The flutter of her mother's eyelashes answered Reyna's next question before she could ask it.

"I'll leave you to it," Jean said, heading quickly to her bedroom.

"Hi, honey," her mother said in a voice grown reedy with unrelenting pain. Reyna patted the back of one blue-veined hand as gently as if she was touching a hatched chick. Anything harder could hurt more than it comforted.

"Hi yourself. What's Jean reading to you?" She listened with interest to the reply, but her mind was still turning over a possibility, a chance for relief from a situation that had long been intolerable.

"I saw you on television last night. You're such a striking couple."

Reyna sat down in the comfortable chair the nurse had vacated. "The movie wasn't very good." But the publicity had been fine, meeting with Jake's and her father's exacting standards. There were rumors of wedding bells between the house of Graham and the house of Putnam. Rumors were all they were. Jake knew she was seen with him only because she was compelled to do so, though he didn't know the means. "I got home really late and I've been dragging all day." Exhausted or not, she would find the energy it took to go out tonight, if she could also find the courage. She had laid the groundwork, now all she had to do was go through with it.

"What was it about?"

Reyna described the paper-thin plot of the big-budget action thriller. The premiere had been well-staged, and afterward her father had granted an interview with the Christian Broadcasting Network, which allowed him to voice his opinion that more Hollywood studios could follow this film's example. The protagonist prayed to Christ for strength, and that was a step in the right direction for faith-phobic Hollywood. Compared to other films of its type, there was minimal violence, sex and foul language. Reyna also thought it had minimal plot, minimal acting and minimal meaningful dialogue, but no one asked her opinion. She'd just been a poised and silent female on undeclared congressional candidate Jake Graham's arm.

She knew as she talked that her mother was deep in a fantasy about Reyna being settled down, taken care ofa"in other words, married, an estate that she had never enjoyed. Gretchen Langston had been a beautiful woman until lupus had seemed to fold her in on herself over the past six years. Every day her skin seemed more translucent, her eyes darker with pain.

Reyna cooperated and Grip took good care of them. Her mother did not know a" or did not want to know a" the price Reyna paid. Any resistance on her part led to worrisome complications and delays in medical reimbursements and appointments. They were always resolved happily, but some symptoms of lupus were directly worsened by stress, and her mother had a low threshold for anxiety.

But tonight, if Reyna had the courage, she could find something to take the edge off her perpetual headache and channel the frustration and anger that was her daily life. She lived on the rim of a black hole, but tonight she might find something honest and clean.

Her mother was getting drowsy. Reyna knew that Jean would be back with the syringe that would give her some pain-free hours of rest. Jean was part of a rotation of live-in nurses who were with her mother at all times, skilled in pain-relieving massage, homeopathic cooking and rapid response to the seizures that were a growing concern as the disorder progressed. They also made sure Gretchen had her various hospital outpatient treatments, though Reyna tried to go along whenever her schedule allowed.

None of the doctors were using the phrase "final stages" for the related kidney disease, but Reyna did not think they were far off. Dialysis was effective, and as a private paying patient there was never any question of her having the treatments when she needed them. Her mother was able to stay in the little house she loved, near the University of California at Irvine. Reyna was able to drop in for lunch or in the evening for a while, seeing her mother almost every day, since the Putnam Institute, where Reyna was steadily being groomed to be her father's right-hand "man," was only a few miles away. Unlike in other politically successful families, Grip was determined there would be no question of his child's capabilities.

When her mother appeared to have nodded off, Reyna headed to the room the nurses took turns staying in. She knocked and went in when Jean called permission.

Jean was just buttoning her pajama top. Reyna averted her eyes from the curve of Jean's breasts, awash with the memory of Kimberly's similar shape and deep color, how they had tasted, how they had hardened in her mouth...

Jean was looking at her expectantly and Reyna struggled to find words. "She's asleep."

"She really did have a good day. The joint pain is less a" I think the new tea is helping."

"That's good news. Well, you know how to reach me."

Jean nodded. Reyna was only minutes away, in the condo that the Institute had secured for her. Minutes away if that was where Reyna spent the night.

She had other plans, and she was desperate enough to try.

Kimberly had not believed Reyna would move out, hadn't believed it until Reyna did. Kim had not wanted to participate in a lie, would not let their relationship be made clandestine and unclean, and Reyna did not blame her one bit for her anger. Reyna had heard from her twice in the six years since: once an invitation to her commitment ceremony, which her father's administrative assistant declined, and the second time an announcement of the opening of a new law firm with her partner, specializing in employee and labor relations. The administrative assistant sent flowers.

