Her voice broke, and the last few hours only became more surreal because Sugar sat in the emergency room, holding Opal McKay's hand.

She would never understand why it was so hard for people to see that love mattered, most of all.

"The waiting's the hardest part," she murmured to Opal.

"It is, honey. It really is."

Heather's shocked expression and Maha's continued pacing distracted Sugar from the arrival of a tall woman in green scrubs.

"I'm Dr. Watson, and I was the lead on the team that worked on your people. I'll make a group announcement, since the report is all the same. There was serious smoke inhalation, but all the oxygen levels are on their way back to normal. We want them here for another couple of hours so we can take another blood sample and monitor lung function. Give us a few minutes and you can each go on back. They're all in the same exam area."

As they gave the doctor a chorus of "Thank yous," Captain Johnson, who had been stoically silent and stalwart the whole while, abruptly sat down.

"The waiting's the hardest part," Opal said to him.

Heather and Maha were murmuring thanks to different deities and Sugar flipped open her phone to call Grannie Fulton.

"My grandmother was worried," she explained to Opal after the exchange of a few heartening sentences with her grandmother. "She adores Charlie more than she likes me, I think. She's going to let my sisters know the news."

"How many sisters do you have?"

"Three. They treat me like a baby, but they call it love."

"I'm the youngest of five."

Just like that, they were chatting, and the worry drained out through the soles of Sugar's feet. She felt a little bit numb. And how exactly was she supposed to go forward, all forgiven, with Opal? And Heather? Charlie put up with it because she had the undying fraternal support of her fellow firefighters all the rest of the year. But they'd made life really unpleasant for Sugar the last few years-been mean and cold at birthday parties, pointedly and precisely correct at Judith Perlman's father's funeral with not one fake smile to spare, even stiff and withdrawn at the annual picnics where everyone ended up smeared in watermelon. The whispered fuss they'd made about making sure their kids didn't accidentally have any of the food she and Charlie brought-turning their noses up at Grannie's lasagna, for heaven's sake! But they all had Sugar's cake, slicing up the fire engine after admiring how realistic it was.

What would Grannie Fulton do? She thought it over until a nurse came to tell them they could go in to the back.

When she stood up she said to Opal, "Thank you."

It was a start.

Charlie's creased and ash-smeared face was a welcome sight. Sugar thought her heart would burst from relief.

"You're a sight," she said, brushing at the ash with her fingertips. Heedless of any of the other wives, she gave Charlie's smiling lips a quick kiss.

"Do you know if the kid is okay?" Charlie's hoa.r.s.e question was underscored by a worry, deep in her eyes.

"What kid? We don't know anything. I suppose Captain Johnson knows."

"He wasn't there." Charlie squeezed her hand. "I'm so glad you're here. Wanted you to hear the doctor. I'm fine."

"You don't look it." Sugar traced the line of the IV drip from the back of Charlie's hand to a pouch hanging next to the bed.

"I just need a shower."

"You need a rest." Sugar gave her another kiss before straightening up. "Behave or Grannie Fulton will hear of it." As her own heart rate finally calmed she was aware that the room reeked of wet, burnt wood. The hospital was going to need a lot of Febreze when they were released.

Charlie pulled a face of mock horror before saying, "There was a kid-house fire. Got away from his folks and ran in for the cat. We had all taken off our masks, and mine was mostly secure but there was no time-kid didn't know the roof was done. I thought it was Hopkins who got him."

"He went in the other ambulance, probably to Puget Medical." Judith Perlman spoke up from the next examination table. "I was out of it pretty much-didn't see if the kid was with him."

"Maybe the captain can find out." Sugar recognized Ray McKay's deep voice. "Do something useful for once."

There was laughter until the Captain quelled them with a loudly cleared throat. "If you're done having your fun, the child is fine. He'll have some burns to show off. And the rest of your team is at Puget Medical, lounging around just like you lot. n.o.body knows anything about the cat."

