Griswold said, "Merf."

Wagner said, "Ow."

We moved to more comfortable chairs in the living room and I added wood to the fire. Jessie took out her knitting and Griswold and Wagner draped their lithe black bodies over her feet. They began to snore like people. Kathryn sat on the couch and patted the place next to her for me.

We went around the room and each woman told a Brush With Fame story. The older women spun the best yarns because they'd had longer to gather these chance encounters. Farrel had invented this game to entice her dear friend Judith to tell some of her best stories.

Judith began with, "Well, I have to tell you something later, Farrel. Remind me."

"What?" asked Farrel.

"Later, dear. It's my turn for a story now. Let me see... Oh yes, did I ever tell you about the writer I met on the ship coming back from France just after I was in college?" Judith unfolded a story about meeting a young Truman Capote just before he wrote Breakfast at Tiffany's.

He'd asked her to explain the New York bus and subway system. She ended with, "But when we finally got off the ship, I saw him simply hailing a cab. I suppose it had all been too much for him."

When she was finished, I saw Farrel lean over to her, and they had a short conversation the rest of us couldn't hear. Farrel exclaimed, "Judith!" at one point, then shook her head in dismay.

This happened as Amanda recounted a chance encounter on a waterbus with a legendary movie star whom everyone in the world knew. "I was a graduate student at Accademia di Belle Arti of Venice," she said, "and he decided I should go out to dinner with him." I took a moment to consider that in her youth Amanda was probably quite a babe and that she was censoring that part of the story.

I told a story about giving a ticket to a well-known senator, when I'd been on highway patrol.

Jessie pa.s.sed; she often did after she'd given us a big brunch.

Kathryn told about sitting next to a recently knighted English pop star on a red-eye from LA. "He didn't wake during the entire flight," she laughed. "I considered taking a picture of us together with my phone... What does your sister Sara call those photos, Maggie? A monkey arm? But I didn't have the nerve."

"I have a subway story!" said Farrel, who had recovered from the shock of Judith's earlier tussle with criminals. "Years ago I was taking a course at the New York Gla.s.s Studio and staying with a friend uptown. One day I got on the subway; the car was pretty empty, so I sat down. At the next stop, Larry Storch and a blonde woman got on. Larry Storch, the actor. He was on that 1960s show F-Troop. It reruns on TVland now and then, an odd little slapstick sitcom about an army fort in Indian Territory just after the Civil War?"

"White hat?" I said.

"Yes!" Farrel laughed. "That's right! He did a lot of work; movies, cartoon voices. When I saw him on the train, he was doing a play on Broadway..."

"He was the voice of Phineas J. Whoopee on Tennessee Tuxedo!" I added.

"I can't believe you know that," said Kathryn incredulously.

"I pride myself on my ability to retain useless knowledge."

"You and Farrel should start a club," said Jessie.

"Wait, there's more," Farrel said. "Larry Storch and his lady friend sat down and we started to move. Minutes later a staggering drunk pushed his way in from the previous car."

"The drunk began shuffling up to people and yelling that the Bible said they were wh.o.r.es or sinners or whatever. He staggered over to Larry Storch and his girlfriend and shouted they were fornicating slaves of the devil.

"Suddenly the door between the cars burst open again and a big man in a bright Hawaiian shirt carrying a steel drum made his way to the center of the car. He dropped a coffee can on the floor that was already filled with folding money and used his mallets to wail out a beautiful and loud ringing melody.

"The music drowned out the Bible spouter, who staggered back into a seat and stared at the steel drummer angrily. Everyone in the car was so relieved they focused on the drummer with pure admiration. The drunk man finally hauled himself to his feet and swayed through the doors toward the front of the train."

"What happened then?" asked Amanda thoughtfully.

"Well, we all tossed money into the drummer's can. I did, Larry Storch did... everybody. After a few minutes, the steel drummer stopped playing and went into the next car. He was a musical hero!"

Chapter 3.

It was nearly noon by the time we'd said our goodbyes. Farrel lent me their copy of the Carbondales' local history book and I put it in my bag. Kathryn carried it as I lifted the bag of sculpture onto my other shoulder, and we made our way to the door.

Before we left, Amanda took me aside and said, "I have a feeling that I cannot explain that you should read Suzanne and Gabriel Carbondale's book as soon as possible, Maggie." I said I would and made a mental note to do so in the next day or two.

