&nb
 

Dutch glanced over at the digital clock on his bedside and groaned. “Realy?” His bladder was sending signals that could no longer be ignored, and it was only a bit past 6:30. “It wasn’t enough that I made a trip at 2:00?”

He stumbled back into the bathroom and once again did his business. When he was done, he looked in the mirror and stuck out his tongue. “Fuck! Gonna have to shave, I guess.” Rummaging through Len’s memories, he found the shaving cream and the cheap plastic disposable razor. Then he thought through the steps.

Huh. Doesn’t seem like too big a deal.

He lathered up, then took his first swipe. “Oww!” Checking in the mirror, he found that he hadn’t cut himself. But he hadn’t gotten rid of much bristle, either. It was more like he’d just annoyed it some.

His second attempt, on the other hand, resulted in both a cut and a curse.

He thought about how Angie had helped him drive and play poker by trying to activate his memories, so he tried that. He thought about Len standing in front of the mirror, shaving, day after day. How much shaving cream he used. How he held the razor. Where he used upward strokes and downward strokes. He pulled up memory after memory. Clocked it, filed it, and tried again. It still hurt, but it was better.

After his second cut, it occurred to him that the problem might be solved by using a new razor. Len had bought a ten pack, and there were still three in the bag. As soon as he tried a new one he shook his head. Len, he decided, was just plain weird. He kept easily fifty bucks in change just sitting in a coffee can, but used the same stupid disposable razor until he looked like he was auditioning for a part in a slasher film. Weird.

When he was finished – using the new razor, that actually worked – he thought about taking a shower, but decided he wanted coffee first. So he threw on some shorts and a T-Shirt and slipped downstairs.

When he hit the main level, he paused, but heard no sounds that might suggest that Angie was awake. Looking down the hall toward the garage, he saw that the door to the laundry room was partly open, so he went down to take a look.

The inflatable mattress didn’t quite fit in the room without sticking out a bit into the hallway, which is why the door wasn’t completely shut. Angie was curled on her side under a sheet, her dark hair fanned across the white pillow.

Dutch couldn’t help but stare. In sleep, she looked defenseless and fragile, almost doll-like. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d really been that tiny . . . and, since the answer was clearly ‘yes,’ how he’d ever survived.

With those disquieting thoughts in mind, he went back to the kitchen, made a coffee and brought it back upstairs. As he was passing the door to the first bedroom he stopped himself.

Exercise.

Free weights. A bench with a bar bell and some plates. An elliptical machine. A foam mat and some foam rollers of different stiffnesses. All pretty basic, but decent equipment. Functional.

Margaret Mary had never done any resistance training, much less weights. Dutch once again deliberately pulled up Len’s memories, going through the uses of each machine and the right positions for each weight exercise that Len had typically done.

As with most things, he had a routine and tended to stick with it. Stretches. A pre-programmed elliptical routine. Dumbbells for bicep curls, tricep extensions, flys, and shoulder presses. The barbell for deadlifts and bench presses.

The draw was impossible to deny. This body is strong. It can be stronger. I can be stronger.

He went through the memories in his head, quickly but methodically. Then again. Then again, but faster. Satisfied, he padded down to the bedroom to change into workout clothes.

Angie woke a little later. This time, it was less disorienting . . . and less terrifying. She had to tread carefully with Dutch, but she wasn’t worried about some sort of physical confrontation in the short term. And, she didn’t need to ask permission for simple things like use of the kitchen.

The thought of food – and coffee – was enough to get her up. Margaret Mary’s ratty jeans and top were now clean and dry, so she went with that, then took a minute to deflate the air mattress, fold it neatly, and put it on a shelf. She didn’t want Dutch to think she was “abusing” his hospitality by being a slob.

As she passed the bottom of the stairs, a familiar rhythmic sound made her pause, then smile. He’s exercising? Good! She wanted him to take care of his body and have many good years in which to enjoy it. Since Len had bought the elliptical machine in the hopes that it would help reduce the excess visceral fat he’d started to carry, she was genuinely glad to hear Dutch becoming acquainted with it.

The body she now inhabited wouldn’t be ready for any significant exercise for some time. It required adequate sleep and good nutrition just to build up stamina for ordinary tasks like walking any sort of distance. But she vowed she would get where she needed to be before her time as Dutch’s guest ran out.

