"I'm tired of living underground. It isn't fair or healthy for any of us."

"I can't imagine what it must be like. I agree with you, but are you ready to risk your career?"

"There are laws to protect me."

"Laws schmaws. If the old geezers on the board want you out-"

"I hope the paper has the integrity to place merit over s.e.xuality."

"Don't count on that." He looked squarely into Helen's eyes. "But you can count on me to fight for you."

"Thanks."

He rubbed a hand over his face and looked at the column again. "It's good copy." He nodded. "You're on for Friday."

"Good. Are we finished?" Helen stood, antic.i.p.ating his yes.

"Not just yet." He waved her down again. "Let me read something, and I quote: 'Message to green eyes. I will have lunch at the restaurant that bears the name of the column we discussed. I'd like to talk with you further. Friday, one p.m.'"

Sam c.o.c.ked his head and raised only one eyebrow. Helen let out a slow breath. She'd rather work the mailroom than lose the message.

"Starting a private dating service?" The editor was back.

"Sam, leave it in. It's a one-time deal."

"Lucky for you I'm feeling generous."

Helen met Tucson at Central Park South for lunch. The weather was tauntingly warm compared with earlier in the week.

"Two pretzels with mustard," Tucson said and paid the street vendor. He handed one to Helen. "I can't believe you've never had a pretzel with mustard. Are you really a native of this smoggy city, or are you feeding us a load of bull in your columns?"

"To be honest, I grew up in Brewster, but you'll never hear me admit it in public." She bit into her pretzel and added a m.u.f.fled comment. "This tastes pretty good."

They ate and chatted casually, but Tucson finished his lunch quickly.

"Now tell me, word wizard, what's with the column on closeted gays?" He dropped his napkin into the trash. "Have you taken it upon your shoulders to help create a more accepting society for us?"

"I'm a realist. I'll never fully see that in my lifetime. I'm just tired of the oppression and I want to say something. My readers can interpret me however they choose, and they will."

"Well, oppression will always exist. We live with it and try not to carry a chip."

Helen stopped and grabbed his arm, not believing what she'd just heard. "How can you be so insensitive? It's att.i.tudes like yours that give our society the notion that some are better than others. I've conformed long enough."

"You're turning into a martyr," he said, unruffled by her demeanor. "Talk is cheap. Coming out would serve a better purpose, but I don't see you jeopardizing your career."

Helen laughed to herself. The friend conspiring with the editor conspiring with the tease on the street. When they approached a vacant horse-drawn carriage, Tucson handed a wad of bills to a coachman and helped Helen up and onto the seat.

"What's going on that you hired a coach to smooth it over with me?" Helen asked as the carriage lurched forward.

"I'm leaving New York."

"Why?"

"For a job offer that I'd be insane to refuse."

"Just like that? New York's been your home for-"

"-thirteen years. I'm in a rut and it's time to move forward." He took hold of her hand. "I wish you'd do the same."

"Don't start with me. I have a terrific career and a roof over my head. Life is good."

"And memories. Don't forget memories."

The clop-clop of horse's hooves resounded like a finely crafted timepiece. Helen listened while time surged ahead, while family, lovers, and friends took leave. The clock ticked and she sat comfortable on the second hand. Around and around and around, but she never moved a centimeter.

Suddenly, the horse reared, spooked by a careless jogger. The coachman regained control and the mare settled.

"Sorry," the driver said over his shoulder and continued his course.

Helen brushed bits of salt from her lap. "Don't tell me how to live my life."

"I'm not. I love you and I worry about you. That's all I'm saying."

Helen's eyes welled tears. "Will you please hold me?"

"Sure." Tucson pulled her close.

"I love you, too. I'll miss you. Will you spend time with me before you go?"

"You know I will. You're my best girl."

Helen laughed and wiped her tears with her napkin. "I'm your only girl. Will Pete go with you?"

Their ride reached the end and they exited the carriage. "Yeah. We've decided that happily ever after would do us good."

"Good. It's nice to have someone to grow old with."

Tucson slipped his arm around Helen's waist and they crossed Fifty-Ninth Street. "Yes, it is, and I want you to remember that."

When they approached the entrance to the newspaper building, a jarring jolt slammed Helen into a three sixty spin. Oomph! The thud of bodies and entanglement of limbs dumped a mound of mustard onto her scarf. Helen snapped when she recovered from the unexpected whirlwind.

"d.a.m.n it. Why don't you people watch where the h.e.l.l you're going?" When she looked up, she caught her breath. Once more, that woman stared back and Helen was lost in the loveliness of her eyes.

"Lady, jog in the park or something. Are you all right, Helen?" Tucson tried to wipe mustard from the scarf.

"I'm awfully sorry," Green Eyes said. "I hope you're all right, and I'll see that you receive a new scarf. Silk, I a.s.sume." She reached up and touched the damaged item. "Yes, of course." Her eyes shone happily when she looked into Helen's. Her cheeks were bright red. "We must stop meeting like this, Helen." The woman turned and continued her pace.

Helen was angry. A million and a half people in Manhattan and that same woman knocks her socks off a second time? She didn't buy it. She could sniff out a setup if it was buried fifty feet beneath concrete.

Helen shouted down the sidewalk. "On a first-name basis now? At least one of us is." But the woman was too far out of range to hear her.

"You know her?" he asked.

"Not really." She continued to look, hopefully to catch another glimpse of the black sweat suit and the tied-back hair that bounced across the woman's back.

"Helen, you're blushing."

