~o~O~o~

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Sulla tua bocca lo dirò. Quando la luce splenderà!”
– Puccini, Turandot, Nessun Dorma (Aria)

Cambridgeport and Boston, Massachusetts, December 26

It was Boxing Day in Commonwealth countries and the Feast of St. Stephen in Catholic ones. I spent breakfast pumping Henry for information about the Hutchinson Investments, his family’s trust, and his uncle, so that I would have a better understanding of what I was dealing with when I went into their offices to get affidavits.

Far from objecting, Henry approved; like me, he believed in doing his homework.

As I had sensed at yesterday’s Christmas Party on Beacon Hill, Henry was born and raised in a very different world than my own. The Hutchinsons had been in Boston forever, and over the centuries dipped their hands in fishing and whaling, mineral extraction, railroads, textiles, foundries, and mills.

By the mid-19th century, the branch of the family to which Henry belonged made its migration into the world of finance, and there it had burrowed deep. In the 1880s, Cornelius’ three-times great grandfather Micah had set up the structures for Hutchinson Investments and the Hutchinson Family Trust which, with a few tweaks here and there, still existed 140 years later.

“Dad used to tease Grandfather by calling him ‘Tai Pan’ after the character in the Clavell novel,” Henry said. “Stripped of the piracy and the romance, there’s enough truth in the analogy to make it funny. Not that Grandfather thought so; he was dour enough to make Uncle Chip seem like a stand-up comic.”

“I remember that book,” I said (I share Henry’s fondness for historical fiction). “The business set-up seemed pretty . . . ah, Byzantine, if I remember right.”

“Well, there are similarities. Hutchinson Investment is a private company; the CEO and the Board of Directors are all required to be family members. The Trust is managed by a sole trustee, who is appointed by a membership that happens to coincide with the membership of Hutchinson Investment’s Board of Directors, although they are separate entities. Only adult descendants of Micah are allowed to vote for the Board, and every descendant is a potential beneficiary of the trust.”

“Tell me the organizations are at least headed by different people.”

“They can be,” Henry responded. “In theory. But I just don’t think it’s ever happened. Board appointments only happen when there is a vacancy, and it takes a supermajority to trigger a vote of no-confidence for the CEO or the trustee.”

“That seems like an awful lot of power for any individual to hold,” I observed.

Henry agreed, but said, “The system’s actually worked pretty well, and it’s provided a whole lot of stability over a long span of years. The choice for CEO and trustee is usually obvious when the time comes. Uncle Chip was the unanimous choice of the Board and the membership when Grandfather died.”

Seeing the look of skepticism on my face, he said, “Trust me, it wasn’t because he was Grandfather’s eldest son. The Board is less likely to be moved by sentiment than this table is. But out of the roughly five hundred or so descendants of Micah Hutchinson over the age of eighteen, he was the one who was the most capable. Dad’s actually a better analyst and strategist. But Uncle Chip has what it takes to make the tough calls.”

So this was who lil’ Cami Savin was going to work with to finalize an affidavit that would, if made public, ruin his eldest son? Yikes. But he had said that he would do it, and I didn’t doubt he would keep his word.

I thought about what to wear, in both a large way and a small one. When I showed up in New Haven, I would have to be wearing the clothes of my prior life – what I thought of as my Cam-o-flage. There would be no opportunity to come back to Henry and Fiona’s townhouse to change.

But I didn’t want to deal with either Cornelius or Robert, Henry’s brother, dressed like a man. They knew me as a woman, I had told Cornelius in no uncertain terms that I was a woman, and that’s the way I wanted them to think of me. Exclusively.

But that only led to a second order problem. For today’s purposes, I also needed everyone to take me seriously as a professional, and Cami Savin didn’t actually own any suitable clothing for that role.

Fiona solved that problem. “We’re close to the same size, and I’ve got a black suit that I need for conferences and things like that. See if it works.”

It worked, more or less. Good through the arms and shoulders, but Fi’s waist is much narrower than mine. We had to resort to the damned waist cincher. Again.

But the suit was, well, suitable: a pencil skirt (I usually wear them full) and a nicely tailored jacket. She also loaned me a white shell, and I selected a modest bra, as well as a camisole since the waist cincher might otherwise show through the sheer fabric of the shell.

I couldn’t wear Fiona’s shoes, but I had a pair of black pumps and a new pair of black pantyhose that I had gotten in my Christmas stocking.

I asked Fi to help me put my hair in a bun. I hadn’t tried that style before and found I didn’t love it, but it suited the circumstance. I vowed that when I came out at work, I would find a hairstyle that was both professional and more flattering.

Henry and I arrived at the office at 9:30. I left all of my luggage in the car to be retrieved when I was done with business.

Cornelius had already arrived, and Robert came in shortly after Henry and me. The four of us had a brief meeting in a corner conference room with an impressive view of Boston Harbor.

Cornelius walked in last and sat down. “Your meeting, Ms. Savin.”

I vowed not to quail before those fierce blue eyes! “What I would like each of you to do, in the first instance, is to write down every detail that you remember from last night that you think might be relevant as evidence of what Jonathan did. You should do this separately, without conferring with each other.

“When you’re finished, I’ll review your notes. I’ll probably have some follow-up questions. Then I’ll take the notes and draft affidavits for your review. Does that make sense?”

They both nodded, and our meeting broke up. Henry took me back to his office, stopping to ask someone if they might have a carafe of coffee sent in.

I looked at Henry’s office, gave a low whistle and shot him an appreciative look. “I see why Fi said you were ‘slumming’ at your townhouse!”

Henry looked a bit sheepish. “I know. It’s mostly to impress the clients; my biggest job is investor relations. People with lots of money to invest are much more willing to listen to financial advice from someone – especially a thirty-five year-old – whose office looks like this. Which may be crazy, but it’s a fact.”

“Still,” I drawled, “not a bad place to spend your work day, I suppose . . . .”

He laughed, and led me over to a conference table that would seat ten, around half a tennis court’s distance from his desk. Just kidding, but damn, it felt that way. “You can set up here if you'd like,” Henry said. “I’ve got to get through some email traffic this morning. I hope you don’t mind?”

I gave his arm a squeeze. “Henry, I’m just sorry to be getting in your way. Scoot!!!”

Robert was finished in less than fifteen minutes . . . or at least he thought he was. He came in with his draft; I took a quick look and asked if we could go to his office to go through it so as not to disturb – or involve – Henry.

Robert’s office was close by and about a third the size of Henry’s, though still very nice. He had a smaller circular table, much closer to his desk, and we went there.

The Hutchinsons all looked sufficiently alike as to make you aware of the family relationship. Robert was a few years younger than Henry, though he probably still had a couple years on me. Twenty-nine or thirty, I’d guess. He had a bit of Cornelius’ stocky build to him, but his hair was jet black – possibly even darker than mine. Unlike his father, he didn’t have any facial hair.

Last night, he had been everyone’s favorite dance partner. Today he seemed tense, and his eyes were shadowed.

“Robert, your description of your exchange with Jonathan, when he asked you to let Henry know that Fiona was looking for him, looks fine. I do have a couple of follow ups on it that I’ll come back to. But you had an earlier conversation with Jonathan too, didn’t you?”

