She opened her lips and was overjoyed when the sweet fullness of Cory's tongue glided past with slow, deliberate strokes. Helen could taste lemon and honey from Cory's tea.

Is this so difficult, Helen? Feel the energy. It swirls around you. She feeds you, this woman who is so alive in your arms. Let go, Helen.

Helen coiled her arms slowly around Cory. She pulled her closer and not close enough. Cory stroked Helen's back, her sides, the back of her neck. She pressed against Helen. b.r.e.a.s.t.s to b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Helen thought she would stop breathing. In a panic, she pushed away. A wet smacking sounded between them and Cory's eyes fluttered open.

"I'm sorry," Helen said. Her body trembled. Before Cory could respond, with what Helen hoped would be a word or two of rea.s.surance, the moment was shattered.

Pop! Pop pop! Pop! A kernel hit Cory in the face, another whizzed between them, and then a sudden barrage of the tiny treats hurled themselves toward them. Helen laughed when one stuck to Cory's lips.

"The cover!" Cory shrieked, pointing to the basket cover propped against the hearth. "Quickly!"

In a fit of laughter, Helen lunged for the top, only to drop it into the fire when she tried placing it over the pan of projectiles. "d.a.m.n it. Now what?"

"Duck." Cory laughed and eagerly placed some popped morsels into her mouth.

Helen scooped a handful from the carpet and threw it at Cory. "You're a lot of help." The barrage continued until she placed the screen in front of the wholegrain attack. "Oh G.o.d." She waved her hand, trying to rid her s.p.a.ce of the stench of burning popcorn. "That's the worst smell ever."

Glancing at the avalanche that surrounded them, Cory continued to eat happily. She pointed to Helen's sleeve. The loose fibers of her sweater had created a Velcro effect and Helen's left side was nearly covered with popcorn. Cory reached over and plucked a few of those pieces off. She ate those, too.

"You look lovely in white," Cory said. "You'll make a stunning bride."

Helen sat back, shook her head, and sighed. "Ten thousand unemployed comedians and I get you." She scooped another handful of the popcorn and tossed it at Cory.

Cory's kiss blasted her into a physically unstable realm. The kiss had been of nuclear proportions, with no time given to question its authority. Fission had neared fusion, and surely she'd have become liquid if the kiss had continued.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Cory asked, a grin still on her face.

"About what? Popcorn or my rampant hormones?" She pulled the popcorn from her sweater and Cory a.s.sisted.

"I don't regret kissing you." She popped a few pieces of the corn into Helen's accepting mouth. "Let's consider it a prelude." She brushed the final pieces away from the sweater.

Some prelude. Would her finale be as strong? Would her hands execute the silvery notes of romance and cause Helen's body to scream the pa.s.sion of a ballad? Maybe her lovemaking would be endless?

There it is. There's the romantic side of you.

Helen blushed. "I just need to slow down."

"Understandable." Cory playfully flicked a piece of popcorn from the floor and toward her. "Why don't we clean up this mess?"

Cory waited by the opened window when Helen returned from putting away the vacuum.

"Come here," she said over her shoulder. "I want to show you something. Turn out the light."

Helen turned off the light and joined her. "I'm game." She leaned on the windowsill.

Cory pointed into the night sky. "Between the roof across the street and that big star, can you see the tiny constellation? It's like a little kite."

Helen blocked the city light with her hand. "Yes, barely. I can see seven stars."

"It's called Delphinus. It's simple to our eyes, but if you look at the same constellation with a small telescope, you can see hundreds of stars within. They're actually beyond it. It's breathtaking if you don't expect it."

"But when you look again it loses l.u.s.ter." Helen sounded disappointed.

"But you have choices," Cory said. "Don't look at it ever again and remember its effect, or always look at it as though it were the first time."

"Or get a stronger telescope and look deeper," Helen said.

"Very good." She nudged her. "You're an explorer."

"More like a nosy journalist." Helen gave her a quizzical look. "Is there a moral to your story?"

"There are surprises in life and what we do with their effect is entirely up to us." Cory looked at her watch. "It's getting late."

