Roland shoved a microphone near Helen. "You've stirred up the proverbial hornets' nest with your column," she announced to Helen and the camera. "Some of these individuals seem to think-"

"Tell her, Helen." A man waved a rainbow sign. "Come on. Tell her we're here, we're queer, and so are some of you." The chanting spread throughout the gay activists.

So cliche. Helen's eyes narrowed and she clenched her teeth. That type of finger pointing she loathed. She thought it obscene to incriminate others and, if forced, she would neither admit nor deny anything.

"My column supports the rights of a particular subculture of our society. I could have chosen any subculture."

"Baa, baa, black sheep. Have you any wool?" a woman and her female companion yelled.

Roland stepped closer with the microphone and Helen stepped back. "What do you expect to accomplish with your column?"

"Nothing. Unless our society is quick to emanc.i.p.ate their minds, nothing will change much. We're probably the only living organism that doesn't tolerate same-s.e.x affection. And why is that? Is it because we have a brain with the ability to think and discern? No. Monkeys have those abilities." She looked directly into Roland's eyes. Helen had once dated the still-closeted reporter. "I suspect rats do, too." When Roland lowered her microphone and took a step backward, Helen pushed her way through the herd of protesters and cameras.

"Show's over," Sam said and guided her through the boisterous crowd.

Alone, Helen stood at her office window and looked to the sidewalk below. The crowd had dispersed and she sighed wearily. She'd had the opportunity to speak out and it would be over. She'd be out of the closet and literally into the street. Bang. Boom.

To the pedestrians below she muttered, "Repet.i.tion. It's all you want. Why won't you allow us our choices? What scares you?" She looked at her reflection in the window. "What scares me?"

Freedom. Her right to choose. She knew, no matter how much she wanted freedom, she feared coming out alone. Helen had to organize her thoughts and plan, get them into action, and claim a fuller ident.i.ty.

While New York's sky turned gunmetal blue, white headlights and red taillights clamored for position below. The time was past six and it had been one h.e.l.l of a day. She ignored any messages that might be on her phone, preferring to deal with them on Monday. Her day was quiet now, and nothing remained to distract her. Sam dropped by and placed a box onto her desk.

"Reception sent this up. It's too light for a bomb. Good night, Helen." He turned to leave. "Good job today."

"Thanks."

Helen stared at the box. She'd often received tokens from readers and that one came as no surprise. Some people still appreciated her column. She picked up the gift and noticed the elegant wrapping. A shake presented a m.u.f.fled sound. Curious. Suddenly, she remembered-mustard and silk. Her flesh tingled.

Alone with a cardboard container, which in no way, shape, or form possessed the ability to converse, Helen was speechless. She placed the package back on her desk and tried to justify not opening it. She knew the content, from whom it came, and that it was simply a replacement for damages occurred during an innocent, or not so innocent, jog. A scarf, but a scarf sent by a tantalizing woman she knew only as "yes."

Her fingers shook while she untied the delicate lavender ribbon.

"How appropriate."

Next was the creamy white paper.

"Virginal."

And finally, the box.

"Pandora's box." She took a breath. "Relax. It's a scarf. Just remove the cover...that's it...and now peel back the tissue. Very good, Helen."

And there it was: A scarf, red and silky. A promise kept. No ghosts flew out, no bugs jumped on her, no diseases wreaked havoc. Now pick it up.

She shook her head. "No, and I don't believe I'm having a conversation with myself."

Helen finally pulled herself together and picked up the soft and cool-to-her-touch garment. When she noticed another wrapped item, she tore through the tissue and her entire muscular system collapsed. Another scarf, as bright as emeralds. Beneath the layers of fabric, at the bottom of the box, lay even greater hope: a note. A name. Helen picked up the parchment envelope, removed the fold of paper, and read aloud. "My apologies for the accident and I do hope the scarves will make up for any problem I have caused. Of course silk. Could I have imagined anything less? Have a lovely weekend. C.C."