Outside Kathryn said, "You should have dinner with Farrel and Jessie."

"I'm full of brunch! I won't be able to fight crime if I can't fit into my superhero costume. And tonight I'll be busy missing you."

"It does my ego a great deal of good to see you crestfallen about not spending the rest of the day together." She faced me. "I know we haven't... uh... mmm... since we got back from the beach. And I'm aching to be with you, but," her voice dropped an octave, "I swear I'll make it up to you."

This erotic promise stirred my desire.

"How?" I asked provocatively.

"Use your imagination," she said, giving me one of those looks that could melt the snow off the roof.

"Do you guarantee satisfaction?" I was about to suggest we go straight back to the king-sized bed in the loft but we both heard her phone playing Beethoven.

"That's a department ring; maybe the retreat is canceled." She pulled her cell from her bag. "Yes, I know, Bolton... I hope it's a good idea; this retreat has become quite a pain in the... OK, I'll see you there."

"One of my fellow department members who was cryptically telling me that he had some kind of plan," she said to me.

We took Washington Street to 11th and turned left through the middle of the Mews. The tall wrought iron fence that enclosed the burial ground was two blocks north. We walked swiftly against gusts of February wind, then entered the open cemetery gate and took the gravel path.

Kathryn said, "We're moving very fast."

I knew she wasn't talking about our stride. "Is it too fast for you? Do you want to slow down?" I asked her sincerely.

"I'm concerned that it's too fast for you. I've invaded your s.p.a.ce. I'm building onto your home. I made you meet my mother, and G.o.d knows I can barely stand her myself," she said emphatically.

"I like it," I said honestly.

"Does anything scare you?"

I smiled and shook my head a little. It wasn't that nothing scared me as much as I wasn't quite ready to tell her what did. The clingy pathetic part of me that I try so hard to hide began an internal monologue about how I had abandonment issues. But that was all way too co-dependent and not the thing a tough Private Eye should share.

She looked at me seriously for a long moment and then said, "We have to talk."

"Oh c.r.a.p," I tried to say evenly, "you're going to break up with me."

"What? No, no, where did you get that idea?"

"Well, you said, 'We have to talk.' It's the cla.s.sic prelude to a Dear John Letter. Nothing good ever comes after those four words."

Kathryn looked carefully into my eyes for a moment, then said evenly, "Calm down. I'm not breaking up with you. I just think we should talk about rent."

"What do you mean rent?" I asked. "You mean like a place you want to rent or Rent, the musical?"

"I mean that, if I'm going to live with you, then we need to talk about finances. I should pay you something for rent and a portion of the utilities."

I was totally caught off-guard. We'd already agreed on her rent payments for her office on the fourth floor, but I hadn't even considered rent payments for our living s.p.a.ce. I had to wrap my brain around it. This is a good thing. Grown-up, serious, equal. After a few moments I mentioned a figure for the monthly rent and said we could split the utilities on the loft.

"And could we have a year-long lease?" she asked softly.

"Really? Sure." This made me profoundly happy. I tried to act adult about the whole thing but I had an urge to grin. Good thing I was wearing a scarf; I could m.u.f.fle it. Of course if she bailed on living with me, she could move into her office, but still...

Kathryn said with a sigh as we walked on holding hands, "I've always hated the beginning of the semester. n.o.body knows where their cla.s.srooms are, or anyone's name. Schedules are all new and confusing. Everyone feels lost. It's so easy to misstep or say the wrong thing."

"But it's also an adventure. You learn delightful new things. The tension is exciting and full of surprises. Sometimes you discover worlds you had no idea you'd enjoy. And there's so much future to look forward to. There are always risks when you're starting something new, but..."

Kathryn stopped and hugged me so hard it took my breath away.

When I'd first met her I'd found her s.e.xy and beautiful, but she'd seemed aloof and almost unapproachable. She'd opened her vulnerable side to me. It was a secret part of her few people knew. But I couldn't take it for granted. Her stern, intense academic personality that could be both icy and fiery was part of her nature and never far away.

Kathryn shifted back in my arms. I could see a burning glint in her eye as she said, "Maybe I can sneak out of the retreat at about ten and come home tonight." It was the first time she'd called the loft home.

"At the moment, I can't imagine anything more magnificent," I said. She smiled and leaned against me as we walked on.