Her response sounded cryptic, but Helen was about to make a choice without giving it or the stars a second thought. She pressed a kiss to Cory's shoulder and then looked into her eyes. "I want to see you again."

"Is tomorrow too soon? Come for brunch."

Cory jotted her address on a piece of paper and Helen slipped it into her wallet. At the door, she faltered. How do you say good night when you've just met, yet shared a kiss with enough pa.s.sion to erupt popcorn? Or so it seemed.

"Good night," Helen said as she hugged Cory.

"See you tomorrow."

Chapter Seven.

Tucson called the following morning. Helen pushed her morning coffee away and leaned back into her chair. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

"What do you mean you're on your way to Seattle?"

"We decided to sublet the apartment. We've packed a few essentials and we'll get what we need when we find a place to live."

"Can you stop here first? I want to see you and Pete."

"No, honey, we're already in Pittsburgh."

"d.a.m.n it. You said we'd get together."

"I know. I'm sorry, Helen."

Their abrupt departure disturbed her, but she couldn't stop them from leaving. At least they weren't dying and would be a phone call away. Without asking, she knew he'd be back in town for an occasional function. If they were happy, she was happy, too.

"I'll miss you, Tucson. Call me, okay?"

"You know I will."

"Oh, wait. Do you remember the woman that slammed into me and ruined my scarf?"

"Yes."

"We had a date last night, and I'll see her this afternoon." Telling him felt right and she felt good saying the words. She had taken a new beginning.

"That's wonderful news. We're about to enter the tunnels, so I have to go. We love-" Their connection was cut off.

Helen washed her breakfast mug and dressed for her second get-together with Cory.

"That's the Dakota." The cabby handed the paper back to Helen and then pulled into traffic. "Have you there in no time."

Helen looked back to the handwriting. "The Dakota," she said quietly.

The residence wasn't merely another apartment building in just another neighborhood. For Helen, mention of the Dakota conjured up flashes of Central Park West, John and Yoko, Lillian Gish, and Rudolf Nureyev, to name a few. A gnat's eyelash away, in the San Remo, lived Mia Farrow, but gone were the days of Woody Allen. Money and fame had resided on Central Park West, along with history and headlines.

Cory greeted her at the door and whisked her into the kitchen. Helen looked around the large room. An ensemble of copper-clad pots and pans hung from the ceiling, crowning a butcher block and sink. Each cabinet door was clear gla.s.s and every item was orderly. And tile! White tile from floor to ceiling gave the room a sterile feel.

"I apologize for being abrupt. I have to get this off the heat." Cory scurried to the stove, lifted a kettle, and poured its creamy white, rich soup into a serving dish. She covered it and turned to Helen. She let out a quick breath. "I'm glad you're here. Hungry?"

The tang of sour cream hit her nostrils and Helen nodded quickly. "Yes. You cook? That's something I have no talent for."

Cory's sweat suit lent sensuousness to her swagger as she walked toward Helen. She laced their fingers together. "Where does your talent lay, Ms. Townsend?" Cory teased and kissed her cheek.

"All dormant," she said and matched the kiss.

On cue, her hyperactive mind kicked in and discharged a volley of electrical impulses through her brain.

What's dormant? The kiss? The bath? Remember the bath, Helen? Those eyes that penetrated your thoughts and hurled you into the most exquisite-?

Enough. The room suddenly became too warm for Helen. She cleared her throat with that same pathetic sound she'd made during the ambush. She backed away.

It was then that she noticed an alcove and dining table. That niche wasn't as medicinal, with its walls stripped of tile. Instead, small pears and peaches were cl.u.s.tered on wallpaper with a golden-yellow background. The s.p.a.ce felt cozy, and Helen envisioned a comfortable breakfast there.

The small table was perfectly set with crystal and silver. In the center, a small a.s.sortment of fresh fall mums burst with colors of red, orange, and yellow, their colors embellished by streaming sunlight.

"Is all of this for me?" she asked.

