She bought an overpriced Hershey bar and a soda and headed inside. Someone had left a theater schedule on a seat and she glanced through it.

Tonight was mother-daughter films. As the theater went dark she was thinking maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

She made it through Barbara Stanwyck's Stella Dallas without crying, mostly because she'd seen it before in a class on feminism in film. It was maudlin and manipulative but Stanwyck gave it everything she had, which was considerable. Her voice was lovely to listen to. It was easy to imagine that voice being her mother's.

Having survived the first movie, she decided to stay for the next one. She hadn't read The Joy Luck Club, but she had read about it. The film was not supposed to be as good as the book a" what film ever was? a" but the screenplay was by the author and had been critically applauded. It was an intellectual decision to stay.

She was in tears within minutes. Each of the eight stories unfolded another facet of both the tenacity of mothers to survive against crushing odds and their relationships with their daughters, who grew up ignorant of their mothers' histories. They never knew the mothers who had sacrificed their bodies, their love, their futures, even their lives, all so that their daughters would never have to face those choices. It got under her skin, and the grief she'd always carried for her own mother broke free. Behind it came the anger she'd been bottling up since Audra's revelations.

She huddled in her seat, unable to see for the tears, trying desperately not to make any noise. The theater was thankfully sparsely populated, and in short order she used up the only tissue in her pocket. Her hands wiped away an endless stream of scalding tears and at times she could hardly breathe.

"Here," a voice whispered. A slender hand from the row behind her proffered several tissues.

She couldn't voice thanks as she gratefully pressed them to her face. Get up and leave, she told herself, but her tears felt so thick that finding up wasn't a certain proposition. She tried to tune out the movie but found herself picturing Audra watching her tenth birthday party through the fence. Such sacrifice, and for what? She felt as if her head would explode. She was so angry with her aunt a" she'd called him uncle. Her mother had endured such an unspeakable violence and looked on the result with nothing but joy. She ached for her mother, wished she could somehow go back and make it better, but she couldn't because of that stupid, stupid accident. She couldn't say thank you. There was no way to acknowledge what her mother had done, to honor it.

Out of the maelstrom of loss and rage came an answer. She could honor her mother by living a good and happy life. Otherwise, what had any of them accepted substitutes for?

She clung to the lifeline the revelation offered, but her misery didn't abate. She had to leave, tried to stand, but stumbled.

"Let me help." It was the woman who had given her the tissues. "It's okay. Lean on me."

The proud thing to do would have been to refuse assistance and manage on her own, but the simple truth was she couldn't manage on her own. She accepted the bracing arm around her shoulders and did her best to navigate up the side aisle.

Moving helped, and so did the cold, wet paper towels the other woman offered her when they reached the semi-privacy of the cramped women's restroom. Finally, she managed, "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. I wasn't doing so well myself."

She managed a quick glance at her Samaritan and was relieved to see signs of recent tears on the other woman's cheeks. She looked back at her own reflection. The paper towels had heightened her ruddy face and she felt hot and dizzy. "I shouldn't have come. It's ... too close right now."

"I know what you mean."

Their gaze locked in the mirror and Holly caught her breath. The moment when they ought to have gathered their individual pain under an air of "all better" stoicism came. It went while they gazed at each other.

She hadn't been able to tell Jo. Or Tori. Not anybody. The words tumbled out of her. "My mother died a long time ago and I just found out that I exist because a friend of the family raped her. And a" and the aunt who raised me after she died married the man and I lived under his roof and I never knew... what he did. And he's dead and I'm glad." She gulped for air.

The other woman put her hand on Holly's shoulder and squeezed, hard. "It must seem unbearable." At Holly's nod, she went on, "Have you thought about talking to a professional? Just to help you cope?"

She shook her head a" it hadn't occurred to her. "I must seem a little crazy, talking to you like this." The hand was warm and soothing.

"No, I didn't mean to imply that. You just seem at the end of your rope." The other woman swallowed hard and took her hand away. "I recognize the feeling." Her translucent skin stained with red again as she blinked back tears. "My mother is entering the final stages of a terminal illness she's been battling for seven years. She's in so much pain and I can't help. I can't... all I can do is work. To keep the medical bills paid."

Holly turned from the mirror, looking into the other woman's eyes directly for the first time. They were like the color of melting ice, so light, but they seemed endlessly deep. She felt something ease inside her, then she was abruptly aware of the dark hair and brows that were at odds with eyes so fair. The easing gave way to a confusion of curiosity that surprised her. She tried to push it away. Was that what people meant when they described a mouth as tender? What kind of shoulders were cloaked under the long, supple leather jacket?

She steadied herself with her hands on the counter behind her and felt vulnerable and yet not afraid. Another inch closer and the other woman could wind her arm around Holly's waist, pull her close, kiss her.

