Artful Dodging by M.S. Spencer

Milo checked her watch. The storm showed no signs of letting up. Why the hell didn’t I bring a hat? A man tripped on the cobblestone sidewalk in front of her and dropped his umbrella. She toyed with the idea of darting out of O’Connell’s and grabbing it, but the man who had been standing in the doorway for the last fifteen minutes blocked her path.

Tony edged around him to reach her seat in the cozy little window nook. “Another Jack D, Milo? Might as well. No letup in sight.”

“Sure. But give me something to nibble on too. I still have to drive home.”

The bartender backed out past the man, who made no move to get out of his way. Milo frowned. The fellow appeared oblivious to the fact that his position inconvenienced everyone. At first she had assumed he was waiting out the rain, but his body language said expectant. Every minute or so, he would poke his head out and look up and down King Street. For lack of anything more exciting to do, she fell to observing him. The top of his head brushed the doorjamb, making him about six feet three inches. His bulk didn’t jibe with his height, though. She guessed him to weigh in at maybe one hundred seventy-five pounds stripped. He was undeniably her type—lean, trim, tall, clean-shaven—none of that painted-on, five-o’clock shadow male celebrities sported nowadays. And old enough, for once. Maybe forty? She could only see his profile at the moment, which revealed thick black hair curling over his ears, slices of silver gray relieving the dark waves at the temple, a straight nose, moderately rosy—from drink or the cold?—and a forceful chin. Without warning he pivoted, and Milo caught the full impact of a deeply masculine face right in the kisser. Whew. Even with the Armani suit, definitely not gay.

He tapped a highly-polished Gucci loafer with impatience and pulled out a pocket watch. By this time, Milo had dropped all pretence and openly scrutinized her subject. He thrust the watch back in his pocket with a scowl and spun around toward the bar, almost colliding with Tony. He took Milo’s glass from the startled bartender. “Thanks, just what the doctor ordered.”

Milo began to rise in protest. Tony looked at her, and the man followed his gaze in surprise. He held up the whiskey. “Er, I take it this isn’t for me?”

Milo tried to come up with a flip response, but his rich baritone rattled her.

Tony stepped between them. “Yes, sir, that drink belongs to the lady. May I get you something?”

The man didn’t answer. He stared at Milo more or less the way she was staring at him. Flustered, she plopped back down on the narrow bench, barely avoiding an embarrassing slide to the floor. He continued to stare. She resisted the impulse to pat her short fawn-colored ringlets, which always appeared tousled no matter what she did, and blinked. He blinked back.

Finally she blurted out, “Would you care to join me?”

He shook his head as though to clear his mind. “Thank you. Forgive me—I’ve never seen such lovely eyes…I mean, eyes that color…I mean…sorry. What would you call them? Mahogany? Bronze?” His admiring gaze did wonders for Milo’s discomfiture, and her mood took a decided uptick.

“I just call them brown. But thank you.”

“I’m sorry about purloining your drink. Can I buy you a freshener in restitution?”

“I guess so. Er…did you want to sit down?”

“I’d better not. I’m waiting for someone.”

“Oh.” His plight, though not unexpected, depressed her. Of course Armani man had a date. He probably always has a date, even during Lent.

Tony brought another glass. The man paid him then hesitated as though reconsidering. “You know, she is awfully late. Since you’re right in the window seat with a commanding view of the entrance, may I change my mind and sit here until she arrives?”

Ulp. “Not at all.” Good—got that out without stuttering.

“Thanks.” He pulled a low barrel stool next to the bench and clinked her glass. “Cheers.”

They sipped their whiskies in companionable silence. The rain pummeled both the sidewalk and the pedestrians with barely concealed antagonism.

Milo decided her heart had settled down sufficiently to ensure a quaver-free sentence. “I’m Milo Everhart.” And I’m Gorgeous George. You don’t mind if I seduce you, do you? No, wait—he didn’t say that. I did. Hopefully in my head. “Um, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Tristram Brodie. Pleased to meet you.”

Not much for conversation, but that could be a plus. What, what, what can I say to keep him here? “Your shoes, they’re…er…highly polished.” He turned astonished eyes on her. “I mean, are you in the military by any chance?”

His lips turned upward then opened to reveal perfect white teeth, and he let out a belly laugh. He puffed, “How did you know?”