The squad burst into laughter again, and when Captain Johnson tried to get their attention, and failed, he p.r.o.nounced them all high on oxygen, which brought on another wave of hooting.

"You're going to pull out your IV," Sugar warned.

Ray McKay tried to sit up and Opal pushed him right back down. "Enough of that. Not until the doctor says."

"Aw, honey, I don't need a doctor to tell me when I'm fine. Chuck," he called. "Talk some sense into them."

Sugar turned her head in time to see Charlie's father, Chuck, take in the scene and visibly relax. He strolled toward Charlie's bed. "Not on your life. I have a heart condition, remember?"

His glance at Sugar was anything but nonchalant. He was a retired firefighter, and had probably left home moments after Grannie Fulton's first call. She answered his question with her eyes, then followed his shifting gaze to Charlie's face.

There was definitely more pink in her lips now. The skin that Sugar so loved to rest her cheek against, that was a perfect match to her favorite mocha-chocolate cake icing, was less waxen.

Nevertheless, Chuck leaned over his daughter and said, "You look like h.e.l.l. Do what Sugar tells you."

Without hesitation, Charlie said, "This from the world's worst patient-and there are nurses in this very hospital who will attest to that."

Sugar loved the way Charlie's eyes flooded with affection for her father. Such wonderful expressive eyes.

"Oh go turn those puppy dog eyes on someone else," Chuck said.

She found herself enveloped in the melting, brown gaze. "Nope," Sugar said, though her voice didn't have quite the conviction she'd hoped for. "Not going to work on me either. You are going to do exactly what the doctor says. And another thing," she added, her voice rising. "I would really appreciate it if you tried harder not to scare the living c.r.a.p out of me again."

Too late she realized that a silence had fallen, and everyone in the room heard her remarks, loud and clear. She felt a blush start in her cheeks, but Opal smacked her husband lightly on the shoulder.

"What Sugar said. You put me through too much."

"Yeah," Maha and Tom echoed. Even Heather made some sound of agreement.

Suddenly, they were all in the same pose, arms crossed firmly over their chests, and Sugar finally felt like one of The Wives.

She caught Opal watching her and Charlie with Chuck, then their gazes met. If hers held a plea, she wasn't aware of it, but Opal gave a little nod. Yes, Sugar thought, this really is what it's all about.

A nurse came in to check all the monitors, and the firefighters went back to ribbing Captain Johnson. Sugar wanted to take Charlie home, tuck her in bed and feed her Gran's chicken soup for the next year. But it wasn't time yet, and waiting was the hardest part.

Touchwood.

Published: 1990.

Characters: Rayann Germaine, wood sculptor and advertising artist Louisa Thatcher, bookstore owner.

Setting: Oakland, California The Second is for Spilling over.

The Curve of Her.

(3 years).

I am watching her at the top of the sliding ladder, her weight all on one foot while she uses the other as a counter- balance to the arm that stretches for a book almost out of reach. She is a curve of hip, a sweep of hair, then a flash of humor as she hands the volume down to the waiting customer.

"That do it for you today, Belle?" I take the hefty Hemingway anthology from her to put in a bag.

"Thanks, Louisa." Belle pats her pockets in search of her credit cards. "I don't know why Jean likes Hemingway, but it's her birthday tomorrow and she doesn't have this collection yet."

"Girlfriends," I joke. "Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"Hey," Rayann protests from the top of the ladder, where she is spreading books out on the shelf to hide the large gap where the anthology had been. I watch her fingers on the spines of the volumes, savoring the texture in the same way that I do. I think, then, of her fingers on my skin.

I'm intensely aware of Rayann shimmying down the ladder. The fog of the past week has finally given way to summer heat, at least here in our part of Oakland, and forced her into a simple top and shorts, with the skimpiest of sandals pa.s.sing for footwear. Her figure seems more ripe and alluring at thirty-two than it was at twenty-nine. She complains about the effects of gravity but I always tell her she hasn't seen anything yet. When she's my age-just shy of fifty-nine-gravity will be an old friend.