The years at Berkeley to finish the double master's had been grueling. Georgetown had been no easier, but at least the distance from home had made Reyna feel less under her father's thumb. She had told herself there was a way out if only she could think of one. Being on the other side of the country from him had made it easier to believe she would some day find a way out of the cage he had made for her.

Every month she received a report on the expenses for her mother's treatments. Her father said it was just "FYI" but she knew it was meant to remind her that she could never manage on her own. Her mother had access to the best doctors and care, and without an insurance company to bicker about cost, the hospitals and treatment centers charged the highest possible fees. The total expended in the last six years made her mother uninsurable for any expenses related to the lupus. When Reyna had researched public assistance she'd discovered that her mother would have to lose all her assets first. She could claim her mother as her own dependent but as long as she had assets or income, they would disqualify her mother from assistance. A public program would not pay for a Jean to provide 24-hour- a-day companionship and watchful care.

The first few years she'd told herself everything would change when she finished her education. She'd consented to the changes he'd demanded because her mother's illness frightened her, and because the education he would pay for would bring her independence when she graduated. Then she would be able to secure a good-paying job with insurance, she told herself, and she would be able to tell him to go to hell. She hadn't understood then about pre-existing condition waiting periods. To cover her mother she'd have to be able to pay all of the expenses on her own for a year. She couldn't have known that by the time she left Georgetown, her mother's kidney disease would escalate. She could have found a six-figure job some place other than her father's institute, she knew, but it wouldn't be enough, even before taxes. By the time she saved enough money to make it for a year paying the bills, the bills had doubled in size. Her father's bottomless checkbook was there for her mother. She could have careful, life-extending care and keep her home and dignity. In the larger scheme of things, all that largesse came at such a small price to Reyna. What was a dream or two in exchange for her mother's comfort, peace of mind, and additional years of life?

So she worked at the Putnam Institute and conducted research for conservative causes, thinking all the while that it was only for a few more years. Every time she thought specifically about time she was wracked with guilt. Looking forward to an escape could only mean one thing: she wanted her mother to hurry up and die. She didn't want that, she knew it in her heart. But sometimes at night, sometimes when she felt so alone and the black hole seemed about to swallow her... sometimes, she would think about its being only a matter of a few more years and she would feel... relieved. Comforted. And then ... she would wish she knew exactly when she would be free because it would be easier to bear, knowing.

It was just another reason to hate herselfa"asking God to give her an exact date for her mother's death.

Her days were busy with meetings, conferences, poring over research data and writing position papers, all for causes she loathed. She played the part of her father's hostess when she had to, including photo opportunities. But she accepted the situation, and knew that she had it easy. She really could be trying to manage on her own, trying to earn a living while taking her mother to almost daily medical appointments and all the while sinking into debt that would ultimately take everything. It could be worse, she told herself. When her mind was occupied, it was possible to rationalize her role in press releases with titles like "Study Shows Man-Boy Molestation on the Rise."

In the past six years since that afternoon when her father had claimed her future for his own purposes, there had been one interlude, one brief affair while she was at Georgetown, when she had felt alive. Margeaux. They had wanted the same thing a" sex and discretion. It had been three glorious months until a visit from her father ended the illusion of freedom. Private detectives had discerned the affair almost immediately, but he had needed time to arrange things to his satisfaction before ordering her to end it. She refused, not yet believing he would do what he said he would do. He warned her, but she still refused. She and Margeaux were not in love, but she hadn't wanted to believe he was that ruthless.

A few days later Reyna discovered her mother had had a seizure a" and no nurse had been with her. Her father claimed it was just an oversight, but Reyna no longer believed in coincidences where he was concerned. Again, yes, she was tired of freedom.

When she'd met Margeaux for the last time, Margeaux had said it was for the best. Her grades were too low to maintain the program, and she'd just received notice she was being academically suspended. Her family had sacrificed a lot for a Georgetown law degree, but Margeaux would finish at an upstate New York college, closer to home. It was more affordable. Her father had just been laid off, too, and, well, she had to accept the realities of her situation.

They'd gone back to Margeaux's apartment and Reyna had not known it would be the last time she'd feel a woman moving against her, under her, on top of her. She had relived that night hundreds of times in the years since because it, and Kimberly, was all she had to treasure. A few months later a letter from Margeaux revealed that her father had been miraculously rehired and she had received an unexpected scholarship at her new school. Shortly after that, during a seemingly casual visit, her father had mentioned that her "little friend" seemed so much better off in her new locale.

