~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SIX
"Ja genauer sich die leute anzusehen!”
– Strauss, Die Fledermaus, Mein Herr Marquis (Aria)

College Park, Maryland and Washington, D.C., December 9

The alarm went off, as usual, at 5:00, and it was off to the races.

Big glass of water.

Change out of my nightie and into one of my new sports bras and yoga pants. Stretching exercises. Fifteen minutes of aerobic cheerleading routines. More stretches.

Reluctantly peel off my silicone breast forms and use nail polish remover on my fingernails. Hit the shower by 5:45. Blow dry my hair, tie it low and tight into a male ponytail, then club the end to disguise any errant curls.

Make myself suitably drab and ugly with a white T-shirt, a white dress shirt, suit, tie and heavy dress shoes.

Grind some coffee beans, throw them in a drip cone and add water, hot but just below the boil (yeah, I’m a coffee geek). Dish out some yogurt and add fruit. Sit down, have a quick breakfast, then out the door by 6:30. That’s my morning, most days.

I opened the gate to the alley behind my garage apartment, took it to a side street, and walked to the College Park Metro station. I had decided to use this slightly longer route whenever I am disguised as Cameron Savin, aspiring young lawyer at Cavendish, Edwards and Gunn.

When I am dressed as I prefer, simply as Cami, I would walk out to the street in front of my landlords’ beauty salon and take a more direct route to the Metro.

It’s a mixed-use neighborhood and I’m typically out of the house too early and back too late on workdays to see a lot of people. But I decided I should take what precautions I can to avoid having strangers know that a transwoman lives in my garage apartment.

Once on the train, I grabbed a seat and did what everyone does: pulled out my phone. In my case, I checked emails, then checked headlines from the Washington Post. The news continued to focus on the impeachment hearings in the House of Representatives – a subject I was very interested in. Almost made me miss getting off at Gallery Place, my usual stop. I was in the office by 7:20.

Pretty normal start to the day.

My email check indicated that Eileen had sent me additional comments on the third section of the brief that I had sent yesterday evening. The time stamp on her email had been 11:40 p.m.

I plugged in my laptop and dove right in. By 8:30 I was able to incorporate all of her changes and send the section back to her.

I went to grab a coffee and bumped into Daviana Narvaez, a sixth-year associate who was also on the trial team.

“Good morning, Cam,” she said brightly, “how was your weekend?”

Monday morning, she was clearly getting her first cup of coffee, and Daviana was upbeat, cheerful and full of energy. I don’t know how she does it, but I can’t actually imagine Daviana grumpy or bad tempered. One of the many reasons I enjoy working with her.

I returned her infectious smile. “Never better! I love brief writing!”

She laughed. She had been working on four other sections of the brief over the weekend.

I said, “I got the mark-up on my last section back from Eileen at almost midnight. So I’m guessing the work doesn’t get easier the more senior we get!” Eileen was the firm’s senior trial lawyer.

Daviana touched my arm briefly in sympathy. “It doesn’t, for the really good ones, and Eileen’s the best. It’s a lot easier to work for someone like that.”

I agreed fervently. “Meeting at 9:30?”

“Yep. Eighth floor conference room.”

“See ya then,” I said, and went back to my office.

At 9:30 sharp we were all in the conference room. Eileen was punctual, so we were punctual too.

She didn’t tend to sit at the head of the table; instead, she was usually somewhere on the long side facing the door. Petite and sparrow-thin, she favored well-tailored suits in classic styles and subdued jewelry. Even relaxed, her posture was straight and she had a very direct gaze.

David Parr sat across from Eileen. He specialized in commercial litigation and had been running the case for the past four years. He was the go-to guy on the applicable law and the history of the case. David was about six feet tall, a bit heavy set, with sandy hair, a well-trimmed beard and a perpetually serious expression.

Daviana was sitting on David’s right, and Greg Gilles, the paralegal, had a chair toward the end of the table to the right of Daviana. I went around and sat to Eileen’s left, because I knew she didn’t like us all sitting in front of her like school children in front of the teacher.

Eileen finished what she was saying to David, then said to the whole group, “Carrie will be in in just a minute; I’ve asked her to make copies of an outline for us to discuss.”

Carrie was the secretary for Eileen and several other senior lawyers. She came in a couple seconds later, distributed copies of the outline, then sat at the foot of the table between me and Greg.

Eileen got the meeting underway. “Thank you all for your hard work over the weekend.”

Her thanks didn’t actually apply to Greg and Carrie; the firm didn’t have paralegals and secretaries work after hours without paying them overtime, and there had been no need for that over the past weekend. But Eileen liked to be inclusive.

She continued, “I think we’re in pretty good shape in terms of having the substance covered. But we need to do a better job connecting the pieces into an understandable theme that the judge will be able to follow easily. So, we need an intro that ties things together, we need to put all of the different sections in a logical order, and we need to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

We had a discussion about the themes we wanted to stress and the rationale behind the ordering of arguments. Eileen led the discussion, but worked hard to make sure everyone was heard and we were all on the same page.

My assigned task was to take the nine sections that had been drafted and create a single document, ensuring that the sections flowed together and putting everything in the correct format.

David was working on the introduction, which he would plug into the unified document once I had that part finished.

The meeting broke up and I got to work. While my task sounded simple, I discovered that it wasn’t. As I put the sections together in the order we had determined at the meeting, I found that there were several areas where evidence and arguments became repetitive. Terminology was used in earlier sections but wasn’t explained until later sections. Short case citations were used where the full cite was required, and vice versa.

It was almost 3:00 before I was finished with the stylistic changes. But something still seemed wrong with an argument that was central to one of David’s sections and was also in one of Daviana’s. Both arguments relied on City of Corinth v. Cassidy, a case I had read when researching my sections, and I remembered the case differently.

I went back and read the case again, start to finish. I wasn’t seeing what they were seeing. The appellate decision in the Corinth case hinted at the argument that they were making, but the holding – the court’s actual rationale for reaching the outcome it had – was more limited than our arguments suggested.

I went down the hall. “Hey Daviana – got a sec?”

“Sure,” she said. “What’s up?”

“You and David both cited the Second Circuit’s decision in Corinth to support our argument that several of the defendant’s documents were inadmissible, but I just don’t think the court went that far. I was wondering whether you could take a look and tell me if you think I’m crazy.”

She cocked her head, looking a bit quizzical. “Sure, I’ll take a look. I’ve got to finish this email, but I’ll read it again as soon as I’m done.”

I thanked her and walked back to my office.

David was walking out just as I came to the door. “Hey Cam — I was just wondering where you are on the unified draft. I’m done with the intro and I’d like to get the whole thing to Eileen for her review.”

“I’m basically done, but I had an issue that I wanted to ask you and Daviana about. I just talked to her – it’s about the Corinth case. I don’t think the holding is as strong for us as we suggest in sections two and seven.”

David’s face showed mild impatience. “I repurposed that section from a brief we filed in the Baxter case last year; I’m sure it’s fine. Anyhow, we can deal with any issues on that later. If the draft is otherwise done, just shoot it over to me.”

What could I say, other than, “Will do”?

I sent the draft brief off to him, but it bothered me so I continued to research the issue. By six o’clock I was absolutely famished, having forgotten to eat lunch, but I was more certain than before that I was right.

Daviana popped her head in my doorway. “Hey, Cam – sorry, the afternoon got away from me. I just had a chance to re-read Corinth. Is this a good time to talk?”

“I don’t suppose you'd be willing to eat and talk? I forgot lunch and I’m just about ready to eat my phone.”

“You got it,” she said. “Elephant and Castle work for you?”

“Right now, the roadkill cafe would work for me. Thanks!”

We walked over to the restaurant, flagged down a server and ordered right away. Daviana ordered a glass of wine with her dinner; I stuck to iced tea since I wasn’t finished working.

With the preliminaries out of the way, she said, “I think you’re right. I was working off of a brief we filed in Baxter, but I can see why you think we might be overstating what the Corinth court decided. It isn’t all that important to the argument in my section, but it’s the key to David’s. If Corinth doesn’t get us there, I don’t know how we make the argument. Any thoughts?”

I told her about my additional research and explained the more complicated argument that I wanted to suggest as an alternative. The food arrived just as I was finishing my summary.

She clinked glasses with me. “So, the majority of district courts that have analyzed Corinth haven’t read it the way we are, but you think the minority view is better reasoned?”

“Right.”

“I want to know why you think that, but only after you’ve had a few bites of your sandwich. You look like you are about to fall over!”

I chuckled, but complied. Then I explained my reasoning between bites.

She continued to chew over what I was saying and ask questions while we ate. By the time we were finished, she appeared to be satisfied with my argument, so I asked what I should do next.

“Well, I hate to say it, but I think you should write up the alternative argument that you want to substitute for the Corinth discussion in each of the two sections and send it to David to look at. I’m happy to look at it first if you want me too, but I don’t think I need to. Your argument’s solid and better than what we have. It’s longer, though. Do we have room?”

“I don’t know how long David’s introduction was, but the body of the brief was only eighteen pages and we have twenty-five. It shouldn’t be a problem, especially if I can cross-reference the long version of the argument the second time.”

Then I asked her what I was really worried about. “Will David be okay with it, do you think? He seemed a bit impatient when I raised it this afternoon.”

She gave me a thoughtful look. “We can’t afford to get caught out making arguments that the other side can take apart at the motions hearing. David’s smart and he knows that.”

There was a certain hesitancy in her voice, which caused me to say, “But . . . ?“

She smiled. “. . . but junior lawyers need to be diplomatic when correcting partners. David can be a bit prickly, but like I said, he’s smart. And if you give him a good alternative, he won’t fight you about it even if his feathers do get ruffled. Which they probably won’t.”

“Thanks, Daviana. That’s what I was hoping.”

We talked a bit more about the firm generally, then paid the bill and left. I went back to the office and Daviana went home. Her husband’s job had odd hours and she often picked up dinner on her own.

I went back to my desk, sat down, and drafted the alternative arguments for the two sections as Daviana had suggested. The first section was now a full two pages longer and the second was most of a page more. We might have to do some trimming elsewhere, but that almost always happened with briefs.