He sighed. “So you know about that? Yeah. I did. It was all my fault.”

I resisted the urge to give him reassurance, either verbal or physical. I thought that I knew the conversation he was referring to, but I couldn’t be sure. “I’m not seeing that. How do you figure?”

“When the three of you arrived, I was talking to Jonathan. We were maybe fifteen feet away from Uncle Chip and Aunt Gooney.”

I had been around Hutchinsons enough over the past couple of days to realize that he was referring to Cornelius and his wife Geraldine.

“Anyhow,” he continued, “I heard Henry introduce you as Fiona’s sister and I . . . .” He stopped, looking embarrassed.

“It's okay,” I said, “Please go on.”

“Well, I, umm, noticed you. And I guess I said . . . please don’t take this the wrong way; I said, ‘Wow, I didn’t know Fi had a sister!’” He was beet red and looked both embarrassed and chagrined.

I couldn’t contain a small smile at his dilemma. “Was Jonathan with you at the time?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “We’d just been talking; he was telling me about a new car he’d bought.”

“Are you certain that he overheard you?”

“Yes. He said something like, ‘you’d think she would mention having a sister like that.’ Words to that effect.”

If his face got any redder, he would have no blood left for his extremities.

In a very gentle voice, I said, “I see why you thought this made you responsible, though I don’t agree with you. But why didn't you include it in your notes?”

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but he actually looked puzzled. “I thought you wanted evidence of what happened later. If I include that, it will blow your own cover, won’t it? I didn’t want to put something in the affidavit that would end up hurting you.”

This time I did reach over and give his hand a squeeze. “Thank you. But if I have to use the affidavits, the fact that I’m transgender will become public, if it isn’t already.”

From his expression, he hadn’t considered that.

“Anyhow,” I continued, “don’t worry about it. It’s important that your affidavit be as complete and as detailed as possible, regardless of how it might play out down the road. Was there anything else that you can think of that might be relevant, that you didn’t include?”

He shook his head.

“Any other interactions with Jonathan last night?”

“No. Of course, I saw him here and there – dancing, or in the banquet area – but we didn’t have any other conversations and I didn’t see anything unusual in his behavior.”

I asked him some follow-up questions to try to isolate exactly when each of the two events he was describing had occurred, and where Jonathan had found him when he told him Fiona was looking for Henry. I finished by asking whether he had discussed the events of the night before with anyone else.

He said, “No.”

I just cocked an eyebrow.

“Well, I mean, I talked to Henry when he came looking for me; he told me what had happened and I told him that Jonathan had asked me to find him. And he and I told Mom and Dad after that.”

“Did you tell them what you had said to Jonathan about whether Fiona had a sister?”

He thought for a minute. “I don’t remember whether I did or not. I certainly told them about the other encounter.”

I had what I needed. I thanked him and went back to Henry’s office to draft his affidavit. I finished my draft and was reviewing it when Henry got a call from Cornelius.

He got off the phone. “He’s sending me a word document with his notes; if you’ll give me your email address I’ll forward it to you. Once you’ve reviewed it, you’re welcome to go down to his office to go over it.”

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“avrò più l' alma intrepida”
– Verdi, Il Trovatore, Ah! si ben mio (Aria)

Boston, Massachusetts, December 26, immediately following

I wasn’t surprised to see that Cornelius’ “notes” bore a striking resemblance to the almost-final text of a draft affidavit, with the necessary prefatory language, numbered paragraphs and a jurat that complied with Chapter 268 of the Commonwealth’s statutes (which I’d reviewed earlier in the morning).

Given his position, Cornelius must have signed numerous affidavits over the years; he undoubtedly pulled up one of those and used it as the base document. I reviewed it and had relatively few areas where I wanted to ask for additional details.

But the ending paragraphs were a revelation. He had apparently spoken to Jonathan first thing this morning. His account of the discussion was dry and factual, but very informative.

Jonathan had confirmed what he had told me – that he had heard Rob’s statement, that he had determined that I was male (Jonathan’s words) by running a Google search and looking at my firm’s website, that he had become convinced that I was plotting something and was determined to confront me.

However, in Jonathan’s initial version, the confrontation had involved me attacking him when he revealed what he had discovered.

Cornelius’ next two paragraphs were something of a masterpiece:

“72. My reaction to this assertion was to advert his attention to the location and type of his injuries and to his martial arts training, and to inquire whether he intended to maintain that Ms. Savin, who was both shorter and lighter than he, had in the course of her unprovoked attack unzipped his trousers, freed his reproductive organ from both his pants and his underwear, and inflicted lacerations and contusions upon it, all the while sustaining no visible injuries herself. Upon further reflection and in light of the points I had made, he conceded that this part of his account was false.”

“73. In response to my further inquiries, he conceded that he had instigated the altercation by coming up behind Ms. Savin and knocking her to the floor by means of what he described as a ‘hard slap’ to the back of her head. He further stated that, (a) he had threatened to inform all the guests at the party that she was male if she did not immediately perform fellatio; (b) he then exposed his organ to facilitate the action he had demanded Ms. Savin perform; and (c) she had instead used her fingernails and hands to inflict injury upon it.”

The language was a bit antiquated, but certainly precise. I had been taught that it is better for affidavits not to sound like they were drafted by the same lawyerly hand, so I didn’t suggest any edits to this piece of prose. Anyone reading it would know that it was drafted by Cornelius Hutchinson himself.

I did suggest that he indicate that he could not say, from personal knowledge, that his son’s description of events was accurate. Better to acknowledge weaknesses, especially when they aren’t critical. Cornelius’ summary of Jonathan’s statements was hearsay, but as clear admissions against interest, they would be admissible evidence in court.

Jonathan had lacked either the time or the wits to come up with an even semi-plausible explanation for his injuries and the scene his father had encountered when he entered the library.

I could think of several stories he could have used that might have raised at least some doubt, but he had instead concocted a scenario that was so ludicrous on its face that no one would believe it. And, having done that, any new and theoretically better story that he came up with later would be seen as an obvious fabrication.

He was an idiot.

I walked down to Cornelius’ office, which I discovered was actually a bit smaller than Henry’s (though he had a better view). He waved me in, and again sat behind his desk with me in front. I went through my follow-up questions and clarifications, taking careful notes as I went. His responses were, as usual, dry, factual, and unfailingly polite.

I went back to Henry’s office and did revisions to each affidavit. When I was satisfied that everything was correct, I asked Henry to forward the word documents to Robert and his Uncle for their review. He did so, then came and sat with me for a minute.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Tired. But I’m doing alright otherwise. All of you have been great.”

“All but one,” he growled.

“Well, yes. But you have, what did you say, something like five hundred relations? If only one’s a bad apple, you’re doing amazingly well!”

He smiled at that and said, “Oh, there are more like six hundred fifty ‘potential beneficiaries,’ but they’re scattered all over the country, and all over the world. I probably don’t have more than fifty blood relatives in the Hutchinson side in the Boston area. Of course, half of them work here, in one capacity or another.”