"I'm p.i.s.sed off," she shot back.

He laughed loudly. "No, honey, you're fl.u.s.tered. That woman does something to you. Admit it."

"Yes, she does. She annoys the h.e.l.l out of me, as you can see by my scarf."

"Call it what you will, but I want to hear more about that chick before I leave." Tucson kissed her cheek. "I'll be in touch."

Numbed from the encounter, Helen entered the office building. She made a mental note to have Sam pull the message from the Friday edition. She had to maintain control.

Helen thought of herself more as an artist than as a writer. Anyone could write; few, though, could create effectively. Without creative control, she could become an a.s.sembly-line writer, grinding out books one month after a major story broke nationally. Helen would not accept a link to that category. She took pride in her investigations, her arousal of public interest, and made darned sure she could back up every word. No, Helen was not one to take a.s.signments of the month, and Ms. Green Eyes seemed quick to become one of those a.s.signments. Helen refused to oblige.

Her private life was safe now, powered by the past. Those she loved most dearly lay buried, deep in her heart. She loved her parents and Chelsea. Loved them totally; loved them hard. Now they were gone. There was no more love to go around.

With her scarf crumpled tightly in her hand, Helen approached the elevator. The woman's rosy cheeks and shortness of breath made their way into her mind again and stirred adrenaline.

The ring of the elevator bell sounded louder than usual. Bright aluminum doors opened wide. Several pa.s.sengers hurried inside and brushed arms with those who exited. Helen hesitated, preferring to ride alone, but she gripped the scarf and stepped forward, into the mix.

Control was failing.

Chapter Three.

On Friday afternoon, inside the Black Sheep Restaurant, Helen swirled the ice of her White Russian with a stirrer. Ice chimed and clanged against the gla.s.s. She'd forgotten to have Sam kill the invitation, but no mystery woman had shown and the time was well past one thirty.

She looked away from the patrons. "If I'd wanted to humiliate myself, I could have disrobed in the display windows at Saks. That would be less embarra.s.sing than publicly begging for a date," she said to the salt and pepper.

All of those people sitting around the restaurant knew she was stood up. Yeah, they knew. They glanced at her column on page four of their newspapers and then back at her. Some whispered and some smiled. Some she knew, and most of them gave her the "you poor dear" look.

Could she be any more brainless? If she never saw the woman again, that would be fine with her. But what if she did? How mortified would she be when the woman burst into laughter for not choosing to meet Helen? Maybe enough to reduce her to tears? Never. Maybe enough for Helen to fire back and grab those ample b.r.e.a.s.t.s that pounded into her each time they met. Would serve them both right.

Again, she looked down at the condiments. "I don't believe I did this." She'd let a little girl crush, the result of an overzealous imagination, run wild. "Crush? Grow up, Helen. I don't even want this sidestep from reality."

She paid the check and left.

"Where to?" the cabby asked and looked into his mirror. "Hey. Aren't you the lady that wrote the column on queers? I think they should be lined up and shot."

Helen stared into the mirror. "What if you went home tonight and your daughter said, 'Hey, Pop, I'm a lesbian?' Would you shoulder the rifle, or would you prefer if someone else took a shot at her?"

"My daughter ain't no queer," he said.

"Don't be so sure."

"Don't be callin' everybody a queer."

"Just be quiet. I didn't ask for your opinion."

"I didn't ask for yours, lady."

"You d.a.m.n well did if you read my column." After his att.i.tude, she estimated hundreds of brutal calls and messages when she reached her office. "Look, buddy. I won't argue with someone whose grandest decision is whether to make a left or right turn."

"You got a smart mouth."

"Lately it's been rather dumb."

The cabby laughed and shrugged. "You ain't tellin' me nothin' I don't know. Now where to?"

"West Fifty-Seventh."

"What number?"

"Just go."

After crossing the Avenue of the Americas, she had a short walk to her office. On a downbeat day, a casual stroll gave her a needed sense of relaxation before the onslaught of callers would d.a.m.n her to h.e.l.l, again.

An attack, indeed, but not of callers. Helen was shocked to witness a group of demonstrators, police officers, and television crews that had swarmed the entrance to the newspaper. Picket signs held messages from opposing groups. She presumed they were right wing Republicans whose slogans read: NO RIGHTS WHEN GAY'S NOT RIGHT and TEACH OUR CHILDREN FAMILY VALUES. Other posters, however, read: HELEN'S CLOUT CAN HELP US OUT and ABORT h.o.m.oPHOBIA.

"No, it's not the opinion of the paper. Helen chooses her own columns," Sam told a reporter who shoved a microphone toward him. "But we'll defend the right of freedom of the press."

She hadn't antic.i.p.ated a demonstration of public opinion. Phone calls from pinp.r.i.c.ked patrons were easier to deal with. With reporters and cameras, there would be pressure to come out, and she didn't want to become a sideshow for the eleven o'clock news. At least not this way. She'd do that under her own terms. When she turned to walk away, members of the media snagged her, and she found herself no longer hidden from hungry and anxious ears.

"Helen!" reporter Jan Roland from NBC called out. She headed toward her, camera operator in tow. Helen watched Sam dash past them to be with her. Police held back the forty or so chanting protesters. ABC and CBS fell in with the NBC crew.

Sam took hold of her arm. "Are you okay to face the cameras?"

No, she wasn't okay. She'd rather turn around and make a mad dash for the Queensboro Bridge and then pick up a nine iron at the golf center in Flushing Meadows. It didn't matter that she didn't golf.

"I'll handle them."