The graying sky seemed thick. It fought the light of day. A cold wind stirred up the smell of snow in the air, freezing our cloudy breath. The skeleton fingers of leafless trees reached toward each other. Wind stirred them and they became spider legs flailing toward a trapped fly.

"This is a perfect place for an Edgar Allen Poe recitation, maybe Annabelle Lee?" I said.

"No, I don't like it," she said shaking her head. "That line: I was a child and she was a child. He was writing about his thirteen-year-old wife, whom he married when he was twenty-seven. If he'd written, She was a child and I was a pedophile, it would have been more apt. Scholars are so desperate to excuse Poe's immoral behavior that some insist they never had s.e.x. It's as absurd as insisting Lesbian poets in Boston Marriages didn't have s.e.x or that Oscar Wilde wasn't Gay because the word Gay hadn't been coined. No, that's wrong, because it's comparing Poe's improper behavior with a child, which would have sent him to prison today, to someone's s.e.xual orientation that would be perfectly legal and morally acceptable today."

This was Kathryn's a.n.a.lytical side, which I liked just as well as the erotic one.

"I wrote a paper once," said Kathryn, "on Poe's poor choice in life companion. Virginia Clem was not only too young for him; she was the exact opposite of the kind of person who could have supported his work."

"You're committed to this anti-Poe position?"

"His words are interesting, but I can't separate his life from his work. It's part of my Coordinative Biography thesis. It's a theme I've been writing about for a long time. It's the basis of my new book and the theory on which I'm basing the Women in the Arts major. I've told you about this before, haven't I?

"It was the subject of the lecture you did when we were in Florida. You were brilliant."

Kathryn snorted.

"No really, Kathryn, do you ever really look at the faces of the students when you're speaking? They were hypnotized by you. It was remarkable. I was paying attention, too. Coordinative Biography simply contends that people's lives are inextricable from their work. I've always thought that, but the way you were explaining it was fascinating. The examples were so creative and yet exactly on point. I can see why you have so many fans."

"Shall I take that to mean you aren't just interested in my body?"

"Uh huh."

"It amazes me how many people, usually straight male WASPs, who routinely fall in line with the antiquated theory-system of normative standards that excludes even the most logical variations of relationships. I'm tired of having to defend the obvious."

"Shall I recite a Lesbian poet whom you don't have to defend?"

"Yes, yes, please do!" she smiled. "Maybe Anne Whitney; she was part of the Harriet Hosmer-Charlotte Cushman crowd, wasn't she? Dim Eden of delight. In whom my heart springs upward like a palm."

"Yes, she was, but I was thinking a little later. How about: I caught sight of a splendid Misses. She had handkerchiefs and kisses. She had eyes and yellow shoes she had everything to choose and she chose me.

In pa.s.sing through France she wore a Chinese hat and so did I.

In looking at the sun she read a map. And so did I.

In eating fish and pork she just grew fat. And so did I.

In loving a blue sea she had a pain. And so did I.

In loving me she of necessity thought first. And so did I.

How prettily we swim. Not in water. Not on land. But in love.

How often do we need trees and hills. Not often.

And how often do we need birds. Not often.

And how often do we need wishes. Not often.

And how often do we need gla.s.ses not often.

We drink wine and we make well we have not made it yet.

How often do we need a kiss. Very often and we add when tenderness overwhelms us we speedily eat veal.

And what else, ham and a little pork and raw artichokes and ripe olives and chester cheese and cakes and caramels and all the melon. We still have a great deal of it left. I wonder where it is. Conserved melon. Let me offer it to you.

Kathryn clapped her gloved hands. "Love Song of Alice B! You know," she laughed, "the first time I heard that Gertrude Stein poem I was a vegetarian and I was thoroughly repulsed because I thought she really meant eating veal!"

"It still kind of ruins the euphemism for me, too."

"Maggie, how did you ever find time to learn all these poems?"

"It's a little early in our relationship for honesty. It could spoil the effect, but I'll chance it. I had a job in a furniture factory during college. I had to power-sand panels. I wore a dust mask and earm.u.f.fs. It was dull, so I learned a new poem each day. I'd recite the lines over and over as I sanded until I knew them by heart. Each afternoon I'd practice the poems I'd already learned. It made me happy to go to work. I did it when I was on the highway patrol too. Does that spoil the romance for you?"

"No, it is romantic. I like to think of you studying love poems all day." Kathryn's voice turned curious. "And were you doing this to impress some specific woman?"

"To impress you. I hope it's working."