Milo didn’t want to tell him how she knew. She still found it nearly impossible to speak Michael’s name. Only a year had passed, but the grief stabbed as sharply as it had the day she answered the door to see Lieutenant Colonel Murray, a look that said it all on his compassionate face.

“I’ve known some Marines in my life.” Her voice tripped over the words.

“Well, you’re right. I am a Marine. Retired.” He lifted a shoe and admired his reflection. “I guess spit-and-polish is the one habit you never break.”

“You seem too young to be retired.” Better to keep the questions focused on him.

“Thanks for thinking forty is young.”

He smiled at her, his beryl green eyes twinkling. “I enlisted at eighteen, the day after graduating high school. It was either that or juvie.”

Milo checked out his bearing, his suit, and his starched white shirt. “You don’t look like a dropout.”

He grinned. “I clean up good. Impressed the Marines so much they sent me to college.”

“What for? I mean…” Milo concentrated on her drink, hoping Brodie wouldn’t bristle at her grilling.

“Why did they pay for my college degree? They needed at least one officer who could write multiple unappreciated, unread reports in proper English. I pushed a lot of paper.”

“Where were you assigned?”

He put his glass down. “You really want to know?”

Milo surprised herself by nodding. She really did want to know.

“I schlepped around Europe inspecting the Marine Security Guard detachments at U.S. embassies. Found some great dives.”

“You never saw any action?”

He shook his head. “The biggest headache I had involved tourists asking for sanctuary. Oh, and once I watched a training exercise in Iraq…from the safety of a Seahawk helicopter.” He sighed. “Not that I didn’t want to fight, you know. I applied once a month for combat duty. My general told me I looked too good in dress blues.” He smiled at her. “But enough about my glorious past. What—”

“There you are, Tristram! I’ve been wandering all over O’Connell’s looking for you!” A statuesque brunette leaned over the table, her bosom within grazing distance of Milo’s cheek. A wide, black patent leather belt cinched her fuchsia Albert Nippon suit tightly, pushing the D cups breathlessly up and almost over her silk camisole. Three-inch heels clicked impatiently on the floor.

Brodie stood hastily. “I’ve been here for half an hour, Ursula. Where were you?”

She swung an arm encased in silver bangles around to point, her voluminous Louis Vuitton purse nearly decking Tony. “I came in the other entrance. I’ve been upstairs—waiting—for you.” She pressed her crimson lips together and turned back to Milo. Her voice dropped and her eyes narrowed. “And you are?”

Milo’s hand rolled into a tight fist as she struggled to keep her elbow from connecting with the woman’s solar plexus. As if he sensed her thoughts, Tristram laid a gentle but surprisingly firm palm on her shoulder.

“This is Milo Everhart. She was gracious enough to let me sit here while I waited for you. Why don’t you thank her?”

The question seemed to throw Ursula. “Thank? Her?”

As she floundered, Tristram spun her around, winked at Milo, and marched his date through the bar to the dining room. Milo gazed after them, the shock of losing him too great for words. Wait. Losing him? Am I out of my mind?

The rain had stopped. Milo paid Tony and rose to leave. As she pulled on her ancient duffle coat, she noticed that she still wore the artist’s smock she’d had on at the studio. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. A large smudge of tailor’s chalk zigzagged across her face. Worse than that, it constituted her only makeup. No wonder he’d looked at her so oddly. Sigh.

She trudged back to the parking garage, found her Subaru, opened the moon roof so she could see the stars, and drove home.

“Isis! I’m home! Ooph. Isis! Must you wallow underfoot like that? I could have broken a leg.” Milo picked up the black cat that lay stretched out to twice her natural length on the carpet and carried her to the sofa. She pushed aside the unread newspapers, needlework catalogues, and cracker crumbs, and sat down. Isis struggled to escape until Milo had settled into an uncomfortable position, then proceeded to flop heavily on her mistress’s lap, purring.

“I’m not going to pet you for long, Isis. I’m hungry.” In response, the cat began to knead, penetrating the thin jersey of her mistress’s paint-stained trousers. Milo looked down. Oh my God, I’m wearing the double knit pants. The ones that added twenty pounds to her butt. That, and no makeup, not to mention the muumuu of a smock. Milo gently disengaged the cat from the frayed cloth while her gloom deepened. Not that it matters. I’m sure what’s-his-name didn’t notice. Not with Dragon Lady on his arm. Before she could slap her own forehead, the telephone rang. Isis scattered, and Milo pulled the cell phone from her pocket.