“I can’t imagine working with my siblings, much less working with my siblings, my parents, my aunts, uncles, and cousins!”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds," he said. "I work a lot with Uncle Chip. And Dad, Simon Winthrop and I, who all report to him, are family. But most of my direct reports aren’t; same’s true for Simon and Dad.”

“What does Robert do?”

“He’s an area specialist. He knows the pharmaceuticals industry inside and out. Invaluable, these days.”

His “invaluable” brother chose that moment to poke his head in the office. “This looks fine, Cami. Should I get the notary?”

“Yes, please,” I answered, adding, “Why don’t you print three copies?”

He came back a few minutes later with a large woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties, who had short silver hair and a pleasant face. He signed each of the three copies, then the notary filled out the required attestations, signed and dated the documents, and applied her stamped seal.

I had them make a couple of non-original duplicates of the affidavit too. When she had left I gave Robert one of the three originals and put the rest in my laptop bag.

Robert shook his head ruefully. “Cami, I just want to say how sorry I am that this happened. All of us love Fi; I can’t imagine what she thinks of us now.”

Henry chimed in before I could. “Robbo, if it’s anyone’s fault it was mine, not yours. Fi wanted me to call you, and Mom and Dad and Sam, but I thought we would be better off not making a big deal about it.” Sam was Henry’s middle brother, but he apparently hadn’t been able to attend the party.

I was both touched and exasperated. “Please don’t do this to yourselves. Please! You didn’t do anything wrong, either of you. It’s all on Jonathan, one hundred percent.”

I tapped one of my apparently lethal fingernails on Robert’s copy of the affidavit. “He’s been dealt with. I was not injured, and I’m not going to fall apart over this or allow myself to be traumatized for life. I have, after all, seen that type of equipment before."

Addressing Robert’s worry, I said, “Fiona is fierce as hell, but she’s also smart enough to know that there’s only one wrongdoer in all of this. She loves your family. That won’t change.”

I kept looking at them both until each of them nodded his head in agreement. “Good!” I said.

Now I just needed to finish with the Tai Pan.

Cornelius had made one amendment to one of the early paragraphs in the final draft that he wanted to discuss with me. Then we finalized the document and called in the notary. He executed three originals.

I left him with one, and took the other two and two copies myself.

“I assume you will be leaving your additional original with a trusted third party who can keep it safe,” he stated.

“Yes, sir, that’s my intention.”

We were alone in his office, so I asked, “If I may, what did you decide to do about Jonathan?” I wondered whether he would bristle at my poking my nose into his family affairs, but I did have a need to know and he recognized as much.

“Geraldine and I decided your suggestion had merit, with some modifications. Jonathan is almost forty and he’s done nothing with his life. He needs to get away, go somewhere where no one knows, or cares, about all of this.” He waved his hand, indicating the ornate offices and everything they implied – rather than the sordid events of last night.

“He needs to make his own way. More prosaically, he needs to get a job. And, he needs counseling, or something like this might happen again. So, he’s agreed to relocate to Los Angeles. The trust will cover rent on an apartment and will pay for counseling.

“He’s got adequate personal resources to live on until he can find employment. What happens after that is up to him. Maybe he can come back, some day, but it might not be the best thing for him and he may not want to.”

“He never worked here?” I asked, surprised.

He shook his head. “He never wanted to. Most family members don’t; they do other things, and the trust provides some support. After age thirty, family members give fifteen percent of their income to the trust if they want to retain shares for themselves and their offspring, but Jonathan’s never had any income. The only job around here he ever wanted was mine, and he is not suited to it.”

I handed him an unsealed letter and asked him to give it to Jonathan. In response to his raised eyebrow, I said, “I didn’t seal it because I wanted you to read it. You and your wife should know."

He opened the letter and read it.

It was brief. “Mr. Hutchinson: I am enclosing with this letter copies of affidavits that I hold in secure locations and with trusted professionals. In addition to my own testimony, which I will similarly memorialize, the affidavits are more than sufficient evidence to support legal action in both civil and criminal courts. I have no present intention of pursuing either course.

“Be advised, however, that I will do so without hesitation if I so much as suspect that you have taken any actions – any whatsoever – to retaliate against me, or my sister, or her fiancé, or the signatories of these affidavits.

“You suggested that you thought my sister and I were engaged in some plot targeting your family. I do not know what might have led you to believe that, but it is false. My sister met your cousin in the course of her work and had no idea who he was when they started dating. And, I was just visiting them both for the Christmas holiday.

“If you were acting out of some misguided desire to protect your family, you would have done better to simply talk to me about it. Your chosen methods were illegal, immoral, and a discredit to your fine family.” I signed it, “C.R. Savin.”

Cornelius nodded. “That appears to cover what is required. I will deliver it to him, along with copies of the affidavits.”

He gave me a long, appraising look from behind his desk. “You look like I feel. Do me a favor. Let me order a car to take you to New Haven. See if you can’t use the time to get some sleep.”

Even the possibility for some extra sleep was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I thanked him and rose to leave.

He got up from behind the desk to walk me to his door. “Ms. Savin, if I understand correctly, you are just a year and a half out of law school, is that correct?”

I confirmed it.

“I admire the way you think under pressure; it’s a credit to your character and your legal training. If your firm is foolish enough to let you go, please call me.”

I was surprised. “I thought I made you uncomfortable?”

We were halfway to the door. He stopped dead and turned to face me. “Like you, I’m a fiduciary. Selecting qualified employees is essential to advancing my clients’ interests; selecting employees that make me feel comfortable isn’t. There are several people in this building who make me uncomfortable, for one reason or another. They are also very good at what they do.”

I must not have looked convinced, because he added, more softly, “I wrote this company’s nondiscrimination policy. My father asked me to draft it, and I was proud to. If we start thinking that the only people who matter are the ones who look like us, or act like us, or went to the same types of schools, or worship at the same church, we’re no better than the parasitic aristocrats this family cheerfully left behind in Stewart England.”

It was a bit like listening to granite talk. Or maybe John Quincy Adams. Stubborn, resolute, old-school, Yankee pride. Still fighting the revolution, two centuries after they had won it.

It was oddly bracing.

He had given me a lot to think about, which was another reason I took him up on his offer of a car to New Haven. I returned to Henry’s office and said my goodbyes. I had intended to change there, but with the driver taking me to New Haven, I had a bit more time.

Henry clearly understood that I didn’t want him to see me dressed as a male; he said, “Cami, just Uber back to the townhouse and change there. We’ll send the car to pick you up about a half hour later. Okay?”

Henry really is a sweetheart, I thought, as the car pulled out into traffic on the Mass Pike. Fiona could not have found a better guy.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Soffri tacendo il core”
– Rossini, La Cenerentola, Non piu mesta (Aria)

Interstate 84, Northwestern Connecticut, an hour or so later

“Fiona!!!!” I woke up with a start, heart pounding, my agonized scream echoing in my brain.

Apparently I hadn’t actually cried out since the driver didn’t say anything. He just kept motoring on, wholly unperturbed. I took deep breaths, desperately trying to calm down.

