave a shrug and a lopsided smile. “Guess I don’t see the harm.”
“We haven’t really figured out what’s happening,” said Vicky. “I don’t think we’re really girlfriends yet; more like friends with benefits.”
“Which is a perfectly fine thing to be. I admit, I’m a little envious.”
“I take it you’re not with anybody now?” said Mallory. Rising from behind the piano, she crossed the room, seating herself on the cushion next to Lacey. Lacey raised an eyebrow, then shot a glance towards Julie, who wore a knowing smile.
Comprehension dawning in Lacey’s eyes, she turned her attention back to Mallory. “Darling,” she said, “I’d be careful if I were you. I might be tempted to think you’re coming on to me.”
Mallory placed a hand on the older woman’s thigh, then caressed it through the fabric of the turquoise skirt. “Be tempted.”
On to Chapter Twenty-Five!
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