“Milo? Where have you been?”

“Oh, hi, Tekla. I rode out the storm in O’Connell’s.”

“Nice work if you can get it. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

Milo sighed inwardly. She had three canvases to finish before Christmas, plus the needlepoint stocking for Isabel’s baby, but she had promised her best friend they would walk in the annual Old Town Alexandria Scottish Walk. I need the exercise anyway.

“Of course. When and where are we supposed to gather?”

“In the Safeway parking lot at ten-thirty. Corner of Royal and Wilkes. The parade is supposed to last until one o’clock, and then we’ll grab brunch somewhere. Make sure you layer—weather channel says it will be nippy. Now where did I put that tartan coat for Sparky?” Tekla’s voice faded.

“Tekla? Are you still there?”

Milo heard a crash and a curse followed by a yelp. “I’m here—I tripped over the damned dog.”

Milo chuckled. “You mean the light of your life, right?”

“Whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The phone went dead.

Milo pulled out the last two pieces of the anchovy pizza she’d ordered three days before, turned on the news, poured a glass of wine, and snuggled under the fake fur throw on the sofa. Isis—tired of begging from the floor—jumped onto her lap, jettisoning both Milo’s supper and her libation. Not for the first time Milo wished she’d bought a hamster instead. Then a thought spilled in. He said my eyes were lovely. What color did he call them? Mahogany? She fluttered her lashes and lapsed into a smile.

* * * *

“I’m freezing, Tekla! Tell me again why we’re doing this?”

Her friend unwound two heavy scarves from her face and replied crossly, “We’re doing it for the dogs. You know that. The Miniature Schnauzer Rescue League needs donations, and showing them off gives us free advertising.” She picked up a fidgety ball of grey and white fluff covered in a plaid wool coat and thrust it at Milo. “How can you say no to this? Hmmm?”

Milo dutifully scratched the dog. “Yes, well, Sparky is a dog among dogs. Although I think you’re a bit disingenuous putting him in a Scottish coat.”

“Germans don’t have tartans. Anyway, when in Rome…”

“Do as the Scots do?” Milo’s amusement warmed her face.

“Yes. Now stop picking on poor Sparky.” Tekla looked up. “There’s Luisa with that horrid Airedale of hers. Finally we can move out! Come on, Milo. Remember to use the Queen’s wave.”

Two hours and at least one frostbitten toe later, they had almost reached Market Square and the end of the agony. Milo had long since lost touch with her feet and could only pray they were doing their thing. The crowds were sparser here—the spectators quickly heading to restaurants before the marchers could commandeer all the tables. Tekla hadn’t said a word for the last two blocks—most likely in order to save her breath—and, thankfully, even Sparky had ceased his infernal yapping.

Milo peered down the street, checking for lines at the Warehouse Bar & Grill, when she caught sight of a vaguely familiar form on the corner of King and Fairfax. He wore a long, dark woolen coat and a plaid scarf. Movie star looks. Milo caught her breath. Oh my God, it’s that guy from O’Connell’s. What was his name? Tristram Brodie. Even his name sounded like a movie star’s. And that scarf—her tartan, a Douglas, for sure. Tristram waved madly at her, grinning.

As Milo raised her hand, she noticed a befurred woman next to him. Ursula. She indicated the coat with her chin and muttered to Tekla, “I can’t believe it—is that raccoon? Where do these people come from?”

Ursula pretended she hadn’t noticed Milo and slipped one suede-gloved hand through Tristram’s arm. Her Cari Bourquin cloche hat dipped as she whispered in his ear.

Milo closed her eyes. “Come on, Tekla. Let’s go get a hot toddy.”

Her friend rubbed her mittens together, dropping the leash. Sparky took the opportunity to sniff the Airedale’s private parts. Tekla snatched up her dog and slanted a venomous look at the innocent victim. “I guess we’d better snag a table while there are still some to be snagged.”