"All for you." Cory looked toward the table and back at Helen. Her bangs had loosened and she looked adorably impish. "Pretty, isn't it?"

"Beautiful."

Over soup and salad, they discussed Helen's research on the Third Reich and her interest in German-occupied Poland. Her intention was to write a book on the ghettos of Warsaw and Lodz and the death camps, primarily Auschwitz, Dachau, and Buchenwald.

"I had planned to travel to Auschwitz with my father, for hands-on research, but then I shelved the book."

Cory munched her salad. "Was that when Chelsea died?"

"No, years before her death. Solidarity and Lech Walesa were coming into power and the entire Eastern Bloc was experiencing dramatic change. Travel there wasn't exactly safe."

"I've been to Poland," Cory said as easily as another person would say they'd been to Philly. "It's a remarkable country with a fantastic history. They have quite a love for their country. After the war, the old city of Warsaw was rebuilt through photographs and works of art." Cory rattled on. "The Black Madonna..."

Her remark surprised Helen. n.o.body "goes" to Poland, and n.o.body says it's a remarkable country with a fantastic history. Forever, Poland has taken the brunt of ethnic jokes.

Helen wiped her mouth with the napkin and then placed it neatly on the table. Remembering the vastness of Cory's residence and the fact that she'd seen no piano while she shuffled through, she felt uneasy. Who was this Chamberlain woman? She eyeballed her with suspicion.

"Were you visiting the country?"

"I traveled there for business first and then pleasure." Cory stood and began clearing the table.

Used by women. Secretive. She's a spy. For us? For the KGB? She's a Commie. A pinko. A sympathizer. Who else would infiltrate Poland on business and then pleasure? Sure, overthrow a country today, feast on its bounty tomorrow. The nerve. But where did the piano come in?

"Wait," Helen said. "There's something I don't understand. What exactly is it that you do?"

"I travel," she said. "A lot."

"So will you answer my question?"

"Yes." She sat quietly for a moment, almost as though she weighed her answer. "Come with me." She took Helen by the hand. "I haven't been totally up front with you, but it comes from my insecurities." Cory led her into the living room and stopped in front of large oak double doors. "This is where I leave my vanity."

She opened the doors and Helen stepped inside. Cory stayed at the threshold, leaning against the door, her arms crossed. Helen slowly walked around the room.

Framed posters occupied most of the white wall s.p.a.ce. She read them aloud: "Chamberlain Plays Chopin. Two nights only." It was from a recent Carnegie Hall date. Then, "Cory Pops With Boston," a Boston Pops guest appearance. One poster displayed a photograph showing only Cory's eyes, with the remaining features in shadow. Helen wanted to touch the poster but didn't. She continued to read the placards that sent her around the world: London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Warsaw.

Cory rustled at the doorway and Helen continued her survey. Finally, she walked to a grand piano that faced a wall whose windows held no drapes. Cotton clouds and blue sky reflected clearly from the top of the ebony instrument. She touched the polished finish and noticed, in another corner, a life-size porcelain statue.

"Apollo. The G.o.d of music," she said.

She attempted an abrupt about-face, but still another item on the wall stopped her. There, in a black frame, stood Cory and her delicious half-moon grin, shaking hands with Queen Elizabeth. Beside the photograph hung a framed program. Helen read the entire page. "By Royal command, in recognition of her outstanding contribution to the arts, Coryell Chamberlain performs Brahms and Borodin, in the presence of Queen Elizabeth II, at The Royal Albert Hall, eight p.m. on August twenty-first, nineteen ninety-four."

Helen completed her about-face and glared at Cory. "You were commanded by the Queen? Well, isn't that special?" Helen scoffed. "Doesn't that make you a knight or something?" She stepped up to Cory. "Are you trying to make a fool of me?"

Cory stood erect, surprised by Helen's anger. "No. Helen, I-"

"When did you plan to tell me? You said you're a musician and I'm thinking, okay, a local with talent, but this-" She glanced around the room, shook her head, and pounded out, through the double doors. Cory followed.

"You don't understand. Let me explain."