She hesitated, her voice softened. "Yes."

"Same as you love Karl."

Again she paused, looked devastated, her voice splintering. "No two loves are ever the same."

She stood there, the long-bladed knife in her hand. Her swollen eyes followed mine to the knife. She stared at the knife, its handle tight in her hand, her body trembling, her nerves on edge.

She shook her head.

At this point everything was premeditated.

She put the long-bladed knife down on my bed. Then she walked out the doorway, took slow steps down the hallway, car keys in her hand, sandals slapping against her feet with each step, slapping her feet and making that skin-against-skin sound once again. She moved like she was disoriented, as if with each step the landscape of her reality was shifting, as if my words, my testimony, my confessions, my truth had disrupted her senses, as if she could no longer see the world, bumping into the railing, bumping into the walls, each step uneven and uncertain, then slower steps as she took to the stairs, her sandals still slapping her feet, again stumbling as she made her way down the carpeted stairs. I thought she had fallen. Or was about to fall. I thought she was about to spin and fall like that man in the movie Psycho. She'd spin and fall and break her neck and her death would get blamed on me.

Silence returned and I hoped Silence was not alone, I hoped it had brought its friend, Sanity.

I waited to hear the front door open and close. But it didn't happen. I heard her crying. I heard her breaking down. Her spirit was shattered, her soul ruptured.

I looked back at my bed. And I saw what could've been me. I saw me with my eyes open, blood everywhere, my naked body lifeless, the sting of death allowing me to receive plea sure no more. The image of my lifeless body in a sea of blood, the thought that my mother would have to see photos of me in that way, would have to clean up this mess I had made, that brought heat to my throat. Brought heat to where, only moments ago, a sharp knife had been.

My hands came to my throat. I held my neck. I shivered.

My eyes watered.

Downstairs a woman was crying uncontrollably.

I pulled on a pair of jeans, the first T-shirt I could find, picked up the long-bladed knife and went looking for her. But she would be easy to find. All I had to do was follow her cries, follow her tears.

My body felt a shock, like a stun gun. I let out a scream. I felt the vibration again. It was my cellular phone. In the pocket of my jeans. My heart raced and sweat formed on my neck and brow. I was on edge, the vibrations from my cellular phone were shooting into my body like an electric shock. After it vibrated three times, the ring tone kicked in. The theme from Sex and the City. It was my mother. My spirit was created from her spirit. She always called at the most ill-timed moments, as if my troubled soul nudged her. I tugged the phone out of my back pocket, tried to push the red END button to turn the phone off and kill the music, music that would let the woman in my home know exactly where I was, but I fumbled and hit the green button, the SEND button, and I accidentally answered my mother's call.

The Jewell of the South was in my home. And now my mother was on the line.

I released vulgarities, then answered with a quickness, said, "Let me call you back."

My mother began having a conversation as if she didn't hear me.

My mother was calling me because she was still excited about my sci-fi project. Said she had seen the dailies of Invasion, Nicole Kidman's movie, and it was mediocre, a blase remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, a remake that had a lame War of the Worlds ending.

I told my mother, "Call me back in ten minutes."

"Just letting you know that I want to pitch this one. You just sit back and smile, be your beautiful writer-self and let me sell this project so I can get my percentage and buy another property on the beach."

I rubbed my eyes, tried not to sound distressed. "Call me back in ten minutes."

She paused, her tone changing to that of the concerned mother. "You okay?"

There was a boom. The world lit up, lightning crackling in the sky.

"Everything's okay." Chill bumps raised on my arms. "I'm in the middle of something right now."

"Where are you?"

"My bedroom."

"Are you alone?"

I paused. "No. I'm not alone."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

She laughed.

Head pounding, I hung up, trembling, wondering if should've told my mother what was going on, that her daughter was in trouble, that she should call the police to come fix this for me. I stayed where I was, listening, hearing nothing. The rain began pouring down. Thunder roared. Lights flickered.