She would have stopped imagining it if she hadn't seen the echo of her desire in the other woman's face. And she kept on looking into those striking eyes, reading a ripple of conflicting emotions, from desire to anguish, from disbelief to anticipation. She felt her lower lip tremble.

There was no air, nor did she need any.

The other woman's hands moved as if they would reach, as if they would take, but the moment was shattered by the bustling entrance of two women who shouldered between them in the limited space.

"I'm glad you're feeling better." For just a moment those fathomless eyes came back to Holly's face. Then the other woman turned and left without a backward glance.

Something in Holly went with her. She felt an indefinable loss that defied quantification. There was no simple answer a" or if there was she did not want to solve for it.

When Reyna ran headlong into the detective outside the theater's front doors, she lost it. She had just walked away from what? He could have no idea. She still didn't know what had just happened. Something only a fool would pass up. Something she should not have to say no to. A mouth that should know nothing but happiness, a spirit that was battered but not broken, a grace to be needful and show it. Why should she have to run? She had been about to take what was so openly offered, to put her arms around the other woman's waist and to explore the taste of her mouth, the texture of her tongue, her lips. In that electric moment Reyna had felt the promise that nothing would be held back.

So she lost it. "Get the fuck out of my way! Can't you leave me alone?"

"Miss Putnama""

"Take your hands off me!" She yanked her elbow from his grasp. Even in her fury, the fantasy in her head didn't stop a" she was back in the bathroom, in one of the stalls, taking what was offered. They twined on a bed, giving what was needed, lost in skin and heat and tenderness.

She turned to run, but he grabbed her again.

"Miss Putnam, please waita""

She swung on him and he parried, then she was hard up against him, her arms trapped between them. She opened her mouth to scream.

"I didn't know if you were okay," he said heavily.

She wrenched herself from his grasp. "You're not paid to care about me."

"You could be my daughter." The laconic air was gone, replaced by unwilling acceptance. "She'd be your age."

"Smart girl to get away from you," she said, meaning to be vicious.

He let it pass. "The other woman, in the theatera""

"I didn't fuck her in the bathroom, if that's what you want to know!"

"Jesus," was all he said.

Reyna's head was spinning with the images her words called up, of the other woman naked against her, legs around her. "If we're all clear on that I'd like to get out of the rain."

"Wait a" this isn't easy." Her fury melted abruptly and she realized he was ashen with some emotion so foreign to his features that she couldn't decipher it. "I'm breaking just about all the rules here. But there are rules and there are rules. There are things a father shouldn't do."

She shivered as the cold penetrated her jacket and the heat of her anger dissipated. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about a" Can we sit in the car? Getting soaked isn't going to help either of us."

She consented because he expected her to refuse. His car was just down the street and smelled of stale coffee in styrofoam cups.

"What did you mean about my father?"

"Not him. Me."

She waited, wondering if this was some sort of trap.

"My daughter was a lesbian. I've never said that to a soul."

Feeling as cold and remote as marble, she asked, "Why do I care?"

"I have access to your files going back five years. We have directives. We know what we're watching for. With some clients it's drugs, others it's gambling. We get lots of extramarital affairs. With you, we're supposed to report if you do anything remotely noteworthy with another woman. Like tonight. I ought to be writing it up, but there's nothing to tell. You did a good thing."

Through gritted teeth, she said, "I don't need your approval."

All he said was, "The first Friday of every month."

Her heart stopped.

"I don't care where you're going, and I don't care what you do. But you're going to get caught and I have to guess that won't be pleasant for you. Look, I was a cop for thirty-five years. You don't survive the job without learning to judge people. I guess your old man doesn't want a queer for a daughter and he's got some way of making you mind. I used to think the way he does. I tried to get my daughter cured."

She registered, finally, the significance of the past tense in reference to his daughter. "Where did she go?"

"Someplace called Hope and Healing. She was nineteen, and I made her go. She was a good kida""

She let him recover and she wondered why he was telling her.

"She wanted to please me, and I was so ashamed. So she went. She came back two months later just skin and bones and so unhappy, but she said she was cured. She dated some boys for a while, then she had a relapse, and I felt like she had to go to the support group. She didn't want to go, and I didn't know why she didn't want to."

Reyna knew. She knew enough about the pattern of ex-gay support groups to guess.

"She finally told me it was like being an alcoholic and at every AA meeting everyone talks about wanting a drink. But more than that, about how much they want it, how the drink would feel going down their throat. Or that they'd had a drink and every little thing that had happened when they'd had it, every detail."

Reyna waved one hand in a weak gesture of understanding. She spoke for him, probably more explicitly than he would have. "They talked about lesbian sex, wanting it, having it, getting off on other people's weakness. She was hit on by everyone, including the group leaders. And somehow this was supposed to help her not want it."