She disappears into the recesses of the store. During our vacation, an enthusiastic volunteer made a mess of shelving the new paperbacks and Rayann has been steadily putting things right. I wave goodbye to Belle and go in search of her. I need to gaze at her today; I want more than that.

She is frowning and muttering to herself as she kneels in front of the lower shelves, but the frown dissolves when she looks up at me. "Maybe when we go away we should just tell them not to..."

My silence is heavy with desire, then after a moment, her response twines into that silent wanting and I see her arms p.r.i.c.kle with gooseflesh.

The silence is broken by her whispered, "Lou," and then she lifts her face. Standing over her I cup my hands in her hair, loving the curving line from her chin to her throat to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I kiss her then because her eyes ask me to.

When our mouths part she murmurs, "After last night-"

"Because of last night," I answer, after I have kissed her again.

She pulls me down to her and I am-perpetually-in awe of her love for me. I never thought I would have this mystery again. I loved Chris as much and as deeply. When she died in that car crash I thought that was all the love there was for me, and for a long time it had been enough. Years later, Rayann burst into my life, then into my bed.

There is never any danger of mistaking Rayann for Chris-Chris would never have pulled my hands to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, not in the daylight, nor with the lights on, not in the back of the store, no matter how much she wanted me.

Rayann and I were wild together last night and this pa.s.sion is all the more surprising because of that. She is shivering at the threshold of surrender. Only the time and place holds her back. The bell at the door could ring at any moment, but when she wants me this way, when I want her this way, it will be impossible to stop once I have touched her.

She is unzipping her shorts, inviting my hand inside. Chris-the only other lover I have ever had-would never have done that. There were so many things Chris and I never did, even in our most private moments, things Rayann takes for granted. She grew up in a different world, never having been closeted. Chris and I lived in two closets, the first to hide who we were from employers and my son's teachers, and the second for the benefit of friends we could not and did not want to survive without.

Rayann still does not understand. I've told her how many times how my best friend Danny was arrested for not having enough items of women's clothing on her, how anyone who suspected I was a lesbian could make a call to social welfare to send someone prying into my suitability as a mother. But part of her can't understand and in a way I'm glad of that. Her innocence gives her the freedom to want me like this, to be panting in my arms, to surrender so readily, without worrying if society or friends would approve of who does what, of who goes first, of who comes and how.

I was a mother, and mothers weren't butches. Danny impressed that rule upon me forty years ago. In the world I navigated then, it made sense. Never mind that the labels Danny and our other friends insisted on were backward for me and Chris. Friendship and staunch loyalty meant more to me-and to Chris as well-than any concession I might make over a simple label. We needed our friends and never questioned that we had to hide a part of ourselves to keep them. We were living together, and happy. Back then it was nearly an impossible dream. But it is also true that it was only when we were truly alone, in the dark, that we were free to be who we really were.

Chris would shiver the same way Rayann does, but at this moment, in the dark, Chris would have whispered, "Please make love to me."

In broad daylight, a product of a different world, Rayann pushes my hand down her hip and moans urgently, "f.u.c.k me."

It makes me dizzy that she has forgotten where we are. For a moment I think the ringing in my ears is faintness but it's the door. A customer. She is too shattered to move, so I get up, kissing the blushing angles of her face one last time.

The afternoon drags on and I catch Rayann watching me as I am watching her, aware of what we want, knowing we will wait, and feeling every tick of the clock as a pulse of building desire. Fifteen minutes before closing she announces that she's going upstairs to our apartment. She'll make a light dinner. I tell her I'll close up.

Only ten minutes have elapsed when the door opens and Danny comes in, her swagger, leather jacket and thick denims a familiar and loved sight. But tonight I'm hoping she's just stopped in to pick up a book for Marilyn. No such luck-she pours herself the last cup of coffee and settles in for a chat.