In my dream, I had been reliving those first awful moments when I had been knocked down; had heard that sneering voice. Reliving the emotion that had, for an instant, almost overwhelmed me, before I had locked down into that focused and intense detachment that is my instinctive reaction to emergencies.

It was the same emotion that had been driving me for every waking moment since: fear for my older sister. I hadn’t figured out the nature of the threat to her in those awful first minutes after I had been knocked down. But the sense of it, the absolute reek of it, had hit me instantly with the force of an avalanche.

I suppose I should have been worried about my safety, but I hadn’t been, and in a house chock-a-block full of people my instinct there had probably been correct. That was only confirmed when the moron decided that the best way to punish me for my perceived insult to his clan was to give my nails direct access to the most vulnerable part of his male anatomy.

Nor was I worried, for my own sake, about his threat to expose my secret. I was planning on coming out, even at work. As I had told Cornelius, the time wasn’t ideal, but I would certainly have done it rather than give in to Jonathan’s blackmail.

But the danger to Fi was real, even if it wasn’t physical. This was Fi’s new family. The family that was providing her everything that my own family had not: love, acceptance, peace, security. What had I said to Fi, in that Skype call just a few weeks ago? “A firm place to stand, so she could reach for the stars?”

I was not going to let some overbred, overprivileged, trust-fund puppy ruin that.

I didn’t think through all of that until I had recovered from blacking out and had found myself in a bedroom, with Fi and Henry standing over me like Michael in the Garden of Eden, flaming swords at the ready. But my racing brain had caught up with my instinct almost at once, and I had seen the danger clearly.

Henry would have backed me if I denounced Jonathan and filed charges. Maybe Cornelius would have too, though I didn’t know that until I spoke with him. But it would have split the family as surely as if I had thrown a grenade into the middle of their Christmas dance.

Some of them would blame me, some would blame Fi. Fi, a firm believer in the cleansing power of righteous wrath, would never forgive them. And I would have destroyed her new family before she even had a chance to join it.

Just days before, I had heard her sobbing at the loss of her relationship with her parents, which was my fault even if she didn’t blame me. I had promised to be the best sister anyone had ever had, and I intended to keep that promise. She would have her new family, a good family, a whole and decent and loving family.

And she wouldn't know, ever, that I had held back on her account.

If that meant a little shit like Jonathan would go free, so be it. At least I knew that he would be constrained, by the evidence that I held and by the lure of his family’s money, in ways that should protect Fiona and me. And everyone else, for that matter.

The danger was past; it was dealt with. But the sense of it, the pulsing fear of it, had come back to me while I was sleeping like I was back in that library again, back on my hands and knees in front of that monster.

I turned my face towards the window so the driver couldn’t see it through the rear-view mirror. And I finally allowed myself to let go, to release the iron restraints that my mind and body had imposed on my emotions in order to get through the emergency and end the threat to my beloved sister. My face crumpled and I wept, long and hard, silent as snowfall at midnight.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“a nuova vita l'alma mia si desta”
– Puccini, Manon Lescaut, Donna non vidi mai (Aria)

The Richard C. Lee U.S. Courthouse, New Haven, Connecticut, December 27

“Good afternoon, your honor,” Eileen said, standing at the podium. “Eileen O’Donnell, Cavendish, Edwards and Gunn, for the Plaintiff. With me at counsel table is my colleague Cameron Savin, who will be arguing sections 2-7 of our brief, as well as William Davis from the Davis law firm, acting as local counsel.”

Judge Marion Waters, a middle-aged Black man with a lean face, a completely bald head and sleepy eyes, looked at Eileen over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Please proceed, counselor.”

Eileen argued the first issue, fielding the judge’s questions with an easy manner that displayed her command of the facts and law and the confidence that comes from decades of litigating. Her opposite number responded, and she gave a short reply.

Judge Waters reserved on the issue, but indicated that he would likely allow the disputed evidence to come in. “The challenges to the evidence appear to go to weight rather than admissibility,” he said. “However, a proper foundation will be required before it’s allowed in.”

My turn! I stood as Eileen left the podium, hoping that nothing in my manner displayed any visible nervousness or excitement.

It was my first court argument. I had prepped for it thoroughly and knew the cases, the issues, and the documents. Eileen and Bill Davis had mooted my argument that morning and we had shopped answers to questions that the Court might pose. I was as ready as I could be.

I introduced myself to the Court, and was pleased that my voice came out sounding calm and normal. “Cameron Savin for Plaintiffs, your honor. I’d like to start by addressing the City of Corinth case . . . .”

I was off to the races, and my fears, my excitement, slipped away. I was in the zone, analyzing cases, listening carefully – and visibly – to the judge’s questions, answering them respectfully but firmly.

I was born to do this.

My only regret was that I was standing there dressed as Cameron Savin, pretending to be Cameron Savin, and it was a fraud. I should have been wearing a skirt, like Eileen; my hair should be styled properly (though not, I thought, in a bun!). I should be in pumps, not heavy leather dress shoes.

But under the suit, the heavy shoes and the black dress socks, nylon stockings encased my legs and satin underwear caressed me, sweet and silky and soft, rustling quietly, almost like they were promising me, “Your day will come, Cami. It will come!”

The judge gave his tentative rulings on the issues that I had argued and I sat down again, making way for Eileen to address the remaining issues. It felt like I had been up and down in seconds, but the clock behind the Judge’s dais indicated that I had been in the hot seat for just under an hour. I did it!!!

An hour and a half later, Eileen, Bill, and I walked down the broad stairs in front of the Courthouse. They were both very complimentary about my argument, and thought it likely that the judge would rule our way on the issues we cared about the most. Bill said his goodbyes and started walking back to his office.

“What do you think, Cam? Is this for you?” Eileen was grinning, sure of my response.

I grinned back. “Absolutely!” I said enthusiastically.

“Good. You did great. I’ll tell David he can stop fretting.” David had been unable to make it back from the West Coast in time for the argument. “You never forget your first argument. Regardless of how it went.”

She got out her phone and ordered an Uber; she was flying home that evening from Bradley Airport north of Hartford. I was taking the Amtrak, but it wasn’t scheduled to leave for some time. Her car arrived; she got in and looked up at me. “Nice job, Cam. Really nice. See you back at the ranch.”

I had a couple of hours to kill before I caught my train, so I wandered across the New Haven Green to a local bistro. I had just ordered a bite an a cup of coffee when my phone rang. It was Cam’s line, not my “Cami App,” and the caller was ID’d as “MNY PDO.” That didn’t mean anything to me, so it was probably spam.

I answered anyway. “Cam Savin,” I said.

“Cam?” said a familiar voice. “It’s Bondo.” Bondo, aka Kevin Bond, had been a year ahead of me in law school; we were friends of a sort. Or at least friendly. But there wasn’t any reason for Bondo to be calling me. No reason except one, I thought as my heart sank into my damned heavy shoes. It was work related, but it was his work, not mine.

Bondo worked for the Manhattan Public Defender’s Office.

“Bondo! What’s up, my man?” I said, hoping I was wrong.