This morning she decided to be just a bit more ambitious. She carefully went through what was available in the refrigerator and the pantry while she had her first cup of coffee, then she cut up some deli ham, an onion, and a few cherry tomatoes and made a small omelet. It needed cheese, but she remained wary of anything that might upset her stomach.

From the occasional noise that she heard from upstairs, it sounded like Dutch was still exercising, though he’d progressed from the elliptical machine to the weights. After she cleaned, dried, and put away her dishes, she decided she could do Dutch another favor by doing a truly tedious job: rolling coins.

~o~O~o~

Dutch grabbed a shower after his workout but – after the prior evening’s unpleasant surprise – made sure that it was short and focused. He vigorously toweled his short hair dry, threw on the shorts and T-shirt with which he’d started the day, and went back downstairs.

He found Angie at the kitchen table, carefully counting pennies. Completed rolls of higher denomination coins were already set in rows.

She gave him a warm smile. “Good morning! How was your workout?”

He’d been grinning almost nonstop since he finished it, insanely pleased with himself. “Great!”

“I had an omelet earlier, but if you give me a minute, I can make you one, too – I cut up extra stuff.”

“I can do that,” Dutch asserted. Then he paused. “Can’t I?”

She giggled, and decided that she liked the sound. “If I can, you can.”

“That’s right!”

She watched as he purposefully looked at everything she’d set out on the counter. Omelette pan, olive oil, eggs, onions, ham and – for him – shredded cheese. He visually went through it all several times, and she could almost see him pulling up the necessary memories. Rather than interrupt, she finished sliding fifty pennies into a wrapper, folded the top shut, then started counting fifty more.

Trying to project more assurance than he felt, Dutch cracked three eggs, whisked them up with a splash of milk, oiled the pan and began to heat it. He didn’t allow himself to look in Angie’s direction. If I can, you can, she’d said. And he knew that was right. Basically.

He made a botch of the fold-over, but he didn’t feel too bad about it. Angie’s track record with that maneuver wouldn’t have impressed any short-order cooks, much less any chefs. But he did shoot a glance at Angie as he worked to tidy it up a bit.

She was studiously looking at the pennies she was counting.

He made himself a second cup of coffee and sat down across from her with his breakfast. “I know it doesn’t look pretty.”

She gave it a judicious look. “Who cares? I never did.”

“All looks the same, once you eat it,” he asserted stoutly.

“Face it,” she said, completely deadpan. “Within a couple hours, it’ll look a lot like shit.”

Try as she might, she couldn’t keep a straight face.

After a second, neither could he. “Good point,” he agreed, once he was able to stop laughing. He cut a big bite, stuffed it in his mouth, and inhaled it. “It tastes just fine!”

She let him eat in peace, content to count pennies and roll them up, completing her self-appointed task about the same time he finished eating. “Fifty-six dollars, seventy-six cents. You should deposit it at the bank sometime this week, or I promise you’ll forget about it.”

“I won’t forget,” he promised. But then, his expression changed. “I hope not, anyway. But, uhh . . . .”

“It’ll surprise you,” she said gently, “just how fast you get used to having money.”

“I guess.” He looked at the rolled coins like they held some great mystery, then he met her sympathetic gaze. “You should take them.”

“No.” She shook her head forcefully. “It’s all yours now.”

“Which means I get to do what I want with them, right?” When she did nothing except look stubborn, he added, “You won the card game. Poker. Whatever.”

“We were just using the coins to keep score!”

“Whatever!” He stood abruptly, grabbed his dishes, and went to wash them. Aggressively.

Angie watched him apprehensively, worried that she’d given offense where she’d intended to give reassurance.

When he shut off the water, she said, “Dutch?”

He was staring out the window over the sink, apparently oblivious, slightly bent over, with his hands gripping the edge. After a moment, he ground out, “What?”

“I’m sorry. That was generous of you, and I should have just said ‘thank you.’”

He didn’t turn. “Yeah.”

She had no answer to that.

Dutch looked at nothing, trying to get his careening thoughts into some kind of order. Trying to figure out why Angie’s obstinance had set him off. Finally he sighed, turned around, and returned to the seat he’d abandoned. “Someone offered me fifty bucks, two days ago, I wouldn't have been too proud to take it. Shit, I’d have stolen it if I had the chance. You know that, right?”