I sent it off to David and copied Daviana, with a note phrased as diplomatically as I could make it: “David – I gave some more thought to the issue I flagged earlier and did some follow-up research. The Second Circuit hasn’t revisited the issue since Corinth, but there have been eight District Court opinions on it – one from Vermont, two from Connecticut (but not by our judge), and five from New York. Five of the eight read Corinth differently than we do in our brief.

“One of the Connecticut decisions and two of the New York cases go our way. Although they are the minority, I think the judge may find their reasoning to be more persuasive. I’ve drafted alternative sections of the brief that lay out the argument, just to see how it reads. If you think it makes sense, maybe we can change those two sections. Best regards, Cam.”

By the time I was done it was too late to catch the Metro. I called an Uber, got dropped off a block or so from home, and stumbled in around 1:00 am.

During the drive, I closed my eyes and attempted to analyze how the men and women in the office communicated, both verbally and non-verbally.

Daviana always seemed warm and approachable. So, I asked myself, what specific characteristics gave that impression? She smiled a lot. She kept eye contact while talking. She very visibly “listened” when other people were speaking, and asked follow-up questions that showed she was processing what they said.

Daviana was animated when speaking; her hands moved and her expression was mobile. The pitch and tone of her voice used a broad range, though her volume was usually even. She could express empathy with a quick touch on the arm, as she had that morning.

David, in contrast, projected reserve and competence. He appeared to occupy more space, he typically displayed very little emotion and he spoke with a generally even tone. Even his expression of impatience had been very mild. The slightest raising of an eyebrow, a small hand movement, an increase in the tempo of his speech. He tended to listen carefully, then respond in a declarative manner.

Eileen was brisk. Not as approachable as Daviana, but her face was more mobile than David’s and did not project David’s reserve. Like Daviana, she was more inclined to ask follow-up questions and invite further discussion rather than stating her own views in a declarative way.

But, there was never any doubt that Eileen was in charge. She managed that by conveying an easy confidence. Nothing in her voice – not pitch, or tone, or cadence – projected any uncertainty or trepidation. Yet her vocal range, like Daviana’s, was more animated, less of a monotone, than David’s.

Eileen’s style of communicating was very different than Daviana’s, but both were, in innumerable ways, more like each other than they were like David. And, some of those differences seemed to be gender-related in ways that were difficult to pin down.

As Cami, I would need to develop my own distinctive style – everyone does. But, if I wanted my style to more convincingly appear feminine – which I did – I would need to incorporate my observations of how women interacted with men and with other women.

And if that were not enough, I would need to practice that outside of the work environment until I was ready to let my secret be known.

Not easy!

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Zur mitternächt’gen Stund’”
– Lehár, Giuditta, Meine Lippen (Aria)

College Park, Maryland and Washington, D.C., December 10-13

The rest of the week passed in a blur.

I was pleasantly surprised by David’s reaction to my efforts. He passed the changes directly on to Eileen, copying me and Daviana, with a note that said, “Cam caught me with my pants down on Corinth. Looks like we’ve been a bit aggressive in our interpretation – both here and in Baxter. I still think we’re right, but the argument is more complicated. Fortunately, after finding the problem, Cam proposed a solution that I think works well. See what you think.”

Eileen did a “reply all” about an hour later that said, “Agreed. Nice work, Cam.”

We continued to work on elements of the brief throughout the week and finalized it at about 4:00 on Friday afternoon. Both our reply brief in support of our motions, and defendants’ reply brief in support of their motions, had to be filed electronically by midnight.

To prevent the other side from getting a sneak peek at our arguments before they filed their brief, Greg agreed he would file our submission from home at around 11:00 p.m.

Our efficiency meant that I could join Javier for dinner and a movie. He had asked if I would go with him to see “Knives Out,” a new whodunnit with a great cast, because Al, according to Javi, “is a party-pooper who hates movies and likes to be in bed by 10:00.”

I was delighted for the chance to go out anywhere looking pretty, or as close to pretty as I could manage. So I rushed home, dumped the male clothes, and spent some time getting ready. I showered, washed my hair, shaved, then slipped on my green dressing gown and did my nails.

Normally I would listen to some classical music to relax while my nails and hair dried and set, but I hadn’t had as much time as I had liked to follow the news in the past week, so instead I flipped on CNN.

The headliner, of course, was the party-line vote by the House Judiciary Committee to impeach President Trump for abuse of power and obstruction of Congress, though Boris Johnson’s convincing win in the UK snap election got a lot of airtime as well.

I listened with some impatience. I don’t like watching news; it’s emotive and inefficient. I can get more and better information faster by reading. But it was easy to do while my nails and hair were doing their thing.

When my nails were dry, I took the curlers out of my hair, blow-dried and brushed it out and arranged it in the loose, over-the-shoulder braid that I found attractive and feminine but also practical for everyday wear.

I selected a black bra-and-panty set, put them on, and sat down to do my face. Cleanser, moisturizer, foundation, eyeshadow, mascara, blush, lip gloss . . . . Not too much; we were only going to the movies. But more than I would use for daytime.

For purposes of just fitting in, I probably should have worn my stretchy jeans, but I had been in pants all week. Instead, I put on my black tights, zipped up my new, full, dark red skirt and crisp white collared shirt with three-quarter sleeves rolled up to half with a strap. My black bra was visible through the shirt, but fairly muted.

I added my knee-high leather boots with the two-inch heels and accessorized with drop earrings and a matching pendant that nestled in the v of my shirt.

Before I called Javi, I opened my computer and sent a quick email to Fiona concerning the list of health care professionals Sarah had recommended as people who might be able to help me in my goal of becoming more outwardly feminine. Fi is a doctor and would no doubt be offended if I didn’t even ask her opinion. Besides, I trusted her to give good advice.

Then we were off. We stopped at a local fast-food eatery with a vaguely Caribbean vibe and got a bite before catching the movie at 8:00.

As I perched on a high-top table, doing my usual people watching, I wondered what people would see when they looked at me and Javier. He is in his early forties and I’m twenty-seven. We both look a bit young for our age, though that’s even more true of me when I’m dressed as a woman.

Would they think I was his daughter? Unlikely. We both have very dark hair, but that’s about where the resemblance ends. I’m 5’10” and slender, Javi is short and stocky; my eyes are very blue, Javi’s deep brown; my skin is so white it’s practically blue; Javi’s is nut-brown.

But I also doubted we would be mistaken for lovers with a wide age range. While our conversation was spirited, we did not interact like a couple.

Well, let them wonder. No way in hell would they identify us as an older gay guy and a younger transwoman who just happened to be friends!

I was actively working on my feminine communication skills, putting to use some of my observations from the week just past. I consciously took up less space, keeping my legs together and my elbows tucked into my sides. Allowing my facial expression more mobility was actually harder, given my lifetime of keeping a poker face.

When Javi was speaking, I made a point of visibly listening, keeping eye contact and nodding at appropriate intervals. I tried to ease back on my tendency to speak in declarative sentences.

I needed a lot of practice.

For all that I felt my efforts came up short, Javi nonetheless noticed them. As we got in his car he said, “Good work, Cami. I saw how you were trying to act more like a young woman. I think you have some talent at mimicry. Don’t worry; you’ll get better.”

I thanked him and resolved that somehow I would get the practice I needed.

I’m not a big mystery fan, but I enjoyed the movie a lot – it felt so good to get out. And, I enjoyed watching Javier’s exuberant appreciation of everything from the actors to the plot to the theater itself. He was chatting about it in an animated fashion as we got in the car and drove home.

When we were almost back, though, my cell phone rang. It was Greg Gilles. I apologized to Javi and took the call. “Hey Greg, what’s up?” I asked.

“Hey, Cam,” he responded, sounding flustered. “I’m trying to file the brief and I can’t get into the system. Our remote gateway must be offline.”

I checked my watch. It was almost 11:00, and we had to be filed by midnight. “Do you have the final version on your laptop?”

“No,” he responded. Nor had the final version been sent as an email attachment. It could be recreated from near-final drafts, but there was no time.

He lives in Fredericksburg. No way could he get into the office in time.

My usual reaction to an emergency is to become preterhumanly calm. Keeping my voice even and easy to defuse Greg’s rising panic, I said, “No problem. I’ll get it filed; I’m a lot closer than you are. I’ve got the necessary login credentials at the office.”

“Thanks, Cam,” he said, sounding extremely relieved. “You’re a lifesaver!”

We ended the call just as Javier pulled into the driveway. He looked at me.

“Can I borrow the car for an hour or so?” I asked.

“Of course. But you won’t have any time to change!”

“I know. Don’t worry. No one will be there.”

He handed me the keys and I went into my apartment just long enough to grab my laptop. Then I raced back to the office, completely focused on meeting the needs of the moment.

By 11:30 I was in the parking garage. I took the elevator up to my floor and got out, triggering the motion detectors which turned on the lights. Good – that suggested that no one was there.

I walked to my office quickly, hearing the distinctively feminine click of the heels of my boots on the hardwood floor, feeling the swish of my skirt against my tights as I strode down the hall.

Once I reached my office, I plugged in and fired up my computer. The seconds ticked by.

I logged in, then went straight to the shared document files and located the final version of the brief in pdf form (it was the only version that had been converted into a pdf, so I knew it was the right one). Then I went to the website for the U.S. District Court for Connecticut and logged in to the document filing system using my personal credentials.

It was now 11:45.

It seemed to take forever, but I finally got the series of screens that allowed me to identify the case by number, the party filing the document and the motions to which it related. I uploaded the pdf and authorized the filing.

At 11:52, I received the automatic confirmation from the court that the filing was complete.

I looked up, half expecting to see Eileen standing in the doorway, waiting for me to finish. But no one was there, nor did I hear any sounds on the floor. I shot Greg a text saying all was well.

The mission accomplished, reaction set in. I started to shake and my heart pounded, so I took a minute just to calm down as I shut down my computer.

But it also felt so right to be sitting in this chair, in this office, dressed in a skirt, modest cleavage visible as the first three buttons of my shirt were undone, my long hair spilling over my shoulder in a loose, thick braid. To be typing with beautiful, manicured nails.

Some day, I vowed. Some day!

I got up, stretched, picked up my computer and my purse, turned off my light, and walked slowly down the hall, click-click-click once again echoing in the silent space. I got to the elevators and pushed the down button. An elevator began descending in response.

Then a second elevator became active, this one ascending. Someone was coming!