“Sorry, Savvy,” he said. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ve got a client here who’s facing charges of disorderly conduct and destruction of personal property. His name’s Iain Savin, and he says he’s your brother.”

Oh, this is bad.

I would like to have been able to say that didn’t sound like Iain, and after a fashion, it didn’t. Iain had never been in any physical altercations that I was aware of. But he had both my father’s temper and his powerful physique. I didn’t have to imagine Iain losing his temper; I could just remember it. And if he did get physical, he could do some damage.

All that went through my head in two seconds. “How bad is it?”

“Not that bad. Not as bad as it might have been. He went off on his roommates over something and started breaking things. They called the police. It, ah, looks like he was high. They did bloodwork.”

“Anyone hurt?” I asked.

Mercifully, he said not. “Just shook up some. Look, Cam, I’m confident that the DA will let this go, if the roommates won’t press charges and if he gets himself into a drug rehab facility for at least sixty days. But he’s a pretty stubborn guy. I don’t suppose you can talk to him? And maybe the roommates?”

“Happy to. Put him on.” But Iain wasn’t with Bondo, he was in a jail cell. Wonderful.

I thought for a minute. “Kevin, I can be there in a couple of hours, I’m just up in New Haven for work. If it’ll help, tell Iain I’m on my way. If it won’t, don’t.”

“Dude, he’s the client, remember?”

I sighed. “Roger that. Should I come to your office first?”

“Yeah. I’ll stick around, and I’ll clear it with the folks at the jail. Call me when you get in.”

“Will do,” I said, and we signed off.

I did a bit of searching and found that I could take a commuter line train from New Haven that would get me into Grand Central Terminal about the same time that my Amtrak train was scheduled to leave New Haven.

I waved over the server, explained that I had to go, and paid for the food that was almost ready but I would never eat. I was at Union Station fifteen minutes later.

I boarded the southwest-bound Metro North Train at 5:00, found a seat and immediately started looking for places to stay in the city. I tried three different aggregation sites and was coming up empty. It suddenly struck me that the week between Christmas and New Years was not the best time to be trying to get a last-minute hotel in New York. Dammit.

I racked my brains for ideas, and instead came up with a name: Curt Rubin. He had been the Executive Editor of the University of Chicago Law Review the year I was the Executive Articles Editor, and was now clerking for a judge on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit.

Curt was a colleague and a friend, though we had lost touch since graduation. I remember how he had berated me for giving up on the idea of a clerkship after sending out very few applications. Now, he had already clerked for a district court judge for a year, and next September he would be clerking for one of the Justices on the Supreme Court. He was that kind of smart.

While the judge that he was currently clerking for had his chambers in Brattleboro, Vermont, he and his clerks had to go down to Manhattan for one week each month to hear oral arguments. I knew that Curt’s folks (who had the means and the inclination to spoil their brilliant son to death) had set him up with a small apartment that he could stay in during his regular trips to the City. It was worth a call.

He picked up on one. “Savvy!!!” he said, enthusiastically. “To what do I owe the honor?”

I explained my circumstances.

“No problem, Cam. Happy to help. I was down here in New York just for a bit of fun rather than the monthly visitation, but I’m heading back up to Brattleboro Sunday or Monday. You’re welcome to crash on the couch. If you need to stay longer, you can use the place, even if I’m not there.”

I thanked him sincerely; I was getting desperate. And I had a bad feeling that I might need to take him up on his offer of a more extended stay. I had no idea how long it would take to settle Iain’s mess.

I rode for a while in silence and darkness; night comes early to New England in winter. Should I give Eileen a heads up? Or, let it wait until I knew more? She was probably through airport security by now. I decided not to wait.

Eileen answered, the noise of an airport clearly audible behind her. “Did you forget something?” she asked as she picked up.

“Eileen, I hate to do this, but I just got a call from someone I know at the Manhattan PD’s office. My older brother seems to have gotten into a bit of trouble and I may need a couple of days to straighten things out. I might not; I’m not sure. But I wanted to give you as much of a heads-up as possible.”

Eileen told me not to worry; nothing much was going to happen before New Year’s. “If you’re back earlier, great; if you aren’t, we’ll muddle through. Go take care of your brother. And let me know if there’s anything we can do to help.”

After that, I had little to do but wait.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“tu m'entendras!”
– Bizet, Carmen, La fleur que tu m'avais jetée (Aria)

New York City, December 27, later that day

As soon as I arrived in New York, I took a cab to Curt’s place and left it idling while I dropped off my luggage.

He parked it in the living room and sent me on my way. “We’ll talk when you’re back. If I don’t answer, I’m sleeping. Just pound the door.”

“Thanks, man,” I said.

Then I was off to Bondo’s office. I called him while I was on my way and he met me at the curb. We went directly to the Manhattan Detention Complex, also known as the Tombs. Bondo’s credentials and earlier legwork got us into a room where we could meet with Iain. He was led in a couple of minutes later.

Iain looked a lot worse than he had when I saw him in St. Louis at Thanksgiving. His eyes were red and his cheeks were hollow and covered with stubble. He also reeked.

He gave me a cold look. “Marvelous. Just what I didn’t need.”

“Kevin,” I said over my shoulder, “Can you give us the room for a minute?”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Cam. I’m theoretically responsible for you.” He sounded apologetic.

“Got it.”

I sat down. “I assume Kevin’s told you what kind of deal you can make. It’s nothing that will leave you with a record. He mentioned you were possibly a bit stubborn about it.”

Iain glared at me. “I don’t need your help, lawyer-boy.”

I had had enough, and slammed my hand down on the cheap formica table. “Damn it, Iain. We aren’t kids anymore. You’re in some legal trouble. We can help, and we’re here to help. So get down off your goddamned high horse and let us help!”

He looked surprised at my vehemence. I was not acting like the mild-mannered little brother who had tried for years to keep the peace in our parents’ house. His surprise quickly gave way to his more usual look of mulish defiance.

But then, to my astonishment, he just deflated. He sat and put his head in his hands. “Fine, Spam. You win. Save the day. Just tell me where to sign and what I need to do.”

I looked over at Bondo, who appeared to be as surprised as I was at Iain’s sudden capitulation. “What is next, Kevin?” I had never practiced criminal law; it’s a very different world.

“I can talk to the DA first thing Monday, but I had preliminary discussions with him already. His position’s clear. If the roommates don’t press charges, and if he completes a minimum of sixty days in a drug rehab program, the charges will get dropped.”

“Can I speak to them? The roommates?” I asked.

“The DA said I could. They’ll want . . . “

I cut Bondo off before he could continue. “He doesn’t have to stay here until Monday, does he?”

Bondo shrugged. “The magistrate set bail at $5,000. If you can come up with $500, a bail bondsman can cover it, though you lose the money. Do you have a place for him to go?”

I didn’t; I barely had a place for me to go.

But before I said anything, Iain said, “'I'm not taking your money, Spam. I can stay here ‘til Monday. They’ll feed me.”

I looked back at him, still proud, still trying to fight, and sighed. “Iain, I don’t need a bail bondsman. Unless you try to skip out, I’ll get all of it back.”

He was looking stubborn again, but grudgingly said, “Okay.”