“It’s not that,” she protested.

He tilted his head, giving her a skeptical look. “Isn’t it?””

She opened her mouth to deny it, then stopped. “Well . . . maybe some. A little.”

“Too proud to accept help?” He snorted. “That’s gonna get you killed out there.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “That’s why I’m hoping not to end up ‘out there’ like you were. Why it matters to me, how things go for you tomorrow. But I’m serious – it wasn’t just pride.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s the whole guilt thing.”

“Dutch. We’ve been through this. You got the short end of the stick. The least I can do is make sure you get every benefit that might go with it.”

“You need to stop. I’m serious.” When she started to interrupt, he waved her down. “Wait. You’ve got to listen to me right now, okay?”

Reluctantly, Angie nodded.

“You didn’t ask for this. I didn’t either. But if someone had offered it to me, right then? I’d have taken it. And you would have, too, wouldn’t you?”

Angie grimaced. Honesty compelled her to say, “Yes.”

“When you go off on your guilt trip, and talk all about how I got a raw deal and all, you make me think, like, maybe I did. I’ll never get to be young, or, like, have a family. Whatever.” Before she could say anything, he shook his head. “I don’t want that, okay? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life pissed off about what I lost, or the things I didn’t get to do. I want to enjoy what I got. Can you see that? Do you get it?”

All Angie could think to say was, “Okay.”

It wasn’t enough; he tried again. “I don’t want to feel cheated. I don’t want you to feel guilty. We both got things we wanted, and we both paid a price. Can we just leave it at that?”

This time, Angie took her time responding, to make sure he knew she’d considered his words. “Are you sure you’re only nineteen?”

“Yes and no. It’s like I’m that and in my sixties, too.”

“I know how you feel.” She took a deep breath, held it, then let it out explosively. “Okay. I won’t raise it again. But if you need to talk about it, I’m always ready to listen.”

“Good enough.” He thought for a second, then decided it was a good time to change the subject. “What’s the agenda for today? Getting ready for tomorrow’s meeting?”

Angie nodded, as relieved as Dutch to move on. “Yeah, mostly. There was one errand I’d like to run later, but the meeting prep’s the priority.”

So they fetched Len’s laptop from the messenger bag in the trunk of the Benz (Dutch had never taken it inside after getting home). Angie had Dutch fire it up and remember all of the credentials needed to get access to the information stored on the encrypted hard-drive and the company’s internal site.

“Jeez . . . it’s like Fort Knox or something,” Dutch groused.

“It is,” Angie agreed. “Now, tell me why.”

Which made Dutch tap Len’s memories, which was the point.

They went through each of Len’s accounts. Bid documents. Construction notes. Engineering specs. They went through Len’s customers. Who was the contact? What was their position in the company? Names of spouses . . . children. Favorite restaurants. Who liked to be invited to the company’s box at the baseball park.

“Why do I need to remember all this?” Dutch complained. “I’m quitting – that’s the whole plan!”

“Because you’re playing hard to get,” Angie reminded him. “You want them to think that you’d rather stay.”

“And I do that by knowing all this stuff?”

“In part. You’ve got to walk out of that meeting and dive right back into work, which means you need to be ready to do that.”

Back to it. Angie had him go through his direct reports. Strengths, weaknesses, likes and dislikes. Spouses, kids. Who was getting ready for a vacation. Who’d just come back. What they were working on, and how they were doing. Who was helpful. Who was reliable.

“Trevor owes you design specs for the Front Street project, and he should have them ready by the time you’re out of your meeting. You’ll want to review them. So . . . what are you looking for . . . where is Trevor most likely to make mistakes?”

After they’d exhausted that topic, they moved to Valerie’s presentation for the Town Council of Avandale, which was debating a permit for a large affordable housing project. Had she properly addressed the council members’ concerns? Fully considered all of the caveats in the Town Planning and Zoning approval document? Had the company’s legal department reviewed the slide deck?

It was well after noon when Dutch finally called a halt. “Fuck, Angie! You do this shit every day? Why didn’t you want to retire?”

“You know why,” she countered.

“Yeah, but I need a break from dipping into your freakin’ memories!”

“I was good at it.” She shrugged. “I went into engineering because I’d been decent in math and my dad suggested it. I was okay at that part. But mostly, I was good at building teams and getting people to work together. The company needed that because lots of engineers suck at it.”