Or else, I told myself sternly, they weren’t. The building was twelve stories and the odds were against the second elevator coming to my floor.

The descending elevator arrived and I stepped quickly into it. Just as the doors were closing, I heard the “ping” that announced the arrival of the second elevator. But it was too late: the doors of my elevator finished closing and I was on my way to the parking garage.

Empty as the garage was, I was parked right by the door. I hopped in, pushed the button, and drove off.

I was overcome by relief. So overcome that I inadvertently ran a red light at an empty intersection. Empty, that is, except for the police car. I prayed that he would have better things to do. Surely there are real crimes occurring in the District at 12:15 in the morning?

I kept driving. But then the lights on top of his car started flashing, he turned and began driving in my wake.

This is going to be ugly. I only had one driver’s license, and both the photo and the text said I was male. A thousand bad outcomes flashed through my mind. But there was no choice. None. I was driving Al and Javi’s car. They trusted me. On top of which, I’m an attorney. An officer of the Court.

I pulled over.

The cruiser just drove around me and kept going, the lights continuing to flash as it accelerated down the deserted street. My hands shaking, I put the car back in gear and slowly, carefully, finished driving home.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER EIGHT
“il mio mistero è chiuso in me”
– Puccini, Turandot, Nessun Dorma (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, December 14

I’m normally an early riser, but I slept until 8:30 Saturday morning. I had a bizarre dream where I was standing up in court to make an argument and I looked down to discover I was only wearing my blue nightie.

The judge was saying, “Your breasts are very impressive, Mr. Savin, but I can’t follow your argument, at all.” I looked for my notes on the podium, but the only thing there was a packet of condoms which I thought must have been left by the last attorney to argue.

It felt good to wake up. It also felt good to be able to lay in bed for a few minutes instead of jumping up to get going. I needed to read the brief the Defendants had filed at 11:15 last night, but it could wait until tomorrow. So I luxuriated in the feel of – naturally – my dark blue nightie caressing my skin as I stretched like a cat, buried deep under the covers.

I finally hauled my ass out of bed, slipped on my dressing gown and put on a pair of fuzzy slippers. A cold and steady rain made for a gloomy view when I lifted the curtains. Too bad; I’d really like to have gone for a run, but running in cold rain is no fun at all, as well as being a good way to get sick.

I procrastinated a bit longer. Had a cup of tea. Ran my fingers through my long hair. I’d been so pressed for time lately that I wasn’t sure what to do with a little extra when I had it. I needed a break from my daily exercise routine.

Finally I said, “Gaaaaah!” in disgust, got up, and changed into stretchy jeans and a simple merino v-necked sweater with a camisole underneath. I put on running shoes, brushed my hair, quickly did my loose side braid and put on some light morning makeup.

Grabbing my winter coat, my purse and an umbrella, I left the apartment and went for a walk. There was a coffee shop a few blocks from the apartment – a Starbucks, unfortunately, but these are the suburbs. It wasn’t on the route that I took to get to the Metro when I was dressed for work. So I walked there, mostly staying dry, then went to get in line.

A couple minutes later, the door behind me popped open and a guy came in, half soaked from the rain but smiling hugely. It was apparent he was just finishing a run.

Without thinking, I smiled at him. “Tough day for a run – I couldn’t bring myself to do it this morning!”

He smiled back, clearly still coming down from a runner’s high. “Yeah, well – keeps me from sweating too much. You like running?”

“I like it better than most other forms of exercise, that’s for sure.”

Somehow, we kept the conversation going, an easy lobbing of the ball back and forth, with no one trying to score points. I paused to ask the barista for a venti latte, double shot, skim milk, and gave her my name for the cup.

“Cami?” said the runner. “That’s a nice name.”

I drawled back, “Whah . . . thank you, kahnd sir . . . does that lahn woohrk often?”

He just grinned. “Every time,” he said. “With all the practice, even ‘Gertrude’ believed me!”

He ordered a straight up black coffee (“Devin”), which I probably would have done myself if I weren’t trying to blend in. Although I had ordered first, his drink was simpler and came right up. “Join me?” he invited.

“Sure. Grab a seat while you can and I’ll be there in a minute.”

While I waited for my coffee, I wondered what I was doing. But I decided I just wanted a little human company – preferably someone who just saw me as a girl, not as a trans girl, let alone a guy. I wanted to be the person I felt I was. Besides, I told myself, I need the practice. I won’t get it sitting at home.

So we chatted for a bit. Just chatted. We talked about running.

Well, mostly he talked.

I actively listened, kept eye contact, kept my expression mobile and interested, and asked follow-up questions. I asked what he did when he wasn’t running.

He said he was just another Congressional staffer.

“You must have had a busy few weeks then,” I opined.

“Meh, just another day.”

We talked a bit about sports. He was a hockey fan; I professed no knowledge of the game.

I mentioned baseball.

He grimaced. “No, no. Only real sports!”

I laughed.

I finished my coffee. “Thanks, Devin, I guess I needed a bit of company this morning. Enjoy the rest of your day!”

He stood and smiled. “Anytime, Cami. See you around!”

We each went our own way. Ever cautious, I took a roundabout way home and made sure I wasn’t followed. Sarah would be proud of me.

It had been a pleasant chat, and had managed it without giving off any clues. I’m a high tenor, but even so my natural voice is a bit low for a woman. I spoke softly and lightly to mask it as much as possible, and I had worked to make sure he did most of the talking.

My need to focus on verbal and non-verbal communication mechanics did detract a bit from the purely human interaction, but it still had felt good.

And, I’ll admit, it was pleasant to have a nice-looking guy ask me to join him, even if it was only for a coffee. It made me feel appreciated. Feminine. There wasn’t anything sexual about our encounter as such; it was just an enjoyable social interaction. But I had no doubt that it would never have happened if we were just two guys in a Starbucks’ line.

I got back to the apartment in a much better mood, made myself a bit of breakfast – an egg, a bit of ham, a slice of toast – and read the Post. When I was finished, I put on some Carrie Underwood and got down to my first project for the day.

I had tried to come up with something to give Liz to thank her for the work she had done preparing those stunning, professional photos of me. At some point in the week I had an inspiration which I knew would take me a few hours: I wanted to build her a website for her photography – one that she could activate and add to if she decided she wanted to do more with it.

When she had taken me to her salon, she’d told the girls that she was considering doing photography as kind of a cross between a hobby and a side gig to her day job. This was a cover story on her part, but I guessed there was a hidden germ of a wish in what she had said.

First I went to GoDaddy to see what URLs might be available. URLs are easy and relatively cheap to reserve for a period of time – certainly long enough for Liz to decide whether it was something she wanted to pursue.

Variations on photography and Liz, and variations on photography and Talbot, all seemed to be taken. Unfortunately, both her first and last names were fairly common. I was able to get something that included Liz, Talbot, AND photography, and made the reservation.

Then I prepared a beta version of a website for her to look at. It was something I’d done both in college and law school to earn a bit of money, based on courses I had taken as far back as high school. I didn’t have the talent to make a living at it, but it paid better than bussing tables in the cafeteria or doing research for professors.

I created a logo and added one of my favorite shots of her from back in the spring. Writing an “About Liz” page was fun, since I filled it with over-the-top hyperbole (but made it possible for her to edit it!). After creating links to subpages for “Weddings,” “Portraits'' and “Special Occasions,” and setting the pages up so that she could add portfolio pictures to them, I put a couple of the (G-rated!) photos that she had done of me into the “Portraits” page.

On the “Special Occasions” page I added the picture that had made me so flustered – the one which showed me dressed in something appropriate to a fancy event, gazing into the eyes of a handsome man in a linen shirt. For demonstration purposes, of course!

I tested the pages on multiple platforms and devices: the PC and Mac partitions of my laptop (Safari, Chrome, Firefox, Edge), as well as my iPad and my phone. Unsurprisingly, I needed to make adjustments to ensure that it looked good on all of them. It was already 3:30 when I finished the job.

I shot Liz a text: “I arranged a little present for your ‘thoughts & daydreams.’ When you have a moment, check out this URL. It’s not public, but it can be anytime you want. Much love, Cami.”

Somehow, I doubted that my gift would change her life as much as the bra and panty set she had given me for my “daydreams” changed mine!

Before powering down my computer, I confirmed that I didn’t have any work emails. Fiona had written to say that she’d gotten my list of health care professionals and would get back to me after doing some research.

Fair enough.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER NINE
“e fu quel bacio, rivelazione”
– Puccini, La Rondine, Chi il bel sogno di Doretta (Aria)

Suburban Maryland, December 14, immediately following

It was time for my second project: I really needed to do some additional Christmas shopping, now that I was going to spend Christmas with Fiona and Henry. I freshened up my makeup, checked my hair, and headed out to a local mall. Thank God for Uber!

Two hours later, I was juggling several shopping bags and a rice bowl while I tried to find a place to sit in the crowded food court. It was a madhouse. A young guy with short blond hair and eyes as blue as mine looked up from his phone, saw my dilemma and waved me over.

I accepted the invitation gratefully.

“Let me help you with that,” he said, relieving me of my precariously balanced food and setting it on the table.

I bent at the knees to put my packages on the floor by my feet. “Thank you so much! I was getting a bit desperate.”

He chuckled. “I sympathize; I was in the same boat five minutes ago. Every year I tell myself I’ll do my Christmas shopping in November. It never happens.”

He looked like he was around my age; maybe a bit younger. Well-built – broad shoulders; his strong chest and biceps highlighted by the athletic trim of his hoodie. Friendly face. He filled the space opposite me – legs spread wide; upper arms out at an angle, forearms on the table. He was pretty frankly checking me out, but not in a creepy way.

Turnabout is fair play; I admitted to myself that I had been doing the same, albeit more discreetly. I decided to lean into it with a bit of humor. Catching his eye, I smiled and asked, “So, did I pass inspection?”

His eyes widened fractionally, then he returned my smile a bit ruefully. “Guilty, I’m afraid. But I was really just admiring. I’m Steve.”

I kept my friendly smile firmly in place and held my right hand out to be shaken. “Cami.”

He gave a firm handshake.

I responded with a gentle one. “No harm done, Steve. It’s kind of nice to be noticed in this bucket of crazy.”