They wandered down King Street. Lines snaked out into the street in front of the Wharf, O’Connell’s, even Landini Brothers. They turned left on Lee Street and a few blocks later nipped inside Bilbo Baggins just before a minivan dropped off its load of Goodwin House seniors. A nice fire chortled in the upstairs dining room, and they sank gratefully into the padded chairs.

“Hot buttered rum for three, please.”

The waiter, long in tooth and short of temper, said, “We don’t serve alcohol to dogs here, lady.”

Tekla’s brilliant black eyes flashed. “How dare you imply I’d feed my dog liquor? Two of the rums are for me, you…”

Milo caught her before she said enough to ruin their dining experience. “Thank you, and could you bring us some of your delicious blue cheese chips as well?”

When he’d stalked off, the two women unwrapped various bits of clothing. Tekla shook out her long black hair and blew her nose while Milo took a moment to survey the room. She stopped mid-sweep at a table in the window. Brodie.

At that moment he caught her eye, stuck a thumb up and grinned. He stood and wended his way through the tables toward her. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this. Milo, isn’t it?”

Milo was too busy asking herself questions to reply—Did I brush my teeth this morning? Is my hair clean? Did I remember to put on mascara?

Tekla spoke up. “Yes, this is Milo Everhart. I’m Tekla Spirikova. And you are?”

“Tristram Brodie. Pleased to meet you. I saw you two marching in the parade. You must be frozen solid.”

Tekla picked Sparky up. “I had my dog to keep me warm. Do you…er…like dogs, Mr. Brodie?” She fluttered her fake eyelashes so violently one of them detached itself.

“Love ‘em. I used to foster dogs when I lived down near Charlottesville.” His quick response—and the fact that he ignored the dangling lash—pleased Milo. He scratched Sparky’s ears, endearing himself to the entire table. “Now I just watch the Westminster Dog Show and mope.”

“Do you live in the city?”

“Old Town. Lee Street, at the top of Windmill Hill Park. I can walk down to the Torpedo Factory and waterfront any time I like. It’s great.”

“The Torpedo Factory!” Tekla’s voice rose and her Russian accent thickened. “Milo and I both have studios there. You should come visit them. Mine’s the one with the magnificent bronze bear at the door.”

“That’s fascinating. What—”

“Me too.” Milo was too proud of herself for managing to spit out a full sentence to worry about cutting Tristram off in mid-sentence. “I mean, I love Old Town. I mean, I live in Old Town too.” Yup, total dingbat. She glanced around, almost hoping for the dreaded Ursula to appear.

He took the revelation of her mental deficiency in stride. “You do? What part?”

“Er…um…north side—near the power plant.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Boy, is that place a dump. I suppose we need to put them somewhere, but they could at least paint it something other than dirty gray. I wonder if we could enlist some graffiti artists…”

Milo found herself on the verge of defending the most hated building in Alexandria when she heard a bloodcurdling voice. Ursula has entered the building.

“Why, Tristram, honey, didn’t you get us a table?”

Ursula’s fur coat enveloped the dog, who promptly caught a mouthful and began to chew. Tekla detached her pet from his prey while Ursula hissed and brandished a magenta fingernail at him. The dog sat but directed a baleful eye at his mistress. Tristram could only offer an apologetic face to the two women as Ursula swept him back to the window seat.

Tekla sipped her rum. “Tristram Brodie, huh? Sounds like a movie star. Looks like a movie star. Where did you pick him up?”

“I didn’t. Obviously. He’s with Isadora Duncan over there.”

Her friend stared thoughtfully at the couple. “Number one, he doesn’t really care for her. Number two, she doesn’t really care for him. Which means he’s either rich or powerful or both. And judging by his clothes, he’s both. I suggest you let him continue to flirt with you.”

“And how do I do that? I don’t know anything about him.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of the Internet, girl? You know his name. Get on it.”

Milo cast one last wistful look at the man of her dreams and finished off the second glass of hot rum over Tekla’s protestations.

* * * *

“Done! That’s little Cassatt’s Christmas stocking.” Milo checked the calendar. “And with almost three weeks to spare.” She attached the piece, a finely-wrought needlepoint of the three Magi, to a stretcher frame and admired her work. I think I’ve finally mastered the lettering. Isabel will be pleased. “Now for Mrs. Hirschhorn’s pillow.” She picked up a sheet of transfer paper on which an intricate pattern of flowers and stems had been roughly sketched out. Mixing some acrylic medium with ink, she traced the lines of the drawing with her artist’s pen on a length of 24-count Congress Cloth. Then she laid the sketch upside down on the cloth and, taking a preheated iron from its stand, pressed down and counted to ten.