“You said you aren’t a people person. Weren’t.” He waved a hand. “Whatever.”

Angie thought about that. “Well . . . it’s not that I’m bad with people. They’re just tiring.”

“Tiring.” Despite himself, Dutch found Len’s memories coming at him. Meetings, and more meetings. Counseling sessions. Mentoring. Group meetings, where projects got dissected and work assigned. “So . . . you were like the office mom?”

Angie smiled, a bit sadly. “Yeah. Only kind of mom I could be, you know?

Dutch stretched and tried to rub the stiffness from the back of his neck. “Not now, though. You can be a mom if you want, I guess.”

This was dangerous territory – the subject, or cluster of subjects, where Angie felt Dutch might have the most regrets. She’d just promised not to talk about that . . . but she hadn’t stopped worrying or feeling guilty. Her response was cautious. “Yeah.”

“I never really thought about it.” Dutch yelped when his neck rub hit a pain spot. “Does this always happen?”

“Yeah, if you sit too long. I usually get up a lot.” She rose and came behind him. “Here, let me.”

“Huh?” He looked over his shoulder at her, wincing at the pain the movement induced.

“Let me work on your neck and shoulders. I’ve got some experience, you know?” When he took his hands away, she worked her fingers into the tight muscles of his neck, then spent some time kneading his shoulders. She had him put his arms on the desk and rest his forehead on them, so that she could work his upper back using her fists and, eventually, elbows.

She was shocked at how little strength she had. Her fingers couldn’t penetrate very far, though she’d done better when she was able to bring her whole body to bear. But she’d at least known exactly where Dutch was most likely to be feeling stiff. “Better?”

He pulled himself back to an upright position. “Yeah, lots.”

“Hungry?”

“I could eat, for sure,” he agreed.

“Well . . . I wonder whether I might ask you for a favor. I want to take my old stuff – the clothes, you know? – to the consignment shop on Market Street. I’ve never been there, but I drive by it all the time and they’re open on weekends.”

Dutch looked confused. “You want to give them away? Why?”

She chuckled. “ ’Cuz they’re your size, not my size. I’m hoping they’ll let me do a sort of trade.”

“Oh!” He pulled the keys out of his pocket and handed them to her. “Sure, if you want to.”

She thought about just taking the offer. She wanted to, but she knew it wouldn’t work. “I actually wanted to ask if you’d help me. If people see me pull up in a fancy car, they’re going to be suspicious as hell. And if I’m trying to trade someone else’s designer clothes for stuff for me, they’re going to call the cops.”

He shook his head. “Fuck. I should have thought of that.”

She tapped her forehead, reminding him. “You sort of did.”

“I keep forgetting this shit works both ways.”

They loaded the bags into the trunk of the Benz, then Dutch drove them a couple of miles out to a strip mall that held a few small shops in addition to Carol’s Consignment. When he’d parked, Dutch said, “How do you want to play this?”

She smiled. “You were coming to drop off some of your wife’s old things, when you spotted a poor little waif and decided to help her.”

He thought about it for a minute. “So . . . I’m like, Mr. Big Shit in this, right?”

“Kind of. Don’t overdo the pompous, though. We want them to like us.”

“Well, fuck.”

“You’re just a nice guy, trying to do right by paying it forward.”

“I like the Big Shit idea better.” He sounded wistful.

“I know. But it’s actually not as much fun as you think.”

“You say so,” he said, unconvinced but resigned.

“Probably best if you make the deal with whoever’s at the desk, then I do the whole ‘gee thanks’ thing and you take off. It’ll look weird if you’re waiting for me.”

“How’re you gonna carry whatever you get?” he asked, practically.

Angie cursed. “Damn! Hadn’t thought that far ahead!”

“I’ll just go to the Wendy’s at the other end of the lot,” he suggested. “I’ll get a bite and wait for you there.”

It made as much sense as anything, so Dutch pulled her bags from the back of the car and they brought them inside.

A woman with a kind face and light brown hair was working behind a counter at the front of the store. She gave a cheerful “Good afternoon,” when they walked in, which seemed encouraging.