He relaxed visibly and we chatted while we ate. He had the harder task since he’d ordered tacos and a beer.

As before, I was working on my female communication skills. Maintaining eye contact. Letting myself smile in a way that showed my teeth; using my eyes and the tilt of my head to convey animation and interest in the conversation. Freeing my hands to add emphasis when I spoke. Keeping my voice soft by relying on the muscles of my throat rather than my chest.

It felt a little more natural than it had this morning or the night before. I was enjoying the company. As we were finishing our meal, I said, “You don’t seem to have any packages. No luck?”

“None,” he said with a bit of drama.

“Who are you shopping for?”

“My mom and my kid sister. At least, I already found something for Dad.”

I thought for just a second, then said, with unusual spontaneity, “Tell you what: if you carry these,” — I indicated my shopping bags — “I’ll help you find something for the women in your life.”

His face lit up. “You will?”

I laughed, stood up, and handed him my bags. “C’mon!”

As he got to his feet, a woman with three hyper children honed in on our table with the speed and desperation of a hungry cheetah. I waited just long enough to make sure she won the race, shot her an understanding smile, and steered Steve out of the food court, my hand on the elbow of his free arm.

I was feeling positively buzzed. As Cam, I would never have waved a good-looking girl – or any girl, for that matter – over to my table, as Steve had done. Nor would I have assumed that someone would want me along while they shopped, as I had just done.

As a woman, though, I had felt perfectly comfortable making the offer. And, based on our conversation and his upfront inspection, I had been supremely confident that he would want my company.

He clearly thought I was a good-looking woman – I had “passed” – and he was eager for both my company and my assistance.

“Tell me about your Mom,” I prompted

He looked a bit blank, then said, “Mom? Well . . . she’s shorter than you, I think. Maybe 5’6”. She has blonde hair and blue eyes, like me. Thin.” He looked at me. “What else would it help to know?”

This is going to take some work. “Does she have any hobbies? Things she likes to do?”

“Oh, sure. She gardens, like, all the time. I mean, not in winter, obviously. But whenever she can.”

“Vegetables?”

“No, no,” he responded. “Flowers. Lots of flowers. She cuts them, brings them in the house and makes flower arrangements. We must have a million vases.”

Better. Making progress. “Anything else, besides gardening and flower arranging? Does she like to cook?”

“Cook? No, I don’t think so. I mean, she does cook, especially because Dad just sucks at it. But I don’t think it’s her thing.” He smiled with a sudden memory.

I prodded, “Okay, out with it!”

“I was just remembering. One time Dad got her some sort of frying pan for her birthday. She threatened to use it on his head if he ever got her something to cook with again.”

I smiled. I’m starting to like this woman.

“But she does like to bake,” he added. “Cookies, cakes, pies . . . she says she loves the way the house smells when she’s baking.”

Hmm. I thought some more. “Is she a people person, or more introverted?”

“She’s very friendly,” he said. “Very approachable. Like you,” he added with an offhanded smile, less a complement than a recognition of something he thought was obvious.

As if I would, of course, think of myself as friendly and approachable.

My mind was still grappling with that novel idea when he paused, looking thoughtful. “But . . . .“

I just stopped, cocked my head, and looked at him.

“I’ve never really thought about it before,” he said slowly. “Mom is Mom, you know? But I guess . . . I mean . . . I’ve always thought she was friendly and approachable. But I think maybe she’s kind of . . . shy? She’s not the type to jump into a conversation on her own or approach strangers. She kind of waits for them to come to her?”

His voice rose at the end as if he were asking a question, though it clearly was one he was directing at himself rather than me.

I started to get an idea. “Does she have a favorite flower?”

He looked at me blankly. “She’s like a florist, practically. She likes all kinds of flowers.”

“Any in particular that you can remember?” I pressed.

“Well,” he drew out the word as he thought. “There was a purple flower that grows in bunches, like, on a bush? She seemed to like those a lot.”

“Lilacs?”

“Sorry. Flowers are Mom’s thing, not mine. I don’t know.”

Suddenly, Steve was reminding me strongly of Cam. Focused on his own world, pretty clueless about other people in general and women in particular. He was a good-looking guy and seemed pleasant. But there was a reason he was here in the mall, ten days before Christmas, shopping for his mom and his sister rather than a girlfriend.

He needs to open his eyes and see other people. Really see them. Still, I thought his heart, at least, was firmly in the right place.

“Steve,” I said, gently, “the best present you can ever give is showing that you’ve really thought about the other person. Thought about what they like, what makes them feel happy. Doesn’t matter what it is. Don’t think about your mom as just your mom. Think of her as a woman, as a person.”

I went back to asking questions. “What’s her name?”

“Ingrid,” he said, still sounding puzzled. “Ingrid Harrison.”

“How did Ingrid meet your Dad?”

He was clearly having trouble figuring out where I was going. “They met in college. William & Mary. She was studying . . . art, I think? He was a grad student at that point, working on his Ph.D.”

“Did she finish her degree?”

“She . . . she didn’t. Dad got his degree first, and he had a job offer from Berkeley. He’s a professor of linguistics; jobs are hard to come by.” He sounded defensive.

I touched his arm in sympathy. “I understand. So, you know that Ingrid is a woman who studied art, who is warm and friendly, but shy, who loves beautiful flowers and the smells of baking. What do you think would bring a smile to Ingrid’s face?”

He gave it a long thought, but try as he might, he couldn’t break through. “A pretty scarf?”

Scarves, in my opinion, are like ties: the gift you give when you can’t think of anything. God’s gift to laziness, and the last refuge of the unobservant. “Does she actually wear scarves?”

“Ummm . . . ?” he responded, looking uncertain.

“You’ve tried scarves before, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Well, she seemed to like them . . . .” His voice trailed off.

I was going to need to lead him there directly. “Does she wear a scent?”

“Perfume? I . . . this is going to sound lame, but I don’t know.”

“Okay, come with me!” I guided him across to Macy’s, past the dresses and lingerie, and over to the perfume counter. While we were waiting for the sales person to finish with a customer, I pulled out my phone and did a search for lilac bushes.

Steve confirmed that those were the purple flowers his Mom was so fond of.

When we got to the counter, I asked the saleswoman for recommendations on a perfume with florals, weighted towards lilacs. She had two recommendations, so I had her put a spritz on each of my wrists.

“Okay, Steve. Close your eyes and think of your mom, indoors on a sunny spring day, arranging flowers. Think of the light in the room. Think of the sounds. Remember the smells. Are you there?”

His eyes were closed, a look of intense concentration on his face. “I’m there,” he breathed.

“Alright, I’m going to have you smell one wrist, then the other. You tell me which one best matches your memory. Ready?”

“Ready.”

I brought my left wrist to below his nose. “First option.”

He took a sniff and immediately said, “Stop. That’s it. That’s it!”

“You're sure?” I asked, very softly.

“Yeah.” He opened his eyes and I was surprised to see they were moist. “That scent – I’ve smelled it a million times in our house, when Mom’s doing her arrangements. . . . It’s . . . those are the times she’s always seemed the happiest.”

I gave him a huge smile; I must have shown every one of my teeth. “One down!”

Steve gave me a spontaneous hug. I returned it without a second’s hesitation. It felt so good to have been able to help him, to make him break through his existing image of his mother and see her as a person in her own right. I had no doubt that was what had made him tear up.

He made his purchase.

I took his elbow again, this time walking back to the center courtyard. “Now tell me about your sister.”

This time he had a better sense of what I was trying to do. “Her name’s Laurie,” he said, throwing me a quick smile. “I was eight when she was born, so I was almost more of a third parent than a brother in some ways. I did a lot of babysitting, anyway.”

He smiled at the memory. “She was always getting into stuff. I can remember Dad saying, ‘Steve, what’s job one?’ and the answer he drilled into me was, ‘Keep Laurie safe.’ Sometimes it was a real challenge. She was good about it, though. Didn’t fight me. She knew I was her white knight.”

“Her ‘white knight?’”

He laughed. “Yeah, she went through a ‘knights and ladies’ phase when she was like five or six and I was still reading her stories. It kind of stuck.”

“Sounds like you two have a great relationship,” I said encouragingly.

Surprisingly, he shrugged. “We did. It’s been a bit rockier the last year, or so. I’m not sure why.”

“Anything new you can think of? Did you move away?” I was thinking of my relationship with my own sister, which became much more distant when she left for college.

But he shook his head. “No. I’ve lived in Tenleytown for the past six years, but the family’s still close, in Annapolis. I see them pretty often – and the frequency hasn’t changed.”

Hmm. “How has she been acting differently?” I tried.

“She just seems annoyed with me all the time. With the world, for that matter. Like, she’s decided that she’s ‘Laura’ now, and gets pissed off if you don’t remember. If you disagree with her about anything, or if you ask her to do anything, she goes postal. Mom’s been having the same issues. Mom’s such a softie, it really cuts her. And that gets me mad, which only creates more trouble when I say anything.”

Oddly enough, this sounded like it might be straightforward. “Steve, did Laurie go through puberty early, or was she a late bloomer?”

He looked confused. “Umm . . . You mean, when did she have her first period? I don’t know. Should I have known?”

“Not necessarily.” Certainly my sister hadn’t discussed such things, and I have no idea when she started them. “How about developing physically? Something you actually would see.”

“Oh — Definitely late on that. I think she was still flat as a board when she started her sophomore year. It really wasn’t till this last year or so that she . . . .”

He stopped speaking abruptly and looked at me. “How do you do that?”

“Magic,” I answered with a grin. “So, she was stuck looking and feeling like a little girl for too long. She finally feels like she’s growing up. Maybe she wants people to start taking notice, treating her like an adult?”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he said thoughtfully.

“Were you a late bloomer too?”

“Not so much. But I definitely remember hitting a point where I felt like my parents should recognize that I’m not a kid anymore.” He laughed and added, “Truth is, they mostly still treat me like a kid.”

“Do you think you might treat your sister like a kid?”

“I treat her the same way I always have,” he said stoutly. Then he stopped again. “Oh.”

“Right,” I responded. “Oh.”

He leaned against a railing overlooking the lower level of the mall. Then he surprised me. Staring off into space, he said, “I was her hero, and she was looking for me to see the changes, to recognize that she wasn’t just a little girl anymore. And I let her down. Kept putting her in the same box she’s always been in – my baby sister.”