My world had become a Hitchcock movie.

I went down the stairs, took slow and deliberate steps, didn't know if she was hiding, didn't know her state of mind, what level of craziness she still possessed, first peeping toward my sunroom, and I saw her there, standing in the window, not hiding at all, in plain sight, her back to me, her positioning leaving her defenseless. Her body was bent forward, one hand out against the casing for the plantation shutters, the other on her hip, her head down so low it looked as if she was headless. She was sobbing, maybe staring out at the darkness and the trees, maybe staring at nothing. I paused at the bottom of the stairs, the blade bouncing against my leg. Jewell Stewark heard me, turned and faced me, and we stared at each other. There were moments in everyone's life that defied logic and reason. This was one of mine.

"Nia Bijou, if you would like to call the police, I'll wait. I take full responsibility for my actions. For coming into your home and...and...and acting like a fool. And for the way I behaved at Starbucks, I accept full responsibility. If you want to call the police, if you want to have me arrested, I'll wait for them."

She was crying. Not dramatically crying, it was a stubborn cry, one she was trying to keep at bay and failing, emotions grave, being forced to release the kind of profound cry that came from the heart.

I paused, images of her being carted away, red and blue lights flashing. My neighbors witnessing the scene, this being the second time in a few weeks that the police would have visited my home, lights flashing, a person of color being taken away from this white-bread community, a throng of reporters showing up at my door, all of my personal business showing up on Channel 2 with Fred Blankenship and Pam Martin telling the world of my hedonistic moments. That same news would be on Fox 5 Morning News and Good Day Atlanta, and on the front page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. The news would be about The Jewell of the South and some unknown, wayward woman from L.A.

No, this wasn't like the regrettable moment with Logan.

This was The Jewell of the South. This was news for Atlanta.

I didn't want that, not at all.

I trembled. I was nervous. I was afraid to let her go outside in the state she was in, afraid that my curious neighbors would see her leaving here crying, maybe had already seen Karl's abrupt exit. The rain was falling hard. The skies had opened up. The wind was strong, streets were probably flooding, the red dirt of Georgia running down mountains, that same muddy water flooding the urban streets. I doubted if she could make it from my driveway to Atlanta Road without being in a serious accident. And 285 would have to be a deathtrap in this weather, two of the four lanes becoming lakes.

I said, "Are you okay?"

"Shook up. Too shook up to drive. I'm feeling...nauseous."

"You need to throw up?"

"I'm...it's not that bad. I just need to sit for a moment, if you don't mind."

"Why don't you come in the kitchen, have a seat on a barstool."

I led the way into my kitchen, a kitchen that had wooden floors and rustic barstools at the marble counter, a bistro table in the breakfast nook, white cabinets and stainless steel appliances, all of that facing the rest of the other tri-level townhomes in this cul-de-sac on Oakwood Trace. She took a seat at one of the barstools, had a hard time pulling it out because it was heavy. I went deeper into the kitchen, picked up the broken glass I had left on the floor, threw the big pieces in the trash, swept the smaller pieces to the side, tossed a large dishtowel on the dampness, and went back to the pantry, all of my movements jittery as I took out two red plastic cups, cups I almost dropped trying to handle. I stepped over the damp towel, over bits of broken glass, and went to the refrigerator and took out bottled water.

I became the polite, educated, regal woman from Hampton, poured a cup of water for the prim and proper woman from Spelman, then did the same for myself before I handed her the cup.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I ached. I struggle to drink my water, body dehydrated, extremities trembling.

In the name of self, I had committed a chiliad of errors, and I ached for each one.

Sooner or later Karma arrived. Sometimes with roses. Sometimes wearing a black hood.

Sometimes with the face of loveliness and wearing a beautiful sundress.

Again thunder and lightning came, the winds becoming harsher.

The things that had happened, the hostility, it had become something else, our song had a different tempo, one composed of guilt and shame. Severe guilt accompanied by relentless shame.