Dutch had a moment of panic, suddenly forced to take the lead, but managed to return the woman’s greeting without breaking down. Bringing the bags to the counter, he said, “Uh, so . . . I was bringing some stuff to drop off . . . uh. My wife’s stuff. And, uhh . . . well. I saw this kid, who really needs some things. I was wondering . . . .” He couldn’t think how to finish.

She looked puzzled rather than suspicious. “You want her to have them?”

“Uhh, no. My, uh . . . my wife’s kind of, umm. Larger. Her things wouldn’t fit Angie.”

The lightbulb went off. “Oh, I see. You were thinking we could maybe do a trade?”

“Yes!” He sounded relieved.

“Well . . . I guess we could do something like that,” she allowed. “You want to wait here while I look them over and give you a price?”

“No, no,” he said. “Just . . . you know, give her whatever value you decide, okay?”

“Alright,” she decided. “Thank you for your generosity.”

“Thank you so much,” Angie said to both of them. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

“Okay, well . . . uhh. Good luck, Angie.” With that, Dutch fled the store.

The woman behind the desk waited until the door was closed, then cocked her head. “Okay, Hon. What’s the real story?”

Angie turned to face her. “Real story?”

“That man was nervous as a wild turkey in November. What’s going on?”

Angie thought fast, but couldn’t come up with another cover story. “I don’t know, honest. I was asking for money, you know? At the corner of Brookfield and Porter. He pulled over and asked if I needed some help.”

“And you just got in his car?” She sounded incredulous.

“Well . . . he told me he had some clothes he was dropping off here, and he said I was welcome to get whatever I could for them.”

The woman wasn’t convinced. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Angie.”

“That’s a nice name. I’m Carol.” She paused for a moment, trying to decide whether to stick her nose in the bedraggled girl’s business. But she had to say something. “Angie . . . are you safe?” The way that she said “safe” had a very particular meaning, and it was more than clear.

“Yes,” Angie said, making it sound like a promise. “He was nervous, and I don’t know why. But he didn’t even try anything.”

Carol gave her a long look. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Angie tried to sound firm.

“Okay, well . . . let’s see what you’ve got, then.” Carol started pulling clothes out of the bags. Dresses, skirts, blouses, bras, camis . . . . when she got to the shoes and the wig, though, she stopped. “Oh!”

Angie could see realization dawning in Carol’s face, and felt the heat rise in her own cheeks. Stupid! Of course it’s obvious! A wig, and women’s size fourteen shoes!

Carol looked at her, and the knowledge in her eyes was impossible to miss. “You knew?”

Angie nodded, unable to speak.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” Carol assured her. “We get donations from folks like that, now and then. It’s sad, really.”

Angie was confused. “Sad?”

“Yeah. Men who have this . . . desire, I guess . . . to dress like women. Sometimes, they want to be women. But everyone just thinks it's something to be ashamed of. And they bottle all that up, and when they can’t take it anymore, they take all their nice things – all their pretty clothes – and they get rid of them.” She shrugged. “It’s good for my business, I guess, but I wish they wouldn’t feel that way.”

Angie was finding it hard to speak. “Why not?”

“Why should anyone feel bad, for wanting to be pretty now and then?” Carol shook her head. “It doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“Guys . . . guys aren’t s’posed to be pretty,” Angie whispered.

Again, Carol shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Anyways, it’s a free country.”

“Is it?” Angie asked. “Sometimes, it doesn’t feel that way.”

“You’ve got me there,” she agreed ruefully. “But look . . . he’s got a bunch of stuff here, and it’s good quality. Why don’t you tell me the sorts of things you’re looking for, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Angie felt a wash of relief, since she hadn’t been looking forward to searching through the store on her own. “That would be great. Thank you!”

Carol pulled a flexible tape from her drawer. “Here, let me get some measurements.”

“Ah . . . sure. Okay.”

Bust, under bust, hips . . . all tiny. But when Carol took the waist measurement, she looked at the number, then measured it again. When her initial measurement was confirmed, she thought, holy hell! “Angie . . . .” She stopped.

“Is it okay? Is something wrong?”

“I have a consignment shop.” Carol’s voice was husky. “I see lots of girls who’re struggling. I’ve never seen anyone as skinny as you are.”

Angie shrugged, uncomfortable. “Do you have anything that’ll fit me?”