I reached up and squeezed his shoulder, leaving my hand in contact afterward. “Christmas is a good time to make amends, Steve. A really good time. What could you get her that would make her realize that you appreciate that she isn’t a child anymore? That you think of her as an adult?”

He thought about it for a few minutes, and this time he didn’t come up empty. “She’s started dressing up recently. You know, in actual dresses.”

That made me smile. Actual dresses. Imagine.

“She always used to be a jeans and T-Shirt girl. Not a tom-boy, exactly. Just not into clothes. Now, she wants to look nice. I need to find her a dress – I mean, the right dress. A . . . I don’t know. A sophisticated dress? Something that a woman would wear, but a girl never would.”

I squeezed his shoulder again and released it. “Perfect. That would be beautiful, Steve.”

He turned to face me. “You’ve been such a help already, and I hate to ask . . . . "

I cut him off. “You just keep carrying my bags, mister. No way I’m not seeing this through to the end!” I asked him to show me a picture of his sister.

He pulled out his phone and flipped through his photos, selecting one and showing it to me. It was a selfie of Steve with a significantly younger woman who was clearly his sister. She looked about seventeen and had his coloring – blue eyes, blonde hair. She was tanned an even golden brown and wore her hair just a bit below shoulder length – a bit shorter than I wore mine, I was startled to realize.

They were at a beach or a pool, because she was wearing a one-piece swimsuit and Steve was bare chested (somewhat disconcertingly, I found myself appreciating that he had nicely defined pecs and a fair bit of golden chest hair). Her suit was light blue, which went well with her eyes and hair, but somehow didn’t work with her skin tone.

“This was taken last summer?” I asked.

“Late September,” he confirmed.

“So, this is about what she looks like now?”

He looked at the photo again. “She might be a bit bigger in the chest now.” He sounded uncertain.

I thought about it. “Let’s see what they have at Forever 21.”

“Wouldn’t Macy’s be a better choice for something more sophisticated?”

“It would, if she were older. But we want something that will feel right for who she is today. I think we’ll have more luck at a place more like Forever 21 than a mainline department store. I could be wrong, but that’s where I’d start.”

I didn‘t mention that I was rather far from being an expert, though my several shopping sprees had at least given me some sense of the playing field.

“Lead on,” he directed. So off we went.

I knew I had found the right dress as soon as I spotted it – a cherry-red mid-length dress with a halter top. The top of the bodice was straight across the top of the bust line, with a spaghetti strap that looped around the neck from the center of the chest, just where a young woman would be showing a little cleavage.

The dress would accentuate her chest, waist and hips, making them look larger than they likely were, and expose the beauty of her young and slender shoulders, arms, and neck. The red would look stunning with her coloring. It was a dress only a young woman could wear. Not a girl, not an older woman.

It was perfect.

I showed it to Steve and he immediately agreed. He asked if I would model it for him.

I declined, with real regret. “You want the dress that is perfect for her. How it looks on me won’t tell you anything useful.”

This was only part of my reasoning, sadly. The reality is that I couldn’t be sure the halter top wouldn’t expose the tops of my prosthetic breasts, and I was never confident that the seams would pass muster under good lighting and close observation.

He accepted the logic of the reason I had given him, and mercifully didn’t press me. We went to the cashier and he paid for the purchase.

As we walked back into the Mall proper, I said, “You need to write cards with your gifts. Tell your Mom that you thought of how happy she was when she was doing her flower arrangements, how she filled the house with good smells, and how you wanted the fragrance to remind her of that.

“Tell your sister how proud you are of her, how you wanted to get something special for the amazing woman she has become. And for God’s sake, call her Laura!”

He looked startled at my last comment, which I had made with a bit more force than I had intended.

I dialed my emotional reaction down a notch, but said with some earnestness, “Names are powerful, Steve. When someone tells you what they want you to call them, they are trying to tell you something about themselves. About who they are, how they see themselves.”

I was thinking of Liz, who had gone by Beth as a child and BethAnn in high school and throughout the ten years of her marriage. And I was thinking of Cameron Savin, who had also gone by Candi, and was now Cami. Those were different names. They conveyed different things.

Names have power.

He looked thoughtful, so I decided I could press the point just a bit further without being rude. “What’s the name on your birth certificate? Steve, or Steven?”

“Steven,” he confirmed.

“With a ‘v’ or a ‘ph’?

“A ‘ph,’ he said, “but I’ve always been called Steve.”

“Right,” I said. “But suppose you decided that you wanted to be called ‘Stephen.’ Do you think that would convey the same sense of who you are?”

“No,” he said forcefully. “‘Stephen’ looks fine on written documents, but it’s way too formal to use in conversation. I’d feel like a complete jackass, a stuffed shirt.”

“So ‘Steve’ fits the person you are, the person you are comfortable being, and ‘Stephen’ doesn’t?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, your sister is telling you that ‘Laura’ fits who she is, and ‘Laurie’ doesn’t. Maybe she thinks it sounds older, less like a child’s nickname. It doesn’t matter if you agree with her.

“When you call her ‘Laurie,’ you’re telling her that you won’t allow her to grow, to change. That she can’t be a peer. That your relationship will stay where it’s always been. You’ll be the white knight, and she’ll alway need rescuing. Just be open to the possibility that she wants something different now that she’s older. I promise you, it will mean a lot to her.”

This time, he really got it. “You're right again.” His voice was quiet, reflective. “I came here tonight just looking to make sure I had something to give everyone. Didn’t matter what. Just checking off names on a list, making sure I did what was expected. I wasn’t thinking about them, I was thinking about me. They deserve better.”

Without warning, he turned to face me and his right hand – the one that wasn't loaded down with shopping bags – reached up and cupped my left cheek. I felt my heart pound as he took a step forward, bent his head, and kissed me, ever so softly, right on the lips.

I felt light-headed and, suddenly, not remotely conflicted. His kiss was magic. He broke it off and raised his head, staring deeply into my eyes, continuing to cradle my cheek.

“Do that again!” I said, so softly even I could scarcely hear it.

He bent his head a second time.

I put both arms around his neck to kiss him back. It felt incredible. When I broke off the kiss, I stepped back, keeping my eyes in his. “That was intense!” My shaky voice betrayed my sense of wonder.

He smiled shyly. “Oh, yeah!”

We stood there looking at each other like idiots for a bit longer, then I took a deep breath and said, “What an absolutely lovely way to end a great evening. Thank you so much for your company!”

“Do you really have to go? We could get a drink, or . . . ?”

I was shaking my head, but smiling. “I do have to go, Steve. But if you give me your contact info, I’ll send you a text and maybe we can get together again. Okay?”

He looked disappointed but gave me his number. He neglected to ask for mine, which was fortuitous.

Cami doesn’t have her own phone.

I summoned an Uber. He stayed and gave me a goodbye kiss before I got in, my own packages in hand. I felt like I floated home.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TEN
“Cruda sventura m'astringe”
– Verdi, La Forza del Destino, Pace pace mio Dio (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, December 15

I woke at my usual workday time of 5:00. A better dream had left another smile on my face – a repeat of the dream where I was jogging down the length of a dock over deep water, dressed in a lime-green, one-piece bathing suit, beckoning someone behind me to follow.

Unlike the prior morning I was full of energy and eager to start the day. I threw back the covers, had a glass of water and changed into my exercise clothes for my morning workout. This week I was ratcheting it up to a full twenty minutes of cheer routine (in reality, a five-minute program done four times), bracketed by ten minutes of stretching before and after.

After exercising, I showered, shaved, used baby shampoo, dried and brushed my hair, reapplied my prosthetics, and put on morning makeup. I went with leggings, flats, and a comfy sweater that was long enough to cover my crotch and my rear end.

It was still only 6:30. I usually had Sunday breakfast with Javier and Al sometime around 8:00. So I fired up my computer and checked all of my email accounts. Nothing new from work.

My personal email had a message from Fiona saying she had some info for me, if I had time to talk around noon. I also had a lovely message from Liz positively gushing about the website I had designed for her and asking if we could talk at 7:00. I responded affirmatively to both emails.

I spent a couple minutes running searches on Steve Harrison and Stephen Harrison and found some likely matches. BS from American University in 2016, working as an IT specialist for the DC office of a national financial services company. Plays second base for the Wizards, a team in an intramural softball league in the greater DC area. Ha!

Then I buckled down and did some work, reading the reply brief defendants had filed Friday and making notes. After I got through the twenty-five pages, it was 7:30. I shot Al a text (he was the early riser) asking if I could pick up bagels, and received a thumbs-up in response.

I put on my warm coat and walked three blocks to the local bagel shop. The streets were deserted, and I was back by 8:00.

As usual, I had a very nice breakfast with my friendly landlords. When I mentioned that I needed to make calls and texts as Cami (rather than Cameron Savin), Javi suggested a third-party app he used to keep in touch with his family in Colombia. He even showed me how to load it on my phone and use it.

I sent him a message and it came up with the number assigned by the app and the name Cami. Perfect.

By 9:30 I was back in my own apartment. I made myself a cup of tea, and rather than playing music, I just listened to some peaceful nature sounds. Amazing what you can find on streaming services.

I sat down, held my tea in both hands, closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of the seashore, imagined myself there, sitting in a beach chair, sand between my toes, morning sunshine warming my face. . . .

Yesterday evening had been amazing. In my encounter with Steve, I had felt like a woman, inside and out. Within minutes, the mechanical elements of the more female communication style that I had been practicing felt smooth and easy. Not second nature, by any stretch – I still had to be mindful of my speech, expressions, posture, and the like – but I definitely felt like I was going with the grain rather than against it.

By the time he kissed me, I was as comfortable in my gender as I had ever been. So kissing him back had been as natural as breathing. And as beautiful, as perfect, as sunrise at the beach where I imagined myself to be sitting.

It was full morning, though, and reality had to be faced with clear eyes. I had connected with him and our mutual attraction had been real. But while I knew myself to be a woman, Steve might not agree with my definition. Chances were high that my being a transwoman would make a difference to him.

I’ll confess that there was a part of my mind – a small part, in every sense of the word – that whispered, “Sure, of course, but you don’t need to say anything yet.” But that’s not what I want. Not for myself. Not for Steve.