“Problem is, I’m not sure where you can go,” I said. “I’m crashing on a friend’s couch, and you have to stay away from your roommates. Former roommates. Whatever.”

“I’ve got friends with couches, too. Don’t worry about it.”

I was relieved. We got Iain out, he made some calls, and I stuck him in an Uber to make sure he got to his friends’ house. I had him share the tracking on his phone with me, and said I would call him as soon as I had more information.

As he drove off, I looked at Bondo. “I assume you were going to say that the roommates would be looking for restitution.”

He nodded. “I kinda see why you stopped me.”

“Do you have a list of approved rehab facilities?” I asked. “I’d like to make those calls tomorrow, if possible. If you can get in touch with the roommates like the DA said, that would be great. I’ll happily talk to them myself if they’re willing. But it might be better if you make the initial call.”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks for calling me,” I said, “And I’m sorry you had to stay so late.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “No trouble. Call me tomorrow.”

It was close to 11:30 when I finally showed up at Curt’s place.

Despite his earlier warning, he was still very much awake when I showed up. He took one look at me and said, “Dude . . . you look like hell. Need a drink?”

It had been a very long day. A very long three days, come to that. But I could make it just a bit longer. “Whatever you have will be a blessing,” I said, and flopped on the couch.

He went to the fridge, grabbed a couple of beers, popped the tops, and handed me one. “So what happened,” he asked quietly as he sat in the chair facing me.

Classic Curt: sitting forward, legs apart, arms resting on his kneecaps, hands together cradling the bottle he hadn’t touched, intense dark brown eyes, a look of concentration on his narrow features. When Curt talked to someone, they always had his complete attention.

So I told him about my day. He sat very still, the same intense look on his scholar’s face, until I reached the end. He said, practically, “Rehab’s gonna cost, Cam. You know that?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “He doesn’t just need treatment. He needs sleep, three squares, and treatment. The last month’s been bad for him, but he wasn’t in any great shape before then, either. I just wasn’t paying close enough attention last time I saw him.”

He chewed on that silently for a moment. “Your parents . . . ?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Disowned him at Thanksgiving. It’s part of why he fell apart. Apparently his roommates needed his share of the rent, and they pushed him when he was strung out. Fortunately, the advantage of ‘selling out,’ as you put it when I stopped trying to get a clerkship, is that I just got a big bonus. Easy come, easy go, I guess.”

He winced. “Ouch.”

I agreed.

It was close to 12:30. He said, “Not much is going to be open here before 10:00 tomorrow. You should sleep in. I’ve got some stuff I need to do in the morning, but I’ll leave my spare key here. Good?”

“I owe you one, man,” I said.

“I’ll collect,” he responded.

Just like old times.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Tout d'un coup on fait silence”
– Bizet, Carmen, Votre toast (Aria)

New York City, December 28

I woke with a start, Fiona’s name tearing through my brain again, my heart pounding. Shit! I am not, not, going to fall apart over this, I snarled at myself. I already had my “good cry.” Wasn’t that supposed to cure everything?

Apparently not.

I lay on the couch for a few minutes, getting myself back under control. Checked my phone. 3:15 am. Wonderful. Had some water. I was reluctant to lie back down, but too tired to do anything else. I couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay there, felt like forever.

But I must have slept. When I woke again, sunlight was coming in through the window over the kitchen sink. I checked my usually reliable internal clock and got nothing. Apparently it was out of whack, too.

The door to Curt’s bedroom was open and he was not in evidence. The room looked neat; the bed had been made with military precision. Not all that surprising since Curt had spent two years in the IDF before going to law school.

He had left a note on the coffee table. “Cam, you still look like hell. I hope you sleep in good and late. I’ve got some stuff to do; I’ll probably be back this evening. Help yourself to whatever.”

My phone said it was 9:12. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had slept in that late, but there were plenty of times when I had felt more rested. I decided that a shower would help immensely, and sure enough it did.

I hadn’t brought a lot of Cam’s clothes with me because I didn’t think I would need them, other than for yesterday and the day before; I should by rights have been home by now. But I was able to recycle the pants and shirt I had worn Thursday during my limo ride, and they would have to do.

I checked my messages and found a text from Bondo. “Spoke with the roommates – Aidan and Tina. Said they don’t want to press charges. But, they say Iain threw Aidan’s phone into their TV. They want restitution.”

I texted back, “How much, and, should I talk to them?”

Five minutes later, he responded. “Based on the police report, the two items were older & not in good condition. Make an offer. I don’t recommend talking to them since this seems to be working. I’ll convey.”

I thought for a moment. Checked some prices online. Thinking about the costs of rehab, I said, “How does $2k sound?”

I got back, “Worth a shot. More than the items were worth, but I’m guessing it’s less than they’re going to want.”

Half an hour later, he called me. “Dude, I just got off the phone with them. They want five grand. I think they’ll take four.”

I gave it a minute of thought. “I hate to say it, but I’d rather not haggle. We may need their good will down the line. I will need full, signed releases from each of them. And ask them to hold Iain’s stuff until we can figure out where he’s going.”

“Sounds good. Let me see what I can do.”

That apparently did the trick. My recently-filled bank account was going to get drained pretty quick, I’d thought sadly.

I knew that Fiona would be happy to help, and Henry could probably pay all of this with pocket change, but I was strangely reluctant to call them. They could use a little peace of their own. I’d need to fill them in eventually, but I wasn’t even sure what everything would come to yet.

I could tell them about the problem once I had a solution to it.

Bondo called back to say the roommates had accepted, and asked if I could draft a release. I used a fairly standard form as the base, adapted it to the particular circumstances, and reviewed it again. It looked good, but I was flying a little blind and I didn’t like that. I decided to send it to Bondo and get his opinion.

He emailed back, “Looks pretty straightforward to me. I’ll get it over to them.”

I sent my thanks.

Meantime, I had started on my list of rehab facilities, narrowing it down to those where the patients checked in, stayed full time, and – critically – got fed. I started making calls. By 4:30, I had a place lined up. sixty days, full room and board. It was going to run about sixteen grand. Oh, well.

I felt a bit better. The day had been stressful, but productive. There wasn’t anything else I could do for Iain today. I shot him a text – he had kept his phone working, thank God – and said that I thought we would have what the DA was looking for by Monday morning.

I received a suspicious reply: “You are not paying for rehab, Spam!”

“Don’t be stupid. Your tax dollars at work. Cheaper than putting you up in prison.” It was a bald-faced lie, but I consoled myself that it was in a good cause.

He didn’t respond, so hopefully that problem was solved.

I sat still for a minute and just closed my eyes, letting thoughts come and go at random, little electrons firing randomly. Visual images.

Fi, in her emerald green dress, incandescent. . . .

Judge Waters, looking at me over the rims of his glasses. . . .

Henry showing me the Robert Gould Shaw monument in front of the statehouse (a relative, naturally, although on his mother’s side). . . .

Cornelius’ fist smashing into his son’s face. . . .

A pair of soft brown eyes, seen through the prism of tears; a voice asking if I was alright. . . .