She had pulled out her chalk and begun filling in the colors when Tekla burst through the door. “Sold! Sold!”

Milo put down the chalk. “You sold the cone?”

Tekla paced the room grinning madly, her normally olive complexion a deep rose color, betraying her hot Russian blood. “A man stopped by the studio last week and admired it. Not unusual.”

“No,” replied Milo drily.

“Anyway, he came back yesterday and asked for my card. He came back today with a check!”

“A check? For one hundred and fifteen thousand dollars?”

“A cashier’s check. It’s real, Milo. The teller accepted it.” She danced about, picking up and letting fall several needlepoint pillows and purses.

Milo snatched one particularly brilliant piece of embroidery out of her hands. “So who is this guy?”

“Dunno. Never saw him before. Here’s his card.”

Milo took the glossy business card from her friend. “‘Jefferson Doohan. Vice President, More for Less Enterprises.’ What’s that?”

Tekla took the card back. “No idea. Isn’t More for Less one of those big discount chains?”

“Did he say what he planned to do with a bronze cone twenty feet high and ten feet in diameter?”

Her friend shrugged. “I didn’t ask. Had to get to the bank. The only thing that would bother me is if he melted it down. Or put it in front of one of those stores.”

“That’s probably exactly what he plans to do. Oh dear.”

“It doesn’t matter. One hundred fifteen thousand smackers make it all better. Now I can throw Jacob out. I can afford the whole rent at last!”

Milo hated to sound like her mother, but it couldn’t be helped. “You will put it in some interest-bearing account, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes. Now remember, you promised we’d go for a walk. Are you ready? Sparky’s yowling. I can hear him from here.”

Tekla gathered her dog while Milo threw on a coat and scarf. They walked out of the Torpedo Factory onto the waterfront. The cold breeze tried to push them back in but they held firm. A few ice floes added camouflage to the soupy marina water, and the heavy clouds hanging over the Potomac threatened sleet. A pair of American coots bobbed among the usual detritus of a city dock. The two women were alone on the boardwalk except for a couple of waiters hurrying to the Chart House.

“Let’s walk up to Oronoco Bay Park,” Milo said.

They took the gravel path, empty of people, through Founders Park and threaded the alley between the old Robinson terminal and the trucks and railroad cars parked helter-skelter across the road. Skipping across the iron tracks, they came to a sunken roundabout in the middle of a manicured lawn.

“I’ve always wondered what this was for,” mused Tekla.

“The roundabout? I read about it in the archaeology museum’s exhibit. It’s one of the only traces left of the nineteenth-century Alexandria and Orange Railroad.” She looked out toward the river and sniffed with disdain. “What an exquisite view of the factories and warehouses across the Potomac!”

“I don’t care what you say, we’re still lucky to be near the river.”

Milo nodded. “It is much cleaner than when I was a kid.”

“That’s right,” said a man’s voice.

The women spun around. Behind them stood the movie star, also known as Tristram Brodie. He was alone, and apparently being handsome had become a habit with him. His ebony hair ruffled invitingly in the breeze off the river. No longer Armani-clad, he wore jeans, a heavy bottle-green sweatshirt that matched his eyes, and hiking boots. A professional-looking camera hung from his hand.

When the women remained mute, he added, “Thirty years ago you couldn’t put a toe in that water. Now people fish in it.”

“Really?” Tekla opened her dark Slavic eyes wide. “Where I come from, everything is polluted—sea, land, food, air. Everything seems so pure here.”

Milo explained, “Tekla comes from Russia. She actually stayed with my family when we were kids so she could breathe clean air for six weeks.”

He laughed, showing off his perfect teeth. “I see she came back.” He turned to Tekla. “I guess six weeks’ worth of fresh air wasn’t enough, eh?”

Tekla glared at him. “I came here when I lost my family. The air didn’t kill them. The Soviets did.”

He stopped laughing. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Milo interrupted hastily. He’s going to think we’re totally antisocial. She pointed at the camera. “Are you a photographer?”