We had a lovely evening, but neither of us had gone down the enchanted rabbit hole too deep. We could still get out with minimal harm done. Letting things take their course, even for a little bit longer, would be playing with fire. And it would be dishonest.

This is the right time.

I sent him a text. “Morning Steve – Cami.”

After last night, I was not surprised to get an almost immediate response.

“Cami!! Was hoping U would text.”

I sent a smile in response.

He followed up: “Yesterday was amazing. Can I see U?”

Here we go. “I’d love to see you. But I want you to know something before you decide. I am a transwoman.”

I got “Haha very funny” in response.

Rather than typing, I just waited.

It took almost three minutes before he tried again. “R U serious?”

There was so much I wanted to say, to put into a few characters. To plead, “I am worthy, I am genuine, the person you saw is who I am . . . .” But none of that was fair. It wasn’t even relevant.

Answer the damned question, counselor. “Yes,” I typed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he texted.

I had expected that – a natural reaction, but in this case misplaced. “Until you kissed me, it didn’t matter. Then, it was too late. All I could do was end things quickly.”

“You asked me to do it again.”

“Moment of weakness. Sorry.”

This time the pause lasted longer. Five minutes stretched to ten. I closed my eyes, sipped my tea, and listened to the thunderous crash of waves, the sigh of retreating surf, and the high, lonesome cry of the soaring seagulls.

My phone buzzed.

“I’m sorry, Cami. I just can’t.”

“I understand.” And I did. Cameron Savin wouldn’t have been able to handle it either, and I couldn’t fault Steve – or anyone else – for being honest about what attracted them . . . and what repelled. The heart goes where the heart goes.

Because I really liked Steve, I added, “I wish you all the best, always, and hope that you have the most joyful Christmas ever.”

I assumed we were done, and I sat with that for a bit. But I got another text.

“This isn’t just a way to blow me off?”

That made me laugh. It would have been a foolish and unnecessarily complicated way to “blow someone off.” “No,” I replied. “I’m a woman. I enjoyed yesterday and would love to see you. But, I am trans and you deserved to know that before you decided whether you wanted to see me again.”

His response this time was quicker, and he had the grace to end with a good note: “Thank you for telling me. You are a wonderful person. I just can’t go there. I wish I could. And I wish you all the best too.”

I thought, irrelevantly, How interesting that people sometimes drop the stupid text abbreviations when they are writing from the heart.

“Good-bye, Steve.”

“Good-bye, Cami.”

I finished my tea. After a few more minutes, I opened my eyes, and was surprised to find they were still dry.

There might be someone out there for me, as Sarah had said, and I was willing to try to find him. At least, after last night I was fairly certain that I wanted it to be a “him.” But I would need to be able to deal with this sort of rejection, and now was as good a time as any to practice.

Not every life lesson is pleasant. A quick Google search indicated that only three percent of men would consider dating a transwoman. Sigh.

I washed my tea cup, dried it, put it away, and sat at my computer. There were a couple of legal issues I needed to research for work before tomorrow’s morning meeting.

Unfortunately, it appeared that I had the time.

To be continued . . . .

~o~O~o~

CHAPTER ELEVEN
“La fleur que tu m'avais jetée”
– Bizet, Carmen, La fleur que tu m'avais jetée (Aria)

Washington, D.C., December 18

I was working on a motion for leave to file a sur-reply brief – defendants had improperly slipped new arguments into their reply – when Eileen stuck her head in my door.

“How’s it coming?”

“Good. The draft should be ready for you to look at in about forty-five minutes.”

“Great. Daviana’s just wrapping up her draft of the proposed sur-reply, so we should be able to file tonight. Shoot your draft to David and Daviana when you’re done with it. I’d like to take you to lunch, if you’re free.”

Of course I was free for lunch, for the lead attorney on my current case who also happens to be the head of the firm’s litigation department and a member of the management committee.

Eileen knew that, but she was big on observing all the proper forms, and was always unfailingly polite. It is among the many reasons I loved working for her, and was delighted to accept her invitation. The only downside was that I would have to quasi-socialize while masquerading as a man, which increasingly felt like a chore.

I finished my draft motion and emailed it to David and Daviana for their comments. Then I grabbed my coat and walked up to Eileen’s office. Her door was open, as usual – the firm’s culture is that doors are only closed when needed.

She saw me, smiled and waved me in. “Two seconds!” She turned back to her computer, finished typing something, then said “There!” with the distinctive air of someone who’s just pushed a problem off of her desk. “Feel up for a walk?”

“I’d love to.” I didn’t spend much time outside during the week, so I was grateful for Eileen's penchant for walking in even the foulest weather. In this case, it was dry and in the low 40s, so even mere mortals could bear it.

While we were walking, she asked about my plans for Christmas, and I explained that I was going up to Boston to be with my sister and her fiancé. I hadn’t made travel arrangements yet because I wasn’t sure when I might be able to get away, but I was planning on taking the train.

“It’s actually really convenient that you’ll be in Boston,” Eileen said. “Judge Gordon just scheduled the hearing on the outstanding motions for 1:00 on the 27th – you were probably on your way to my office when the ECF notice posted. I want you to argue the Corinth-related issues at the hearing. The train ride from Boston to New Haven is pretty short, so if you arrived the evening of the 26th we’ll have time to complete our prep.”

Eileen knew that I was eager to make my first argument in court, and I was quick to let her know how excited I was.

She thought a bit more. “I don’t know how soon you wanted to be up at your sister’s place – or how soon she wants to host you! – but there’s no reason you can’t take your laptop along and work from there for a couple days if you want to go up early. We will have to do some work next week to prep for the hearing, but it’s nothing that’ll require us all to be in the office.

“Daviana’s going to be in Puerto Rico all next week, and David’s going to leave for San Francisco on Friday. I’ll talk to him about whether he wants to join us in New Haven on the 26th. Though I’m confident the two of us can handle it,” she added with a smile.

I was on cloud nine. But for form’s sake, I said, “I hate to have all of us desert you next week!”

She just chuckled. “That’s me, ‘Horatius at the Gate.’”

I must have looked blank. She laughed some more, gave my arm a pat and said, “Google it. But don’t worry, I can hold the fort for a few days. I’ve reached the age where my kids come back to visit me at Christmas, so I don’t have any travel plans.”

I asked her about who she had coming for the holiday and we discussed Christmas traditions for most of the eight blocks or so that separated the office from Founding Farmers DC. Her eagerness to see children and grandchildren for the holiday was a painful contrast to my own parents, but that wasn’t something I was comfortable sharing.

When we arrived, I had the sense that Eileen was well-known – and well-liked – at the restaurant. She received a big smile and warm greeting from the hostess. And, our waiter appeared with impressive speed.

She ordered a sparkling water and a salad.

I picked a different salad and unsweetened iced tea.

After the waiter departed she said, “Cam, you don’t have to endure a salad just because I limit myself to that at lunch time. With my build and metabolism I have to watch my calories. You don’t!”

I made a joke about it and added that I don’t tend to eat much at lunch.

She looked uncharacteristically indecisive for probably four whole seconds. “I suppose I shouldn’t say this, but you should maybe revise your eating habits. You seem to have lost a lot of weight, and you weren’t exactly heavy when you arrived at the firm. You need to take care of your health.”

I had a sudden urge to reach across the table and touch her arm in reassurance, but I suppressed it instantly. Cam would never do that, and I could not forget and be myself here.

Instead, I gave her one of Cam’s smiles – warm, certainly, but no visible teeth – and said, “Thank you. Really. My weight’s always fluctuated a fair bit randomly, but I’ve noticed that my suits are looking a bit baggy. I’ll try to be more careful.”

What I didn’t say, of course, was that my dresses looked a lot better at my present weight!

While we waited for our food, we talked a bit about the impeachment vote, which was scheduled for later in the day.

“I’m actually old enough to remember the Nixon impeachment,” Eileen remarked. “I was too young to care about it at the time, but my parents were very interested so it was on TV a lot. Sam Ervin, now – there was someone who really understood the Constitution! But I never thought I’d live to see another impeachment – let alone two more.”

“I think you’ll see a lot more of them now, sad to say.”

“I know.” Her voice radiated disapproval. “The Republicans are already howling for revenge. I expect it’s going to become a regular thing now, any time the President’s party doesn’t control the House.”

“Do you think it was a mistake to bring the Articles?”

She didn’t hesitate. “No. I started my career as a prosecutor. The evidence here is essentially unrefuted, and if trying to use the release of Congressionally appropriated funds to coerce political favors from a foreign government isn’t a high crime or misdemeanor, I don’t know what is. I don’t think the Speaker had a choice.”

I agreed. We talked a bit about the hearings, and, from a professional standpoint, discussed who had given compelling evidence. She had been particularly impressed with Colonel Vindman’s emotional testimony; I liked Dr. Hill’s analytical approach.

At some point in our conversation, the food arrived and we continued talking while we ate. When it was cleared she ordered a coffee and I did the same. Then she got a mischievous look on her face and asked the waiter to bring a slice of the carrot cake with two forks.

When he walked away, she smiled sweetly. “I, of course, will just have a bite. To make sure they haven’t lost their touch!”

“Determined to fatten me up, are you?” I joked.

“You bet! Your sister’s a doctor; I don’t want her thinking we’re working you to death!”

After the coffee and dessert arrived and Eileen had taken her promised bite out of the cake, she leaned back in her chair (which, somehow, she managed to do without losing her always perfect posture). “As you know, the firm gives out annual bonuses to associates, and the amount is the same for each associate class. This year, associates finishing their first full year will be receiving $25,000.”

My eyes widened. I certainly knew that the firm gave bonuses, but this was the first year I was eligible and I didn’t really know what to expect. “That’s fantastic!” I said, thinking about all of my student loans.

Eileen just smiled. “What you probably don’t know – because we don’t publicize it – is that we give additional performance-based bonuses to a few associates who have done really exceptional work over the course of the year. We have a hard limit of one per class. Most years, there are classes where no one fits the criteria. The management committee reviews each nomination very carefully. And . . . they’ve awarded you an additional $15,000 bonus for this year. Congratulations, Cam!”

I was truly stunned; there were probably thirty associates in my “class,” and some of them were positively brilliant. I stammered, “I don’t even know what to say! Thank you so much!” It was very obvious that this was all Eileen’s doing.