I paused on the last image, recalled it. Heard the distant sound of Maria Callas singing “Vissi d’arte.”

Nicole.

Her audition for the Met had been at the same time as my argument yesterday. I decided to give her a call to see how things went. I fished out her cell phone number, opened up my “Cami App” on my phone and entered it on the number pad.

Before I hit enter, I paused a minute, took a few deep breaths, and tried to bring myself back to center. I had been dressed as Cam, acting as Cam, since early afternoon on Thursday, so I needed to find my own voice again, both figuratively and literally. I went to the sink, got some water, and drank it slowly.

Out the kitchen window, I watched the last light fade. I made the call.

“Hey, Cami!” Nicole said, answering. She sounded a bit down, though. I thought, probably didn’t go well.

She put a bright face on it. “It was important for me to get up here, to get my face in front of them. To let them hear me sing. If not Aida, it’ll be something else.”

“I love your optimism, Nicole,” I said with real feeling.

“Showbiz, Cami. It might be art but it’s still showbiz. We’re told early and often, if you can’t stand the look of a closed door, find another line of work.”

“I know,” I said, though I didn’t really. Like most lawyers, I don’t like to lose. “But I know you were really hoping for a break.”

We talked a bit more. She asked how my argument had gone, and I gave her a few funny stories. I didn’t want to say that it had gone great, when her audition hadn’t gone so well. I mentioned that I was in New York on my way home, though not the reason for the stop.

Suddenly, she said, “Hey Cami . . .”

I heard some hesitation in her voice and asked, “What is it?”

“Would you like to get together? I mean, since you’re in New York?”

Oops! How can I pull it off, given my present sleeping situation?

But she sounded lonely. I thought the audition had hit her harder than she was letting on. So I said, softly, “I’d love to, Nicole. What did you have in mind?”

She gave me the name of a restaurant, and I told her that I would meet her there at 7:00. We said goodbye and I put down the phone. How was I going to do this?

I turned around and saw Curt starting at me, an unreadable expression on his face. I had been so focused on my conversation that I hadn’t heard him come in. I frantically rewound my half of the conversation in my head, trying to figure out how much I had given away.

“Curt,” I said, less strongly than I had wanted. “How long have you been there?”

He looked at me for a moment. “Long enough.”

I leaned back against the kitchen counter and looked at him. I couldn’t come up with anything to say.

Eventually he said, “Want to tell me what I just heard? Or should I guess?”

I kept trying to read his face, but it was opaque. This was exactly the type of situation Sarah would have told me to avoid at all costs. I was alone; he was standing in the only doorway to the apartment. There was no escape.

And I knew that whatever the substance of my call had been, my voice, my pitch, my tone, had been one hundred percent Cami.

“Okay,” I said. “What you heard was a transwoman talking to a friend. A friend who needs some comforting, and I don’t intend to let her down.”

He just stared at me, still opaque.

I said, very precisely, “Curt, I’m not attempting to deceive you or anyone else. I’ve delayed coming out publicly because my situation at work is complicated. But if you are uncomfortable, I’ll leave. It’s not a problem.”

He just stood there another minute, his usual look of intense concentration on his face. Then he shook his head sharply. “No, that’s okay. You can stay. Like I said, I’ve got to go back to Brattleboro tomorrow, anyway.”

I gave him the same long look he gave me. “Seriously. I can make other arrangements. It’s no problem.”

He cut me off. “No, no need. Really. But . . . you should have told me, Cam. I would have expected you to tell me.”

“I’m sorry about that. I really am. But . . . I had a lot going on, you know?”

He acknowledged that with a bit of a smile – the first human expression I’d seen on his face. “True that. And I apologize for not remembering.” Then he said, “Look, I just popped back in because I forgot something. I’ve got a dinner invitation that I really can’t say, ‘No’ to. I’ll catch you tonight, okay?”

What could I say, other than, “Sure thing, Curt. Again, sorry.”

He waved it off, disappeared into his bedroom, then came back out a minute later, carrying something, and headed out the door.

Well, I thought. THAT could have gone better. I stared at the door he had closed behind him for a minute, thinking of Nicole’s comment.

I suppose if you can’t stand the sight of a closed door, you probably shouldn’t change your gender either.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Vissi d’Arte, Vissi d’Amore”
– Puccini, Tosca, Vissi d’Arte, Vissi d’Amore (Aria)

New York City, December 28, that evening

Curt’s departure did solve the problem of how I was going to change and get in and out. Now that he knew what I was, concealment was irrelevant. I went into my suitcase, found what I needed, and got to work.

An hour and a half later, nails once again manicured, face made up for an evening in New York — the most sophisticated city in America! — prosthetics in place, hair properly down and flowing over my right shoulder, I stepped out wearing my LBD, black stockings and heels, and my long winter coat.

The winter chill swirled around my legs, bringing up goosebumps. Other attire would have protected me better from the weather, but fashion has its price. Nicole was The Most Beautiful Woman I had Ever Personally Met, and I was not going to look frumpy!

I took an Uber to the restaurant that Nicole had suggested – an Indian Restaurant on a street that seemed to have nothing but Indian restaurants. I thought, “Only in New York!”

Before I made a move toward the restaurant, Nicole arrived in another Uber. She stepped elegantly out of the car, pausing to thank the driver, then grinned as she saw we had both selected an LBD for the evening. She also wore a gorgeous fur-lined coat, dramatic hood thrown back to allow her light brown curls to cascade to her waist.

Her grin alone made much of the last two days’ stress, and the hurt of Curt’s reaction, melt into the background. I laughed out loud and stormed over to give her a big hug. “It’s SO good to see you, Nicole!”

She hugged me back hard, then held me at arm’s-length and said, “Whoa, girlfriend! What’s that all about? I thought you had a good day yesterday!”

I laughed again. “It’s complicated. But let’s talk inside. The goosebumps on my legs are getting their own goosebumps!”

She shared my laugh, and we headed into the restaurant. We ordered, and we talked, and we talked some more. It seemed like she was as eager for company as I was.

She finally dropped her feigned cheerfulness about her audition. “I thought I’d done well. I mean, really well. But I didn’t get much more than a ‘thanks for coming in to try out.’ I was hoping for a bit more feedback, at least.”

“You know, I would really love to hear you sing.”

That brought her smile back and she said, “Well, you can, absolutely. The Met’s the Met, but I do have other gigs lined up this season. You’ll have to come. And I can teach you all about opera!” She was enthused at the prospect.

We were starting to slow the pace of our eating when she said, “Okay, so what’s brought you to New York, and why did you look so strained when I first showed up?”

I told her about Iain’s situation, which left her shaking her head. “That’s some seriously bad news. But it sounds like you’ve got it under control right? Even at the cost of most of your cash?”

“I hope so. We won’t be able to see the DA until Monday morning, but Bondo’s pretty confident we’ll get this resolved.”

She looked at me long enough to make me a bit uncomfortable. Then she said, softly, “I had the strong sense you were dealing with other heartaches as well. Something more personal?”

I thought about Jonathan. And Fiona. And about Curt. I felt tears pricking at my eyelids and blinked them back. “Yes. I mean, Christmas was great. Well, mostly great. But it’s been a bad couple of days.”