He held up the Nikon. “Strictly amateur. Nothing like the photographers at the Factory. Say…” He looked at his watch. “Were you ladies on the way back to work, or may I buy you coffee?”

Tekla softened but, after a quick glance at Milo, demurred. “I have to get to the bank before it closes,” she lied. “You two go on.” She picked up Sparky and headed back, leaving behind a grateful best friend.

The remaining two stood uncertainly. Finally Tristram gestured. “This way?”

Together they walked up the concrete steps to a large office building. A jauntily beribboned kiosk called Java Jive sold them two cups of muddy coffee, and they continued to walk. They passed a red brick building.“Is this where you work?” she asked.

He looked up at it. “Yes.” The sign said Law Offices of Zeller, Schwartz and Katz.

“You’re a lawyer?”

He hung his head. “I must confess.”

It didn’t seem worth it to pursue the line of questioning. Roughly eighty percent of Washingtonians were lawyers.

They reversed their steps and headed back to the Torpedo Factory. As they stood on the boardwalk beside the double doors to the building, Milo hesitated. She murmured, “Well, thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome.” As she turned to go, he grabbed her arm, spilling the dregs of his cup on a passing woman, who cursed in a surprisingly colorful fashion. When he tried to blot the poor lady’s jacket with a large, clumsy hand, she threw him an astonished look and backed away, holding her hands up. He watched her move off and shook his head as if to say, “Women!”

He turned to Milo. “Listen, may I take you out on a real date? Tonight?”

“Er…” What about Ursula?

“Or at least meet me for a drink. Six-thirty, Vermilion’s?”

“Okay.”

She watched as he loped off, his camera swinging. A drop of icy rain fell on her head, then another. High over the river a scattershot of lightning backlit the boats. She ran inside, found her keys, drove home, and spent the next four hours trying to make herself presentable.

* * * *

The sleet had tapered off, and the moon began its stroll across the cumulus highway as Milo entered the restaurant. She passed through the dining room to the cozy bar in the back. Tristram sat in one of the overstuffed club chairs. He saw her and waved to the bartender.

“Jack Daniels?”

“Sure.”

He ordered drinks and a plate of assorted cheeses.

Three hours, four more rounds, and two more cheese plates later, Milo figured she’d better start asking Tristram some questions. But she didn’t really feel like it. She felt like she knew enough already, so she settled for gazing into his deep green eyes and smiling inanely. Which was okay because apparently that’s what Tristram had settled for too. Milo realized with a jolt that no one had said anything for at least five minutes. Come on, Milo. You’re too old for crushes.

“I really must be going. It’s been very…”

He reached across the table, put a gentle hand on her neck, and brought her into blissful contact with his lips. “Nice.”

She realigned her jaw and her heart and rose a little shakily. “Um.”

He jumped up. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“I…okay.”

They walked stiffly out of the bar, stumbling only once on the threshold. Tristram steadied her. A few minutes later they broke apart to take a breath. The sidewalk had cleared during the evening, and they were alone. He took her back into his arms and kissed her, moving his tongue around the inside of her lips and making slurping noises as though she tasted like a chocolate milkshake.

He pulled away but held onto her hand. “Let’s go home.”

She let him lead her down King Street to a black Jaguar, and they drove in silence the few blocks to Lee Street. The moon rode high over a little terraced park. They watched it float a minute, then Tristram took her hand again and they went inside.

* * * *

“What kind of a ring tone is that? And where is it coming from?”

Tristram reached across Milo’s naked breasts and punched a button. The drumming stopped. “Dave Brubeck. Time Further Out. It’s supposed to have aphrodisiac qualities.”

Milo blinked to keep the Northern Lights from flashing across her retinas again. “Right now it doesn’t.” She sat up and gingerly opened one eye. “Where am I?”

A pair of lips closed hers, and a pair of hands testified that she had left her protective gear elsewhere. She decided to take a moment to savor the new sensation before bringing it to a screeching halt.

Tristram sat back. “You have the most amazing eyes, Milo.”

The comment surprised her. “Aren’t you supposed to say breasts, or body, or…”

“Those too. But your eyes draw me into the rest. It’s like floating in red velvet, or in a sea of hot fudge.”

“Well, er, thanks.” I’ll deal with those images when my head stops hurting. She looked around. “I don’t remember how we got here.”