“You’ve got a great work ethic, an eye for detail, and a degree of judgment that usually takes longer to develop,” she said. “I told you before that most lawyers, and even most litigators, aren’t suited to trial work. I think you’ve got the gift. I made sure my colleagues knew and appreciated what we’ve got.”

I steadied myself so that I would stop stammering, which really wasn’t the image I wanted to convey. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done, but also, how much I’ve enjoyed working on your trial team. And I’m learning so much. Not just about law. But about how to be a lawyer. How to be a part of a team. The right way to deal with conflicts . . . . It’s just an amazing experience.”

“Good!” she said, adding, “now, is there anything you wanted to raise with me before we head back?”

I had a brief fantasy of saying, “yes, I want to talk to you about coming out as a transwoman.” She likes my work. She wants to keep me happy. . . .

But she had also gone to bat for me with every member of the management committee, no doubt calling in favors to ensure that I got the extra performance bonus, doubtless over their own preferred candidates. I didn’t want to repay her by giving her a headache to deal with.

So instead I said, “Well . . . I was wondering if I could also present the oral argument on the three other issues I had covered in my sections of the brief?”

She gave me a big smile. “I was really hoping you would ask. Trial lawyers are like pitchers – they always want the manager to give them the ball!”

I laughed, and we walked back to the office.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Sempre con fè sincera”
– Puccini, Tosca, Vissi d’Arte, Vissi d’Amore (Aria)

Washington, D.C. and Maryland Suburbs, December 18, later that day

I left work early – for me, 5:30 is early – so I could go home, get out of my work clothes, pick up some takeout, and meet Sarah at her boutique. I had called her during the day and she had suggested I swing by after work because she had to spend the evening pulling together end-of-year information for her accountant.

For Sarah, I wore my skinny jeans tucked into my knee-high black boots, a jewel-tone red wool v-necked sweater over a lacy camisole, light makeup and tear-drop earrings. I did my hair in what was becoming my go-to hairstyle – a loose braid that cascades over my right shoulder and reaches the top of my (alas prosthetic) breast. I regretted that I wouldn’t have time to do my nails.

Sarah would surely notice.

I arrived at her boutique just after 7:00 bearing curries and naan bread. The door was locked, so I shot her a text from my “Cami-App” letting her know I had arrived.

She came out a minute later, unlocked the door, and smiled at me. “Glad you finally made it. I’m hungry, and I’m starting to hate Quickbooks!”

I laughed and assured her that the cavalry – or at least the chuckwagon – had arrived.

We went to the back office and she cleared some space on the table. “So, what’s up?”

I told her a bit about my week, including the tale of my shopping adventure with Steve and its denouement the following morning.

She looked at me shrewdly. “That was well played, Cami.”

“You think so? It sure didn’t feel that way, but I couldn’t think of a better solution.”

“I don’t think there was a better solution. The only way you could have avoided it would be to wear a big sign around your neck that says, ‘Warning, transwoman.’ Which would lead to a whole lot of even worse things, just in case you hadn’t figured that out.”

She waved her fork at me. “He kissed you without warning – which, thank goodness, you actually enjoyed – and you retreated to a place of safety before telling him you were trans. That was smart, and I always approve of smart.”

I looked at her for a minute, trying to figure out how to ask the question that had suddenly popped into my head while she was speaking.

She looked back. “Alright, girl, out with it!”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I was just wondering why you do it. You’re so free with your time. So supportive. And I know I’m not the only struggling waif you’re looking after!”

That got a snort. “You’re no waif, and how you dealt with Steve proves it. A waif would be in here moaning about how unfair life is. Got no patience for that shit.”

She took a forkful of rice and rogan josh, chewed it thoughtfully and swallowed. “As for your question, you might not believe the answer.”

“I might surprise you,” I said, a bit dryly. I wasn’t the innocent I’d been even a year ago.

She cocked an eyebrow at me. “You might at that. So here goes. It’s because I’m a nun, and I take my vocation seriously.”

She laughed outright as I choked on my chicken tikka. “Ha!” she said. “You sure didn’t see THAT coming!”

“No, you got me,” I confirmed. “I don’t understand, though. I wouldn’t have thought nuns’ assignments would extend to running a trans boutique. I mean . . . .”

I ran out of words.

“You were about to say, I sell sex toys?”

I nodded, red faced. “And you cater to the transgender community. I thought . . . I mean, I’m not Catholic – but I kind of thought the Church opposes everything to do with transgendered people.”

“The party line from the Vatican,” she responded, “is that we should help people accept their biologically determined gender. As usual, a ‘we know best,’ patriarchal approach. Pretty typical.”

“The party line?” I was confused. “But you said you are a nun, not that you were one. Isn’t it your party?”

“Listen, I went into the convent right out of high school and lived the traditional religious life for a lot of years. I took my final vows – poverty, chastity and obedience. All that. But I lost it when the sex abuse scandals started to become public. I mean, lost it. I was spitting mad. All those pompous hypocrites, protecting other priests rather than kids.

“But the fact that the folks in charge – the bishops, the cardinals, all of them – didn’t take their faith seriously doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t. I looked at my life, and decided that God didn’t give me a vocation just to have me teach privileged children in a leafy Maryland suburb.

“So I broke my vow of obedience and I left. I can’t be part of Catholicism, Incorporated anymore. But my other vows, my vocation – those, I’ve kept."

"But why here? Why this?" I asked. “You could do more . . . ah . . . conventional charity work. Like, what was her name? The ‘Nuns on the Bus’ woman?”

“Simone Campbell,” Sarah supplied. “All she got from her ‘superiors’ for her more conventional work was an investigation over her supposedly ‘communist’ and ‘radical feminist’ views.”

She shrugged. “I respect Simone, but I made a different choice. Did what I thought Jesus might do. I went to where the wounded souls were, so that I could help them and give them a bit of comfort in a hard world. Not too many people in this country more hurt, or misunderstood, or abused, than trans people.”

“But why run a boutique?”

“You may have noticed that trans people tend to be a little shy of strangers. Just for example, and not to be too particular about it, you showed up at my door. Not because I’m a nice lady, which I’m not. You showed up because you needed a gaff.”

“Point,” I granted. “Though, ‘rough around the edges’ doesn’t mean ‘not nice,’ at least not in my book.”

“I’m a nun. And, to the eternal frustration of all of the chauvinists in Roman collars I’ve had to deal with, ‘meek and mild’ wasn’t part of our curriculum.”

I laughed.

“Anyhow,” she added, “I just don’t think the Creator of the universe and everything in it is quite as obsessed with the gender and sexual preferences of humans as institutional religion seems to believe. That particular obsession is spelled C-O-N-T-R-O-L.

“I’ll take it on the chin if I’m wrong about that. But I’ll tell you this, Cami. If heaven excludes women like you and others I’ve known over the years, just because they’re trans, then I don’t want any part of it. I’ll stay with you. You’re my people.”

We talked some more. I found it easy to talk to Sarah; her unvarnished responses were incredibly refreshing.

A bit to my surprise, I told her about my rather complicated romantic relationship with Liz (without, of course, revealing names). I hadn’t told anyone else that I had willingly played a sexually submissive girl to Liz’s dominant role for several months after she had broken up with me – well, with Cam. But somehow I was able to tell Sarah the story.

“I’d ask you for the details, but I can see you would just turn so red I might have to squeeze you into tomato juice.” She laughed at my expression. “That’s alright. I get the picture. Maybe it’s what you needed? Probably good you didn’t keep it going, though. It sounds like you ended up in a better place, the two of you.”

“We did,” I confirmed. “Though, we’re still kind of working it out. Liz is strongly heterosexual, and I’m a woman now. And . . . well . . . I was very attracted to Steve, so I’m kind of responding like a heterosexual female myself. Though, I still love Liz.” I added, lamely. “It’s complicated.”

She smiled. “To paraphrase one of my favorite philosophers, ‘Life is complicated, Princess. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something.’”

I chuckled, though I was unfamiliar with the reference.

“William Goldman,” she explained, no doubt responding to my blank look.

I told her how indignant Liz had been about Steve’s reaction upon finding out that I was trans. “To use your expression, she was spitting mad. I had to calm her down. He can’t help what he wants in a romantic partner, any more than Liz or I can. But I was actually touched by her reaction. We didn’t work out as a couple, but no one’s more protective of me.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with having guardian angels. The more the merrier.”

One of the reasons I had wanted to talk to Sarah was the recommendation for gender affirming health care and therapy Fiona had given me after researching the question wasn’t one of the places Sarah had recommended. She might know something Fi didn’t, since she saw this world from the demand side rather than the supply side, so to speak.

She put my concerns to rest immediately. “No,” she said definitively. “Most trans folks I know don’t have any kind of insurance and they don’t have much money, so I direct them towards options that they are more likely to be able to afford. Haverford has a whole interdisciplinary group that can provide you with the kind of care most trans girls could only dream of.”

She looked at my face and added, “I probably shouldn’t have said that. Now you’re going to feel guilty about getting care that other people can’t. Well, don’t. Take care of yourself first, okay? If you can, later, then pay it forward.”

“Yes, Sister Sarah,” I said, as meekly as I could.

She pretended to pull a ruler out of the sleeve of her non-existent habit so she could whack me with it.

As I was leaving, I turned and pulled her into a fierce hug.

She resisted at first, then resigned herself to it. “Sorry, Cami,” she said as I broke off. “Never been much of a hugger.”

“Think of it as your penance,” I quipped, and blew her a kiss on my way out the door.

It was quarter past nine before I got home – a bit late to call my sister. But I shot her a text just to see if she was available.

She responded at once by calling me back. “Hey, sis,” she said, “What’s new?”

I told her about my conversation with Eileen, and asked when I should come up. “I don’t want to interfere with any of your plans.”

“Not to worry — Come up as early as you want. We’ve got the guest bedroom ready. Both Henry and I will be working at least part of the time, but you’re welcome to hang out here as long as you like. And I’ll be off by noon on Christmas Eve.”

She added, a bit shyly, “I thought you might like to join me for some pampering at my salon in the afternoon of the 24th.”

I was so touched. Fi was really trying hard to make me feel comfortable, even though it was a big adjustment for her. “Fi, that’s so sweet. I’d love to come with you!”