She'd read the stories in the gay press and been tasked to formulate effective rebuttals, to keep people believing there was a cure. Some gay men reported that the support groups were a reliable place to pick up other men. The next meeting everyone would confess, cry, pray, and then adjourn to pair off again.

"It was just like that, but I kept telling her to go a" I was that ashamed. Her hair was falling out, she wasn't eating. I didn't care. I didn't want to be ashamed of her. She was an honors student in high school. She wanted to be a doctor. She even got a pre-med scholarship. And I was ashamed of her."

Reyna knew what was coming. She'd heard this story before as well, but it never made it into the anecdotes offered by ex-gay ministries as a known result of their services. Unwillingly, she felt pity for him.

He couldn't seem to stop, now that he'd come this far. "That last night, after the last support group she went to, she told me she only wanted two things a" for me to be proud of her, and to be able to lie down with another woman and not feel like a diseased freak. And she knew she could never have either." He took a long, ragged breath. "Then she blew her brains out."

She gulped at his unsparing recital. She'd written press releases based on unsubstantiated anecdotes and unverified statistics, helping those people sell their lie. She helped them for her mother's sake, but that didn't keep the blood off her hands.

"There's an air about you, and it's gotten more pronounced. You've lost weight. I never see you eat anything but Raisinets, and she'd be your age, maybe a doctor by now. And I can't let it happen again."

"I'm not going to kill myself," Reyna whispered. "I don't hate that I'm gay. I hate that I have to hide it." He'd trusted her with his pain so she told him the truth in a few flat, unvarnished sentences. "And if I'm not a good girl, all that care goes away. I think he really is convinced he has my best interests at heart, that some day I'll be glad to have no known skeletons in my closet. But I don't think being gay is a skeleton. He'll never understand."

Ivar put his head back on the seat and took a deep breath. "So you want the best for her, but what you have to endure to get it makes you wish for..."

"In my weaker moments, I can't help it. God help me."

They were quiet for a long while and Reyna felt an unwinding in her spine. Her headache eased. It had felt good just to tell someone, though she knew it was a risk. She couldn't possibly trust this man. "How did you know? About the first Friday of the month?"

"Kubrick night. Can't stand him so I waited out here. Everybody was leaving the theater around one a.m. but there was no sign of you. Turns out the film broke. Long about three-thirty you came out of the alley. I've never been quick enough to follow you, though, so I don't know where it is you go."

Her habits of self-preservation kicked in. This all could have been an elaborate, well-acted ruse to get her to reveal where she went. "And I'm not going to tell you."

"Just as well. Listen, though. I'm not on every Friday. And most of the time there's nobody on you Sundays, but not always."

If he was sincere, then he was taking no small risk.

"Thank you," she was able to say. "I don't intend to take any more chances than I'm already taking."

"Maybe not now. But how much longer can you keep it up?"

She didn't answer as she got out of the car. She kept her head down as rain seeped under her collar. She supposed she ought to feel relieved that at least one detective wasn't looking for any little thing to bring her down, but thinking she had more freedom than before was dangerous. Mark Ivar had never said he would help her beyond turning a blind eye to her monthly disappearance. It would be a serious mistake to think of him as an ally.

Her thoughts turned in circles as she drove home, and it wasn't until she was shedding her wet clothes that she remembered the woman at the theater. It all came back in a painful, aching wash of desire. Eyes dark with anguish eased by sudden desire. Soft hair framing a kind, open face. The lushness of her body, the sweetness of her mouth. The curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts a" all offered in a moment of elemental honesty. There had been more, or at least she had thought so at the time. But that could just be her heart talking, and it had no right to be thinking about such things.

How was she supposed to resist what her heart craved? It was the witching hour and the black hole waited. She let herself fall and shuddered in the dark until sleep came over her like a thunderstorm.

10.

"It'll be fun," Tori urged.

"It sounds like a meat market."

"Well, it is later on in the evening, but you can leave by then if you don't like it."

Holly chewed on the inside of her cheek. "I don't have anything to wear."

"As if. Black jeans and that black silk shirt a" and you're done."

"I don't know how to dance."

"You don't have to know if you do it right." Tori smirked. "Ask that friend of yours a" she sounds like a hoot and a half."

She could ask Jo to go with her. It was a thought.

"Murphy will be there. I'll probably end up with her." She bit her lower lip, sorry to have brought up the subject.

"Avoid Murphy like the plague. It's easy with practice."

Geena, who was chopping broccoli at the counter, shrugged. "You know, babe, if you don't stop having a thing about not wanting ever to see her, I'll start thinking you're not over it." She looked over her shoulder, her expression serious. "I don't care about it. I have no regrets. So why do you still care?"

"Becausea"" Tori's face reddened. "You know why."

"We were almost there anyway. Don't give her credit for improving our sex life, because we'd have figured it out on our own, honey."