Frustrated, Helen picked up the green cloth and felt its gentleness. She touched it to her cheek and, once more, captured the delicate aroma of lily of the valley. She deeply inhaled a memory.

"C.C. That tells me a h.e.l.l of a lot." She looked back at the note. "I can eliminate Carol Channing, Claudette Colbert, and Charlie Chaplin. C.C. Cynthia. Carol. Christine. I like Christine."

Once more irritated with the woman's elusiveness, and with her own obsessive curiosity, Helen shoved the scarves into the box, grabbed her belongings, and whisked herself out the office door.

Chapter Four.

On Sat.u.r.day morning, Helen snuggled deep into her down pillow and pulled the blankets to her neck. She stared at the old Time magazine cover she'd framed and hung near her dresser. The periodical date was October 14, 1991, and bore the headline "Jodie Foster. A Director Is Born."

On that cover, Foster personified sophistication. Amid a darkened background, a movie projector shone over her left shoulder, and her intense eyes studied the unseen screen in front of her.

"Not bad," she said and allowed herself the indulgence of imagining awakening to such a woman.

She studied the photograph longer. Finely carved facial features, sharp angles of cheek and jaw, all added depth to Jodie's eyes. Stacey had pointed out the small crease at the tip of the Foster nose. Stacey!

Helen tore her thoughts away from the image on the wall. Stacey. Last night. A dream. She thought harder. The club. Stacey had handed her a green drink. M something. A martini? A Manhattan? No.

All dreams had meaning. Helen threw back the blankets and grabbed the phone from her nightstand. She poked in Stacey's number.

"What?" Stacey growled.

"Good morning."

"Blondie?"

"I need to see you." Helen sprang from her bed and headed toward the bathroom.

Stacey groaned. "I just got in three hours ago."

"You can sleep later," Helen said and turned on the shower. "I'll be there at eleven." She adjusted the water temperature.

"Use your key," she grumbled.

Stacey's apartment was located in what had once been a garment manufacturing building. The building now held private residences. She'd gutted the loft and turned it into an exotic showroom of thick carpets, mounds of prime-color pillows, foliage to make a botanist weak at the knees, and bright Warhol silk screens that lined the walls: Judy, Marilyn, Ingrid, Chanel No. 5, and more, but no Campbell's soup cans.

Helen closed the front door and headed for the kitchen. She brewed fresh coffee and, while Mr. Coffee completed his task, hand-squeezed eight oranges before she'd extracted enough juice and pulp for a decent serving. She wouldn't attempt that again for love, money, or even a Pulitzer Prize.

She'd purchased a yellow rose from a sidewalk vendor and placed the flower on the tray with her peace offering. At the bedroom door, she first peeked in to be sure Stacey was alone.

"Hey, you." No response. She entered the room and set the tray on a nearby chair and then sat on the edge of the bed. Stacey still gripped the phone and Helen returned it to its base. "Hey," she repeated and ran her fingers in quick patterns through Stacey's short, ash-blond hair. Stacey grunted.

"Why am I awake?" She rolled onto her back.

Helen pulled up the sheet to cover Stacey's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Because I need to talk to you."

"This is a nightmare." She pushed herself up and through sleepy, bloodshot eyes, focused on Helen. She managed a smile. "Blondie."

"I've missed you." Helen wrapped her arms around Stacey and squeezed.

"You just wanted to see me naked." She returned the hug.

"I've seen you naked. I wasn't impressed."

"No? Why not?"

"You have teeny tiny b.o.o.bs."

Stacey let the cover fall away from her chest. She looked down at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and pushed at the side of one. "Almost a C cup. They're good b.o.o.bs."

"Teeny tiny. At least for my liking." Helen gave Stacey a quick kiss on her lips.

"Nice mouth. I can't think of a better way to wake up."

"You have no imagination."

"That's why you write and I run a bar." Stacey fell backward, onto the mattress. "Go away now."