“Fit you?” Carol seemed surprised at the question. “Sure. I mean, I’ve got everything from kid’s stuff to adult plus sizes. But. Well. I just want to ask if you’re alright. No-one should be this thin.”

“It’s okay,” Angie tried.

“No. It’s not. When was the last time you had a decent meal?”

Carol’s obvious concern made Angie want to reassure her, and the words tumbled out. “I’ve been on the street. But I’m doing better now. I’ve got a place to stay, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to get a job soon.”

Carol wanted to ask more, but she thought she’d already pressed more than she should have. Instead, she showed Angie around and helped her pick out some essentials.

They started with the most critical things, which were the least feminine ones: jeans and pants that were clean and in good condition, as well as a couple good quality T-Shirts, a hoody, a fleece, a rain coat, new socks, and walking shoes.

But she didn’t stop there. “You may not have much up top,” Carol told her, “but you need some bras, if only for modesty’s sake. Some of those T-Shirts are pretty thin!”

So Angie had her first bra fitting. She tried to make it appear like no big deal, even though she was secretly thrilled – it was one of those things she’d never experienced. From there they moved on to a few things that might be suitable for different kinds of work. Some decent tops, a skirt, a pair of sandals and a nicer shoe with a two-inch heel.

“This has got to be worth more than what I brought in,” Angie protested.

“You let me worry about that,” Carol said firmly. “Besides, I’ve got one more thing you have to have.”

It was a brilliant teal A-line dress with tight elbow-length sleeves and an asymmetrical tea-length hemline. “A girl should have something to wear that’s just pretty,” Carol asserted.

Angie looked at the dress, soft and feminine, designed to show curves and smooth skin, and could picture how it would look on her. How it would feel, and make her feel. Despite herself, she felt tears begin to well up, and try as she might, she couldn’t stop them.

They were Len’s tears, for all the decades he’d longed to be pretty and delicate, but they were Margaret Mary’s tears as well. Margaret Mary, who had so seldom found kindness or generosity in all the long days and hard nights she’d spent without a roof over her head. Buffeted by two sets of memories, she found herself weeping uncontrollably.

Carol gathered the tiny young woman into her arms, feeling hot tears through the light fabric of her top. Her own eyes glistened. “It’s all right, Honey. It’s going to be all right.”

A part of Angie – the part that belonged to a transwoman who was a generation older than the woman giving her comfort – was both shocked and a little terrified that she couldn’t seem to get herself under control. That part had spent a long lifetime wearing a mask that no-one had ever been able to pierce, and her raw display of emotion was unnerving. “I’m . . . sor . . . sorry!” she sobbed.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Carol soothed. “I’ve got you, Honey. I’ve got you.”

Time eventually accomplished what Angie had been unable to achieve through willpower alone. With a last sniffle, she pulled back, then wiped her eyes. “Thank you.” Her voice was raw; almost unrecognizable.

Carol leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. “You’re very welcome.”

“I think I’ve ruined your blouse.”

“Don’t fuss; I’ve got really good laundry facilities. Now, go get yourself cleaned up – the restroom’s back through here – and I’ll get everything bagged up for you.”

A bit of cool water on her face definitely helped, and Angie had herself more or less under control when she returned to the front of the store. She’d come in with four bags, and she now had five.

“Why don’t you have your guy pull up?” Carol asked. “We can load them in his trunk”

“My . . . .” Angie mouth opened and closed.

“His car’s over by the Wendy’s,” she said. “Something that pricey kind of stands out around here.”

Angie blushed furiously. “It’s not what you think!”

“You don’t know what I think,” Carol said, and her smile was soft. “And it’s none of my business anyway. But . . . you’ll be safe?”

Angie nodded firmly. “He’s not any kind of threat. Honest.”

“Okay.” She thought a moment, then grabbed a card and stuck it in one of the bags. “That’s got my cell phone. If you need help, just give me a call, okay?”

“I will,” Angie promised.

Carol walked her to the door. “Go on now. And Angie?”

“Yeah?”

“You tell him . . . when he’s ready to get more pretty things again, I’m happy to help him. And I’ll treat him like any other woman who comes in.”

“I’ll tell him.” She swallowed, trying to alleviate the tightness in her throat. “But I don’t think he’ll do it.”

“They always do, though, Angie. Always.”

Angie left to get Dutch. Her eyes were stinging again, but she was all out of tears.

– To be continued.

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