Tristram laughed, threw off the covers, and padded to the bathroom. The tan line hit just above his tight ass. She wondered vaguely where he’d managed to get the tan until what lay below it distracted her. He called over his shoulder, “We were both pretty schnockered, but I remember every detail if you’d like elucidation.”

“You do?” She had to keep him talking. What if Ursula showed up? I’ve got to get out of here. She found the leggings and the wine-colored turtleneck sweater she’d worn the night before—the one that brought out the red flecks in her eyes—as well as one sock, but the bra eluded her. Damn, that was my Frederick’s fifty-dollar push-up.

“You looking for this?” Tristram came out waving a wispy bit of black lace, a scarlet ribbon floating from it. She snatched it and stuffed it in her pocket.

“I…um…thanks for a…um…lovely evening, Tristram. I’ll see myself out, shall I?”

She plunged down the stairs before he could say anything and found herself in the street shoeless. She saw the black Jaguar parked at the curb, and beyond it a grassy park stretching to the Potomac. To her left, the sign at the crossroad read Wilkes Street. Thank God—it’s only six blocks to the garage.

“You might be wanting these to get through the puddles.” Tristram stood on the doorstep, a towel wrapped around his middle, holding up a pair of boots. She took them and sat down on the stoop. “And this.” He handed her the other sock. She couldn’t tell if he was laughing at her or he was just one of those insufferable morning persons. Her head still hurt.

“Thanks.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. To be honest, she couldn’t think at all.

It took Milo the whole day and two showers to assuage her guilt. She hadn’t even looked at a man since Michael’s death, much less…She knew better than to talk to Tekla about it—she wouldn’t understand. Even though no one—not even her mother—would agree, it didn’t feel right. It was too soon. She still followed the news of the Pacific fleet, mindlessly counting the number of successful F-14 landings as though that would bring him back. If only…but Colonel Murray had made it very clear. Neither pilot error nor equipment malfunction caused the crash. The sudden updraft, he explained, caught Michael’s wings just as the tailhook latched on. His plane flipped before anyone could move. Michael died instantly.

As she washed out the black lace panties and bra in the sink, she could hear her mother—not to mention Tekla—repeating their oft-given advice. “You can’t lose Michael, Milo. He’s part of your flesh, your cerebellum. He’s the scent of motor oil and Old Spice that still linger in his empty sock drawer. He’s that chunk he carved out of the banister when he lugged your grandfather’s bureau up the stairs for you, and the stain on the wall left when he threw a pie at you as a joke but didn’t actually have the courage to hit your face. He fills a hundred scrapbooks. He will always be there.”

The telephone rang. She waited for the answering machine to click on.

“Milo? Tekla gave me your number. She said you were at home. Are you okay? Milo?”

The phone rang again. “Milo? It’s me, Tekla. Pick up.”

She grabbed the receiver. “Hey.”

“Did that guy get hold of you?” Without waiting for a reply she rushed on. “I’m just back from the board meeting. We’ve got trouble.”

“Who’s we?”

“The Torpedo Factory. Jefferson Doohan. Remember, I told you he represents that huge box store chain called More for Less? Well, he’s made an offer to the City of Alexandria on behalf of the company to buy the Factory and turn it into a superstore.”

“What?”

“Yup. The only good news is they want to put my cone at the entrance.”

“Tekla!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Anyway, the city council has scheduled a public hearing for next week. Luisa wants to put together a committee to represent the Artists Cooperative. She’s calling Morgana and Esme. Can you come to a meeting tonight at seven in the tower? We’ll plan strategy and start drafting talking points. She says the larger the presence, the better chance we have of influencing the decision.”

Milo noticed her tired face in the mirror. Six o’clock already. No time for primping. “I’ll be there.”

She made a roast turkey sandwich, slathering it with cranberry sauce, and sat staring at the cold fireplace. First Michael and now my Torpedo Factory? What next? She thought of her beautiful studio overlooking the waterfront. The third floor boasted floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing extraordinary light to suffuse the room. Since the city subsidized her rent, she would never be able to afford such a perfect location anywhere else in Old Town.

The phone rang. “Milo? Are you there? I need to talk to you. It’s Tristram. Please pick up, Milo.”

She unplugged the answering machine, pulled a notebook from her desk drawer, retrieved her coat, and went off to save her piece of the world.