I go through the motions of closing up and like every other time she has dropped by near closing time, she follows me into the stairwell and locks the door behind us, then tromps right behind me up to the door to the apartment. I open the door and can only say, "Uh..."

Danny gasps, then grins. She hits me on the shoulder. "I'm in the way, aren't I?" She steps delicately over the trail of clothing Rayann has left, pointing the way to our bedroom.

Rayann, clad only in a very short silk robe that I bought her as an anniversary gift, says, "Oh my G.o.d," and disappears from the bedroom doorway.

"I'll just let myself out," Danny says, heading for the apartment's back door, not one whit embarra.s.sed. "You have a nice evening, now. Come to think of it, I have a lady at home who might need taking care of too."

The door slams and Rayann peeks out the bedroom door. "I'm sorry," she begins.

I am across the room in moments, seizing her by the shoulders, kissing her hard, then pulling her breathlessly to the nearby kitchen table. I am dying for her and she cries out when I take her, her hand circling my wrist as my fingers dive into her heat.

She clings to me with another cry, her legs circling my hips. She makes my head spin. I can't believe she can yield so quickly, and with such strength. She gives and takes in a moment like this, and doing both-letting me know with her body, her voice-only makes me want to please her even more. My own trembling begins. She opens new doors in me, doors that Chris never knew existed. Doors I have deliberately ignored.

Her head is on my shoulder. The first storm has pa.s.sed. I am listening to her gasp and loving the sound of it when I hear a voice.

"You might want to close the windows," Danny calls smugly from the street in front of the house.

"Oh my G.o.d," Rayann says again. She is blushing as she hides her face in my hair. She can't see that I am blushing too.

My stomach is flip-flopping as I close the windows while she goes into the bedroom to do the same there. She is sitting in the shadows of the tapestry over our bed when I join her, her mouth looking swollen. I abruptly understand why I'm thinking about Chris and Danny and labels. I had thought my mind was over it. My body seems to be. Tonight, with her looking at me like that, I am wanting her touch. If I was over these labels, my stomach wouldn't be churning.

I want to give myself to her. Nearly six decades and still I can see myself anew.

I draw the curtains against the evening sun, wanting the dim light because I am on unfamiliar ground.

She undresses me eagerly, her mouth on my throat, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Until tonight I have thought of this as indulging her need for foreplay; she knows I am usually satisfied when she is.

I am cresting on a river of fluid self-perception, too old not to understand that anything, anyone can change, and still young enough to revel in new experience. With Chris, always in the dark, she wanted me inside her. I loved to inhale her female scent, to taste it until her hands were in my hair, holding me there. I found my own climax-when I needed it-on top of her, straddling her thigh as she touched me. Rayann knows this and has never asked me to be different for her. But tonight, deep in the well of her forthright desire, I am changing anyway. Chris would never have wanted what Rayann needs at this moment, and for the first time in my life I need it too.

She looks up at me, her eyes full of hunger, her lips curved in thirst. I love filling my mouth with her, knowing her in the most intimate way. She wants to feel that powerful intimacy and I don't want to withhold it from her just because of a label.

I'm not indulging her. Finally, I am aware that I can give and take at the same moment. I want her mouth on me, now. I want it so badly my legs won't support me. She is on top of me and I cannot believe the sensation of her skin on mine. I have seen burning fires in her eyes when she calls my name, but I am the one in flames tonight. My temples are pounding and I make a sound-a plea, an order, something in between.

Her mouth engulfs me. I am washed over with a wave of pleasure that leaves every muscle taut, antic.i.p.ating. I feel the tensing of her shoulders under my thighs. I have loved giving her what she wants and this is no different. She wants me to come. I never have like this, but I can't help it, I don't want to help it. My satisfaction is hers. The battle between past and present is academic. I am opening, offering, clenching, shaking. Her muted cry answers my release. I give her what she wants and finally see that it only makes me stronger.