When you did what Grip Putnam wanted, everything was fine.

She was not doing what he wanted, not tonight. She couldn't stand it anymore. At a meeting earlier in the day, discussing public relations opportunities to improve the image of the National Rifle Association, she'd found herself listening with interest to the rules for obtaining a handgun in California. Her sense of horror had made her feel faint. Regarding herself in the bathroom mirror a few minutes later she realized something was going to break, and badly. She was caught in a fabulously gilded cage that swung at her father's whim over the black hole of his designs. Without a taste of freedom she would do something unspeakable, either to her father, who deserved it, or to her mother, who did not.

Though she usually drove with one eye focused on her rear-view mirror, looking for the private detectives she knew were always lurking, tonight she didn't care. They would follow her to a place where she'd gone many times a" the university's Friday all-night art film marathon. Bergman's faith trilogy was on the marquee, leading off with Through a Glass, Darkly.

She bought a ticket and a box of Raisinets, just as she always did. Her black jeans and Armani leather jacket allowed her to be just another dark-haired woman in the theater. She waited for the movie to start, then, under cover of the dim light of the cinematic Nordic night, she slipped out the rear exit. From the alley she walked to the next block and up the stairs to the apartment over the motorcycle repair shop.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were coming tonight." Tank Pena eased his bulk onto the tiny landing, leading the way down to the shop's rear door. "I finished her yesterday and she purrs like a kitten."

Tank had found the motorcycle for her, refurbished it and then registered it in his own name, though she would be the only rider. It was a minor informational fraud, Reyna had rationalized. He chattered about the idiosyncrasies of Yamaha bikes and 750 cc's, but Reyna only saw the silver name melded into the black body: Virago.

Tonight, it fit.

Borrowed leather gloves and a black helmet transformed her from a research and media specialist for conservative causes to unrestrained biker chick. It felt wonderful.

She realized Tank was waiting for some acknowledgment. "She's beautiful," she said belatedly, but with feeling. The engine purred so cool and clean she didn't even have to raise her voice. Kim had taught her to ride. Her father had never noticed her driver's license also allowed her to ride motorcycles, or he would have surely told her to give it up. The link between bike and dyke was too close.

Cash had been all Tony needed to fix Reyna up with something a" he just wanted to see another beautiful bike on the road. He hadn't asked many questions. He was still enough of an anarchist to like the secrecy and the tax-free income. She had plenty of money of her own. The Institute or her father paid for almost all her expenses. Her after-tax income was embarrassing, and yet it couldn't begin to cover the medical bills that mounted up with each dialysis treatment and trip to the ICU. What she had saved up so far would get them about eight months before there was nothing left. But she kept saving and investing because sooner or later, money would mean independence.

She withdrew hundreds of dollars in cash a month but spent little of it. The rest was squirreled away in her apartment for things she wanted to buy with no way for her father to find out a" like a motorcycle, or a motel room for a few hours.

She parted from Tank with a wave. With the thrill that only a completely forbidden activity could bring, she headed for the open road, feeling for the first time in years that eyes were not on her every move.

For the next thirty minutes, just riding was enough. She almost felt like she could take the bike back and it would be enough to dance around the black hole and know she wouldn't fall in. She could smile tomorrow, cooperate, listen to clients who described gays as pedophiles, lesbians as man-haters, feminists as Nazis, the NAACP as radicals, amen, world without end. She could help them write their speeches, twist research to suit their arguments, find new ways to present hate disguised as morality. It was what the Putnam Institute did, and she was good at it, a real chip off the old block.

It was from an outraged male client that she had learned about the monthly ladies' night at the nearest gay bar. Wasn't it outrageous that women who ought to be ashamed of themselves would parade around as if they had a right, dance to that disgusting music, cruise for perverted sex, and so close to where they lived? Reyna's heightened perception had detected the undercurrent of salacious arousal at the idea. Coping with her own revulsion, she had almost missed what the information could mean to her.

She cycled a cloverleaf to head west on the 405, leaning hard into the turn as the wind billowed her jacket open. The air was like ice but it made her feel even more alive. Orange County was the conservative center of California politics, and some neighborhoods were little better than restricted communities. The Putnam Institute was located in the county's political heart, Irvine, and nestled deep in Bonita Canyon, a few miles from the University of California at Irvine.

