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squirm.
    “ Is Lily here?”
    “ No.”
    “ May I come in?” She tried
to look around him, into the house, into their lives.
    He blocked the door. “I don’t think that’s a
good idea.”
    “ You . . . you know who I
am, don’t you?”
    He stared at her, refusing to acknowledge the
man or his daughter as hatred seeped through him, brought back the
days, months, years, his mother spent alone; four damn days a month
for fourteen years.
    “ You called my mother’s
house . . . about my father.”
    Her voice wobbled. Good, feel it, Christine
Blacksworth, feel what I’ve felt for the past fourteen years every
time I saw your father’s bathrobe hanging in my mother’s closet,
saw his razor in her bathroom, his glasses on her nightstand. Let
it strangle you . . .
    “ I have to speak with your
mother.” The words were firmer, part congealed.
    “ She’s not
available.”
    “ Can’t you work with me so
we can get this over with?”
    “ No, I can’t.”
    “ Do you think I wanted to
come here? Do you think I would be standing here if there’d been
any other way?”
    “ I don’t know, would you?
Maybe come to see for yourself?”
    “ This is just as hard on me
as it is on you.” Her voice dipped, faltered. “At least you knew. I
had no idea. All this time, and I had no idea.”
    He almost felt sorry for her but years of
living with Charles Blacksworth’s comings and goings wiped any pity
from his soul. “You think so; you think we’re in the same boat,
Christine? What do you think it’s like to see a man coming out of
your mother’s bedroom in the morning, one who’s not her husband?
And then the bastard leaves her, every month, goes back to his rich
family in Chicago, his prestigious job, his three piece suits. And
he does it year after year after year and she cries when he leaves,
every goddamn time.”
    She looked away, pinched the bridge of her
nose.
    “ You think you had it
worse? You don’t have a clue.” He gripped the door handle, forced
himself to stay still when every cell in his body wanted to jerk
her head up, make her acknowledge his words, feel his hatred. “Go
home, Christine Blacksworth. You’re fourteen years too
late.”
    ***
    Gloria accepted the fluted glass bubbling
with Dom Perignon, smiled at the young man dressed in black who
hadn’t left her side all night; Jeremy something or other,
investment banker. He couldn’t be more than twenty-eight, a year
older than Christine, and yet she hadn’t missed the way his dark
eyes took in her pale blue gown, moved from the swell of breast to
shoulder, settled on the smooth, tanned skin of her neck. Men had
looked at her that way her entire life, from the time she was
fourteen and discovered that if she smiled wide and long, dropped
her voice a few decibels, and glanced instead of stared at other
boys, she would gain not only their attention, but their
admiration. What a ridiculous game it all was, one she’d never
succumbed to, preferring intellect to sexuality. But then she’d met
Charles.
    She sipped her champagne, tried to
concentrate on what the young man was saying.
    “ Have you ever heard
Bocelli?” Jeremy something or other was saying, “I saw him in New
York. He’s exquisite, not Pavarotti, but still quite
good.”
    “ And blind.”
    “ Incredible, isn’t it?” He
took her comment as interest, moved closer, his breath fanning her
ear. “I’d love to take you. We could have dinner at The Presidio
first. Next Saturday.”
    She took a step away, met his dark eyes,
sparkling with one too many Dom Perignons. “I don’t think so, but
thank you for the invitation.”
    He flattened a hand over his chest. “You
wound me, beautiful maiden. Please reconsider.”
    Oh, Charles, how could you have left me to
deal with this? “I could be your mother.”
    “ But you’re not.” He took
her hand, stroked his fingers up her arm.
    “ I just buried my husband
two weeks ago.” Was there no respect for the grieving
process?
    “ I