I sat down at the other barstool, still waiting to wake up from this nightmare.

She took a piece of ice from her water, rubbed it on her neck, on her reddened face.

I asked, "Would you like a paper towel?"

"No thank you."

Awkwardness remained as the skies crackled.

A moment passed. I said, "You followed Karl here."

She shifted. "Where is Mark?"

"Work. He couldn't get away."

"He abandoned you."

"Work. He had problems at work."

She huffed.

I took a breath. "I called Karl. Karl came. He followed me home."

"Karl."

"Did you follow him? Did you follow us?"

"I followed him. Not today. But I followed him."

"Why?"

"Because...because."

I paused before I said, "You prefer Karl to your husband."

"Yes."

"Does Mark know?"

"He knows."

"How long?"

"Forever."

She sipped her water. I felt the heat of angst radiating from her reddened skin.

I paused. "Tell me about you and the twins."

She took a deep breath, put the cube of ice back in her cup, then sipped her water too fast, caused her to cough awhile. She got her coughing under control, swallowed, then sipped more water.

She cried. "This is...I am so embarrassed."

There was a big boom, lightning flashing, its electrical power coursing through me, that sonic shockwave shaking the earth. I jumped. Jewell Stewark jumped. Both of us made terrified noises.

She said, "I should go."

"You should wait a few minutes. Let this pass."

I turned the television on. Tornado warnings. Cobb County. Fulton County. A tornado had touched down in Marietta, one city over, and that fury was heading toward Smyrna.

The television went off. I looked outside the plantation shutters. Winds. Rains. Bending trees. Darkness arrived. The blackness told me electricity was out. Thunder roared like a wicked beast. I was jittery, bouncing my foot, shaking my leg. It felt like the storm was marching into Cobb County. The skies opened. It was raining hard enough to create a flash flood. That meant there was no way Jewell Stewark could leave here, not without risk of waters rising and sweeping her and her Jaguar out to the Chattahoochee. Not while the winds roared like a freight train heading our way.

In a trembling voice Jewell Stewark said, "Do you have a basement?"

"Yes."

"If you don't mind, we need to get to your basement."

"Let me get my candles and my flashlight."

I went to the pantry, took out three candles, couldn't find my flashlight, looked in all the kitchen drawers, searched until the skies boomed again, then headed out of the kitchen, to the left, and down the carpeted stairs into my basement, my office space. She followed me, car keys and cup of water in her hands, her sandals slapping the back of her feet, that slapping sound reminiscent of her being in my bed.

I took the candles to my desk, lit them, placed all three on my desk, in front of my computer. Licorice. Lavender. Spicy orange. Scents that reminded me of an apartment in Greensboro. Those scents surrounded us, seeped into the air, air that was warming since the power outage had disrupted all things electrical, had stilled my ceiling fans and turned the air conditioner off.

Jewell sat on the futon that was in my space. She sipped her water, stared at the images on my wall, images of my Trinidadian idol, stared at the many books I had in my office.

She said, "That's Hazel Dorothy Scott."

Her eyes moved across my life, evaluated all she saw. She looked at my collection of books, her eyes moving as if she was browsing a library. My personal library. Her attention moved from nonfiction to mystery to literary to erotica to books translated from foreign languages to books on writing. Her eyes violated all I owned. In the end she stared at the books on my desk. I felt naked. Exposed. As if my entire existence was being dissected and analyzed. We had had sadistic moments and now we were chitchatting, trapped in a storm and being emotional and curious creatures, no men here to battle over.

She asked, "What do you do, if you don't mind my asking."

"I'm a writer."

I imagined Ingrid Bergman. Frida. Dorothy Dandridge. Marilyn Monroe. And of course, Anais Nin. I thought of all the artistic women who had endured complicated love affairs, women who felt deeply, women who made hard choices. Sensual women who refused to let their lives wither into bitter regret and desperation. Women who had learned how painful and complicated the art of being was.