She left it all behind, whipped past the John Wayne Airport, then a short jaunt north to the border zone between Costa Mesa and Santa Ana. The bike didn't want to slow down, but she followed the route she had memorized. Another generic L.A. boulevard gave way to a still busy strip where restaurants were only now beginning to close their doors. At the far end she turned into a parking lot choked with cars.

She cruised slowly past the front door to Jack's. A small sign indeed proclaimed it Ladies' Night. Even over the vibration of the bike she could feel the bumping pulse of the music inside. She eased into a spot between the nose of a Subaru SUV and the wall of the club. With the engine off the music was even more pronounced. Above that she heard the babble of women's voices.

It hurt to be so close and not be part of it. She kept her helmet on until she was inside, then checked it, the gloves and her jacket with a pouty, bored blonde. The ten-dollar bill she tithed to the doorkeeper trembled in her shaking hand.

She stepped inside and let Madonna carry her to the dance floor where it was dark and no one cared that she was dancing alone.

She never learned the woman's name. She didn't have to know. It was better that way. What she didn't know her father would never learn. It was just for tonight, just for an hour, maybe two.

Her teeth felt sharp on Reyna's throat. From a mutual recognition on the dance floor they had moved to the outdoor patio, which was screened from the outside world by thick shrubs, and dark enough to ignore what other couples were doing. She heard a gasp nearby, knew what it meant and wanted to feel that gasp herself, to take and be taken. She moaned and unbuttoned her blouse, eager to be naked, to be skin to skin with this stranger. She was a woman and that was all that mattered.

"We're going to get tossed if you show any more skin," the woman murmured. "But if you want to show it, we could get more involved in my pickup a" it's parked outside."

In her father's world it was sordid, but how could it be to her? She had to hide, lie, disguise herself to be here, and her father's world drove her to those extremities. That she could find any kind of bliss, no matter how short-lived, under these circumstances was a matter of solace. If this was all there could be, she would survive on it. The mattress that occupied the entire bed of the pickup was meant for just this purpose, as were the thick curtains that darkened the windows of the enclosing shell. Privacy, anonymity a" it was what she had come there for, and it felt like salvation.

The kisses were as penetrating as the fingers inside her, stealing her breath, stopping her cries, holding yesses between their mouths. She filled her hands with hair and skin, with breasts and thighs. They coiled around each other, trading places but always entwined, moving together toward having enough.

Longing and denial made her feel as if she'd never tasted a woman before, the salt of her, the wet, welcoming slick. How could anyone give this up? God had given her the capacity to love this, to share this intimate act with another woman. Wouldn't turning her back on it be hubris? Who was she to deny how God had made her?

Afterward she wanted only air, to breathe with happiness and savor feeling like a woman. Her companion seemed content to do the same for a few minutes.

"Jesus," the woman finally said. "You just about put me to sleep. Good lord."

The thigh pillow under Reyna's cheek moved and reluctantly Reyna sat up, nearly bumping her head on the roof. Fingertips brushing her breast took her by surprise, but the hot swell of desire felt wonderful as it flushed her skin.

"Let me say thank you," the woman murmured, and Reyna let her.

She walked the bike into Tank's garage, then slipped the key under his door. Across the street, down the alley, to her car a" she walked slowly as if Bergman had wearied her. She shook her hair around her face to hide what felt like a glow of peace.

6.

Seventeen boxes and two carloads a" Holly had gotten it right. The motel room was stuffed with sagging, bulging cartons, leaving her only the bed to rest on. Stretched out, she had no choice but to think.

Clay had not taken it well. She could even see it from his point of view. He could easily explain it to a friend with, "She flipped out. One day she quit her job and two days later she packed up and left. I have no idea why."

When she'd come in out of the rain, the party had been winding down and Clay drove them home. He didn't appear to notice that she was soaking wet. As she shivered in the car, she considered that she was lucky that their lives weren't complicated by children or entangled financial affairs. Remembering what Tori said about realizing she'd never given her future to Geena, Holly knew the same was true of her and Clay. She'd never asked herself where they would end up together. They had worked hard to keep everything the same from day to day, as if tomorrows would never come and neither of them would ever change.

She took a warm shower when they got home and was relieved that Clay had already fallen asleep. She dozed off, finally, but only for a few hours. She had left Galina's card to dry on the table next to the bed. In the morning she tucked it back into her bra and tried to forget what it represented. Work clothes were the order of the day. She made him breakfast for the last time and then went to the garage for boxes.