She reached over and gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

My eyes were starting to swim. “No. And yes. And probably everything in between. I’m sorry. You seem to catch me crying a lot. I don’t do it much. Honest!”

She looked at me even more intently and said, “No, I don’t expect that you do. Maybe you should. But would it make it easier for you, if I said that I know you’re trans?”

Does everyone know? I asked myself. But no. Cornelius and Jonathan had figured it out because they investigated me. Nicole didn’t even know my last name. “How did you know?”

She toyed with her food. “I’m a professional singer, Cami. When you took that phone call on the train, your voice dropped below the range I would expect to hear from a woman, even an alto. Your normal speaking voice centers around a middle F – low for a woman, high for a man. But your phone voice was considerably lower. That made me look more closely, and when I did, I saw enough to make me pretty sure.”

She saw that I was distressed. “You don’t think it matters to me, do you? Because it doesn’t. At all. I spent hours talking to you on the train. The only thing I care about is that you’re my girlfriend. I couldn't care less what kind of a girl you are.”

I tried to stop from tearing up, and just barely succeeded. “Nicole,” I said with quiet passion, “you can’t begin to know how much that means to me. Especially after the last few days. Thank you.”

“Well then, with that irrelevant issue out of the way, suppose you tell me why these last two days were so awful?” She kept her tone light and a bit playful, clearly recognizing that I was struggling to hold it together, but her soft brown eyes were filled with concern.

So I told her about the attack in the library (carefully avoiding naming names), including how I had dealt with the attacker’s extortionate demand (“You did WHAT!!”), the bargain I had negotiated with Cornelius. And why. We were having after dinner coffee at that point. She was slowly stirring milk into her cup, thinking.

Then she flashed a smile. “Floria Tosca’s solution was more satisfying, I think – the wicked baron skewered on the end of her knife. But everyone ends up dead in Tosca, very much including Tosca. It’s great opera, but I’d rather live in your world.”

After a moment more of thought, she said, "I think you did the right thing, for whatever it’s worth. Even though I’m not sure I could have. Your sister’s happiness is way more important than some jackal getting his just deserts. You’ve only got one sister, and the world is full of jackals. No way we nail all of them.”

While we were waiting for the waiter to return with the credit cards, I even told her about Curt, who had been a good friend and was one of the smartest people I knew.

She had been shocked by the Christmas story, but this one seemed to hit closer to home. “Oh, Cami, why are people like that! No wonder you didn’t want me to know!”

But this time I smiled at her, a wholehearted, warm, and genuine smile. “You showed me how wrong I was. I've only even met you twice, and I feel like you are closer to me than almost anyone!”

We signed for our respective halves of the check.

“It’s not right, Nicole. I came out because I thought you needed your spirits lifted, and you spent the entire dinner cheering me up instead!”

“But you did ‘cheer me up! There I was moping because I didn’t get a part in a performance. Your story reminded me just how very lucky I am.”

Then she got a wild and wicked gleam in her eyes. “However . . . . Let’s find a way to cheer us both up!

She jumped out of her seat, hauled me up, and pulled me to the door. “Come on, girlfriend!” She laughed as she pulled me into the winter chill. “Let me show you my city!!!”

I shook my head at her antics, laughing. “Now, Nicole? It’s 10:00!”

Her beautiful brown eyes turned wide with glee. “Cami, darlin’, we’re not in Kansas tonight! Not even College Park! New York doesn’t even get started before 10:00!”

What followed was the wildest, most amazing night I’d ever spent. We cabbed over to midtown and walked the streets, still full of people. Amid the sweet smell of roasting chestnuts, we watched street performers and laughed at their antics. Wandering through Lincoln Center, we lifted the backsides of our coats and black dresses to give an ironic salute to the concrete arches of the Met.

We hopped into nightclubs for free, since the bouncer who would charge Nicole a cover has yet to be born. Dancing wildly, laughing at the men, the boys, who tried to slow us down.

As we charged off to the next place, an entourage of young people began to follow in Nicole’s madcap wake. We toasted the old year and the new year, old friends and new friends. Posed with the Library Lions and walked under the spires of St. Patrick’s.

The whole group formed a wild, whipping line of dancing, happy revelers, wassailing our way down the street and careening into Rockefeller Center where we finally paused, winded but also stilled, hushed by the quiet beauty of the Christmas decorations and the mighty and majestic Christmas Tree, its lights rendered diffuse by rising wisps of ethereal fog.

As we caught our breath, Nicole stood staring at the tree, looking vibrant and happy, but by degrees more solemn. She turned and caught my eye, unwound the wool scarf from around her neck, took a slow, powerful breath, and began to sing.

“Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore,
non feci mai male ad anima viva!
Con man furtiva
quante miserie conobbi aiutai.
Sempre con fè sincera
la mia preghiera
ai santi tabernacoli salì.
Sempre con fè sincera
diedi fiori agl’altar.
Nell’ora del dolore
perchè, perchè, Signore,
perchè me ne rimuneri così?
Diedi gioielli della Madonna al manto,
e diedi il canto agli astri, al ciel,
che ne ridean più belli.
Nell’ora del dolor
perchè, perchè, Signor,
ah, perchè me ne rimuneri così?”

I had only heard a muted version on the train, the spillover from her earbuds. The full power of Tosca’s lament was heart-stopping, and Nicole’s soaring soprano at once silenced every reveler. Their eyes grew wide, astounded.

It was poignant, stunning in its emotional force, even though no one listening likely understood the language. Her face, her voice and the music communicated more than words. Several of the young women were in tears.

The shepherds must have looked like that, as they stood, silent and astonished, when the heavenly host appeared before them singing a song of glory.

She finished, but everyone remained transfixed, still as statues in the winter's darkness. The moment was too magical for anything as crass as applause.

She looked at me again, her eyes full of warmth, of compassion.

I looked back at her and, alone among the crowd she had drawn to her, had the temerity to answer. Even knowing that my voice had to be carefully kept in a higher register, and knowing that I could never match the gift she had just given us. Friendship and love, admiration and gratitude would have to supply what my vocal cords lacked.

I sang.

“My life flows on in endless song,
Above earth’s lamentations,
I hear that clear, though far off hymn,
That hails a new creation."

Nicole stepped over, took my hands and joined my voice for the chorus, effortlessly soaring into a descant high above my melody line:

“No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I’m clinging;
Since love is lord of heaven and earth,
How can I keep from singing?”

Our eyes were shining, our hearts were full. We were young, and drunk on music and dancing and the beauty of the night.

She smiled. “Feel better, girlfriend?”

“Oh yes! A million times better. You?”

She grinned. “Oh yeah!” Then she raised her head and shouted to the heavens, “This! Is! My! City!!!”

I didn’t get back to the apartment until close to 3:00 a.m. Curt, the weasel, had left a note saying he’d gone back to Brattleboro early “So that you can be more comfortable,” but I was welcome to use the place in his absence.

It didn’t even bother me. Cam’s friends might drop away if I could no longer be Cam. Fair enough.

Cami would find her own tribe.

To be continued . . . .