"Get up, you b.u.m."

Trying her best to rouse Stacey, Helen bounced and shook the bed, but hadn't expected to find herself suddenly flipped onto her back with Stacey straddling her and pinning her hands behind her head.

"I like this advantage." Stacey beamed as she looked down at Helen.

"You're the one without clothes. I could have my way with you."

"Take me. Break me. Make me a woman." She released Helen's hands and rolled to her back. "Please?"

"You know, you really are a pig sometimes." Helen slapped Stacey on the hip, but fully expected a comment of that nature from her. "It isn't any wonder you don't have a real relationship."

"I have lovers."

"But you never love." Helen stood and straightened her clothing.

"Look who's talking. You've been romancing Chelsea forever." She took quick steps to the dresser, grabbed a T-shirt, and put it on.

"That's different."

Stacey wagged a finger in front of Helen. "No no no no no. In our separate ways, we've locked our hearts." She spied the fresh orange juice and drank it quickly. "Thanks." She picked up the mug of coffee and Helen followed her out to a Plexiglas balcony. "So, Blondie, what's going on? We caught you on the eleven o'clock news last night. You looked p.i.s.sed and petrified." She propped her feet on the railing and placed shades over her eyes. "And how about that Roland? You should have lip-locked her right there. She'd have pa.s.sed out in an instant."

"Jan was never a good kisser, anyway. I felt like a d.a.m.n hypocrite. Stace, I want to come out and I can't do it alone. You can help."

"How?"

Stacey's establishment, Xanadu, was located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and was a popular hangout for the gay and lesbian elite.

"With all of those gay celebrities you rub elbows with at your bar. Think of how much weight it would carry if they could be persuaded to come out as a group."

"Are you serious? I know! I'll hold a debutante ball for all lesbians. You'll be the next"-she stressed the next word lasciviously-"coming attractions."

Helen shook her head but giggled the tiniest bit. "Do you ever stop?" In spite of herself, she loved Stacey and she'd have her no other way.

"Never. Cheap swine, I am. Always the animal." Always the colorfully correct d.y.k.e, she smiled proudly and adjusted her lavender sungla.s.ses.

"In a sense, that's exactly what I want, but why limit it to women?" She raised an eyebrow.

Stacey looked over the top of her eyewear at Helen. "Oh. You're serious. Okay. I'm listening."

"If they would combine their talents and present a knockout show for one night only, where each would state their s.e.xual preference, we could come out as a group. I would be their MC, of course. Simple."

Stacey abruptly pulled off her shades and stared at Helen. "You need a sedative. They'll laugh you out of the room."

"You aren't laughing."

"Your idea is preposterous, but it is something the community desperately needs," she said and put her sungla.s.ses back on. "A star-studded event might help dispel some of the misconceptions of our community."

"Exactly. How many gay celebrities do you know?"

"Close? Fifteen maybe." Stacey rubbed her chin. "Some have big b.a.l.l.s and might jump at a joint effort."

Helen's enthusiasm heightened. "Great. Can we use your club to get a group together for an initial discussion?"

"No. We'll reel them in here. They'll be more comfortable and there won't be any outside ears. When do you want me to herd them for a get-together?"

"The beginning of the new year."

"That's about twelve weeks away. Plenty of time to plan." She drank some of the now-cold coffee and grinned at Helen. Lots of teeth and a mischievous smile. "I read your note to Green Eyes. Any response?"

Helen had become so caught up in their conversation that she'd forgotten that part of her life. Or maybe the woman wasn't even a part, only an irritation.

"She didn't show and I'm embarra.s.sed. I sounded so desperate." Helen shrugged. "It doesn't really matter."

"You sell yourself short." Stacey opened a window panel and leaned on the railing. She looked to the street below. "Maybe she was out of town or didn't read your column."

Helen didn't comment. "I had a dream about you last night."

Stacey perked up. "Did you finally sleep with me?"