"What's up?" Clay was frowning into the refrigerator, obviously not caring for its contents.

"I'm leaving."

"Where to?" He closed the door and looked up. She did not flinch from meeting and holding his gaze.

Calmly, carefully, "I'm leaving."

Abruptly, he looked like a balloon with all the air out. "You've had another one of your brainstorms," he accused.

She wanted to be gentle, but she also felt a tide rising inside that pushed her to this moment. "Call it that if you like. I realized in the last few days that we share the same space but hardly connect, and not even physically."

He was shaking his head. He always shook his head while she was talking. She jotted that onto her mental list of Why I'm Leaving Clay Today. "Are you giving in to socialization about romantic ideals? No one can live up to those images. Most of the world doesn't equate love with passion, or expect them to arrive at the same time. It's only expected in modernized countries, where a massive marketing machine keeps these ideas prominent in our psyches. So we'll buy roses, and chocolate and greeting cardsa""

"I don't want roses and chocolate, Clay. Christ." It was cruel, but she would never get through otherwise. "I want an orgasm."

He flushed and she had to look away.

More carefully, she went on, "At a very basic level, we're not sexually compatible. I don't think I a" I don't think you can give me what I want, and I will never agree that what I want is somehow wrong."

Harshly, he said, "What is it you want?"

"Passion would be good a" oh, stop looking like that. I'm as much to blame as you. I never told you that I didn't a" that it wasn't working for me. I admired you, and I wanted to be there for you. And I was. You were the worst housekeeper I'd ever seen, so I cleaned for you. You never ate because you never shopped, so I did that too. You believed that growing our own vegetables was a good thing, so I did it. Whatever you expressed as lacking in your life, I tried to fill the void." She wiped away a tear a" it was just tension. "I worked at a job you hated so you could take a sabbatical, and I stayed at that job because we needed the money for the mortgage."

"I a" I didn't realize you felt it all such a sacrifice."

"I didn't, not until recently. Then I had to ask myself, for all I gave up, for all the work, how did you balance it out? You were able to take on more classes, but you stopped your private studies. You're pompous about what a simple life is and judgmental about everyone else who doesn't have Holly the acolyte to make living a simple life so very easy. I've enabled all the worst things about you. I made you lazy."

"So you're doing this for me." He said it flatly and she could tell he wasn't going to listen to much more.

"No. For me. And I'm praying that in a year you'll also be in a better place. We've become so stalea""

His voice was sharp and bitter. "Because I don't cuddle, or go down on you, or what?"

"That's not it a"" It was, partly.

"I never asked you to do that to mea""

"I know. Maybe you should have." There had been a time, she knew it, that she would have done anything to please him. But she had never thought it would, and it appeared she had been right about that. Abruptly she thought, I'm not the only one with a problem here.

He shuddered. "We're not animals."

"I can't remember the last time you laughed," she added softly. "I can't remember the last time you hugged me for no reason at all. I understand if you don't see that as a problem, but I do and I have to..." She floundered. "I need light. I need heat."

"And this all came to you out of the blue?"

She had not foreseen this crossroad, and certainly not how hard it was to remain silent. She could tell him more, and be rational about it, probably. She could explain that she found his ideology contradictory, and his assumptions to be without merit on many issues.

But she was angry now, and wanted to hammer at him that she was a human being, with a body, that he might have touched her, kissed her, told her that he loved the way her skin felt a" God, anything. Any small thing that showed a moment of affection on his part. He was the one without any essential humanity.

She was silent because she didn't want to say any of those things. She was the one who had refused to see his flaws for eight years. The only person she could fix here was herself.

She left the kitchen for the living room and began removing books from the shelves. When he followed her she said calmly, "I don't want to quibble about what belongs to whom. I'm taking my books and clothes, of course. My music and the food I know you won't eat. That's all." She blew dust off her Bertrand Russell texts and set them in the next box. "I can show you an accounting, if you like, of the household money. I'm not taking any of it. But I am keeping my savings account. It's roughly equal to the extra I paid down on the mortgage, which is in your name, along with the house. You come out ahead if you count appreciation in. I just want this to be clean."

His voice was chilly. "Where will you be if I need to reach you?"

"I don't know where I'm going," she admitted.

"Typical of you." From chill to acid.

She sighed, held back the anger and said mildly, "Yes, of course, I'm wrong as usual. But in a few hours you won't have me underfoot, needing a constant grade. I should think you'd be relieved."