I decided to come up on Saturday morning; I was having a gift exchange with Al and Javier Friday night.

We signed off and I put on a kettle for tea. I felt the need to unwind a little before turning in for the night. It had been a big day. My work news had been unbelievably good. And, Sarah had left me a lot to think about.

I had walked away from the evangelical Christianity of my youth long before I discovered that I was trans, but my discussion with Sarah, the nun-in-self-exile, touched me in a deep place. There was a part of me that still longed for the spiritual connection I had felt in my faith.

One more thing for me to think about. So I changed into my long green nightie with the impractically long lingerie straps, put on my dark-green dressing gown, and did just that, while I drank my tea and brushed out my long, dark hair.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Entrava ella, fragrante”
– Puccini, Tosca, E lucevan le stelle (Aria)

Amtrak Acela, Northeast Corridor Train, December 21

It was 9:55 am and I was getting myself aboard the train for Boston. Cami, I decided, had altogether too many clothes. I had to carry a bag with my laptop . . . and a suitcase . . . and a garment bag to hold Cam’s suit. And my ticket.

A nice young man carrying nothing but a backpack stepped in to give me a hand.

I accepted gratefully, got the larger bags stored and thanked him, before sitting beside a young woman in the only available seat for several rows. I appreciated his help, I really did. I just was not in the mood for his company.

Once I had my luggage settled, I turned to look at the woman next to me. She had earbuds in each ear, so I just smiled. She smiled back, settled into her seat and closed her eyes.

I made myself look away; it’s not polite to stare. But she was, objectively, a strikingly beautiful young woman. Very long, light brown hair in a river of tight curls disappeared down her back; a high forehead, rosy cheeks, a heart-shaped face, and full lips. What I had seen of her figure was equally stunning.

Remembering an art history class I had taken my last year of college, she looked like the model for Renoir’s “Ingenue.” Curious. Intelligent. Sensual.

Cameron Savin would have been too intimidated to sit beside her, and if it had been the only seat on the train he would have been too embarrassed to speak to her. As Cami, I did not feel remotely inhibited, though this woman made me acutely aware of the limits of what I could aspire to in the looks department. But I was honest enough to be aware of those limits, anyway.

On the bright side, it would be easy to avoid male attention. So long as I was sitting beside this vision of womanhood, I would be as good as invisible. And right this instant, that suited me fine. I had no immediate desire to repeat my experience with Steve.

I was fine, really. I just needed a bit of time to lick my wounds.

We pulled out of the station smoothly and got on our way. I became vaguely conscious of the faint sound of music leaking from my companion’s earbuds – of a high, achingly beautiful soprano, singing in a language I did not understand.

I put my head back and closed my own eyes to concentrate on the sound and found myself caught in the pathos, the beauty of the music, of the singular, soaring voice. After it ended, I sat silent, almost stunned by my own reaction.

There was a light touch on my left arm, and a soft voice asked, “Are you okay?”

I turned and saw my companion through a prism of tears. I hadn’t even realized that I had been weeping. Blinking so I could see straight, I found myself looking into a pair of soft brown eyes, full of concern.

“I’m so sorry,” I said quietly. “I don’t know what came over me. But I couldn’t help overhearing your music . . . it just hit me like a freight train.”

Concern shifted to understanding. My arm got a squeeze. “Nothing to be sorry about,” she said, still keeping her voice low. “If you can listen to Maria Callas sing “Vissi d’art” without feeling it, there’s something wrong with you.”

“Vissi d’arte?” I asked, a bit stupidly.

She grinned. “Opera. Puccini’s Tosca. And probably the greatest soprano voice of the 20th century.”

I returned her grin with a softer smile, put my hand over hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “Thank you. I know you didn’t intend to share it, but that was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. And, apparently just what I needed.”

“You’re very welcome. You should listen to more opera if it affects you like that.”

“I hate to admit I don’t know anything about it,” I said ruefully. “But clearly I need to change that.” Something about that sound, even muffled, had unlocked a deeply buried sadness in my soul.

I sat up straighter and looked at her more directly. “I’m Cami. And really, I don’t usually break out in tears for no reason. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“No worries, Cami. When the aria finished I opened my eyes and saw you were crying.” She added, belated, “I’m Nicole.”

“I’m delighted to meet you.” Then I smiled and added, “So, what’s an ‘aria?’”

She laughed. “Right. Opera 101 for you! Write on the chalkboard, one hundred times, ‘An aria is a melody for a solo voice, usually sung with accompaniment.’ I know you’ve heard some; everyone has. You just didn’t know what it was.”

“I couldn’t make out what she was singing. Was it in Italian?”

“Yes. Not all opera is in Italian, but . . . well . . . Tosca is Puccini.”

“Do you know what she was singing about? Something about it just hit me deep.”

Nicole gave me another understanding look. “Floria Tosca is an opera singer. A powerful man captures her lover and threatens to kill him if she doesn’t give herself to him. Vissi d’arte is her lament that God has abandoned her, when she gave jewels for the Madonna’s mantle and gave her song to the stars and to heaven.”

“A lament that God has abandoned her? No wonder I felt gut-punched. You know the piece that well . . . you aren’t just a fan, are you?” Awareness dawned. “You must be an opera singer.”

She waggled her fingers. “Aspiring. Well . . . beginning, anyway. But yes.”

“That’s amazing! I can’t begin to imagine what your life must be like!”

She was, it turned out, happy to tell me about it. She truly was extraordinary – a bachelor’s in music education, a master’s in vocal performance; fluent in French, German, and Italian; at twenty-eight, she had sung in performances across the country and in Italy. Her days were a blur of practice, study, and marketing herself to opera companies. It was quite a different world.

We were halfway between Wilmington and Philadelphia when I got a call from our paralegal Greg. I answered, then stepped into the area at the back of the car to take it quickly. He was just wondering whether I had taken particular binders up with me; I explained that I had only taken pdfs, but Eileen wanted to have the binders sent to local counsel’s office in New Haven.

When I got back to my seat, Nicole said, “I suddenly realized I’ve been talking about myself this whole time, which is just rude. What do you do, Cami?”

I told her I was a lawyer, and it was her turn to look impressed. “Really! I always think of lawyers as distinguished older men in suits, but I’m sure it’s not like that any more. I’m also guessing it’s not as much fun as it looks like in the movies?”

I laughed. “It depends what you think of as fun. But they really can’t show on TV or in movies what we spend most of our time doing; no one would watch. Research isn’t a spectator sport.” So I talked about my job for a bit as we rolled into Philadelphia.

The couple across the aisle from us got off the train and I noticed that Nicole, like me, was a bit nervous until two older women sat down there.

I looked at her sideways. “You know, I was enjoying our conversation so much . . . .”

She giggled. “Yeah, I know. I figured a guy would sit there and we would have to spend the next thirty miles explaining that we really weren’t alone before he showed up.”

I laughed with her.

“I was doing my ‘earbuds in the ears, NOT interested routine’ when I boarded,” she explained. “I was so relieved when you sat down next to me.”

I said, “Yeah, I’ll confess, I jumped at the chance to sit here because a guy helped me with my bags and I was afraid I’d have to deal with him the whole trip. Sometimes I wouldn’t mind, but I’m not in the mood. This has been so much better!”

She laughed, gave my knee a pat, and said, “Sure has!”

She was on her way to New York to spend Christmas with her parents and would stay through New Year’s. Audition season was officially over, but she had a late request to come in and audition at the Met for a part in its upcoming production of Aida.

“I’m so excited!” she said. “I’ve never had an audition at the Met, and it would be fabulous to perform there!” Her audition was scheduled for the same day as my oral argument up in Boston. When I told her where I was headed, she said, “I LOVE Boston – I got my Bachelor of Music at Berklee!”

Our conversation continued like this all the way through New Jersey. At some point I went to the cafeteria to get a coffee for myself and a tea for Nicole. I paused to ask the older women across from us if I could get them anything, and ended up coming back with two teas, two coffees, and a bottle of spring water.

“Thank you, young lady,” one of the women said. “You two seem to be having such a lovely time over there!”

“That’s what makes the world so wonderful, isn’t it?” And truth is, I couldn't have been more right.

As we approached Penn Station in New York, Nicole said, “You need to give me your number. It sounds like you don’t get out nearly enough. You should come up to Baltimore and have a girl’s night out with me and Maggie!” Maggie was her roommate.

“That would be a blast!” I gave her my “Cami App” number and took down her cell phone number.

The train slowed down and I got up to let her out. She rose gracefully and stepped into the aisle, and I saw that she was even more gorgeous than she had appeared when sitting. Probably 5’8”, curvy, with a waist that looked toned even through the deep red of her woolen dress. Her tight curls spilled all the way down her back and practically reached her rear end.

The train came to a stop and we gave each other a spontaneous hug. “Good luck,” I said as we embraced.

“You too! Have a great Christmas! And call me!”

The remainder of the trip was uneventful. I moved over to Nicole’s seat out of politeness, and my former seat was taken by a middle-aged guy with a pot belly who just sat back into the seat and closed his eyes.

I looked out the window and watched as we traveled along the Connecticut shoreline, thinking about how hard it had been to make friends my own age since leaving law school.

I was a bit of a loner in high school and even college, where I was honestly pretty obnoxious, trying to show my worth by proving how smart I was at every opportunity. In law school, though, I purposefully remade myself – something that was made possible by the fact that no one there had ever met me before. I chose to become someone who listened and asked questions, who was understanding and empathetic.

As a result of my efforts, I had made some real friends, but we scattered to the four winds after graduation. I had seen a couple who had ended up in D.C. a few times, but we were all working long hours and schedules seldom meshed.

I hadn’t made friends at the firm, although I was certainly friendly with people I worked with. Part of this, I knew, was that my social life had revolved around Liz since we had started dating, almost a year ago. I had made a lot of trips to Pittsburgh from last February through the middle of August. And, since Liz broke up with Cam, I had been spending all of my spare time discovering the woman inside the shell that Cam had become.

Spending a couple hours talking with Nicole had been a real balm for my soul. I marveled at how easily it had happened. I suppose Cam might have struck up a conversation with a guy he was sitting next to on a train for a few hours, but the chances that the conversation would have been particularly meaningful were slim.

I didn’t think this was just a Cam issue. Guys just don’t relate to each other like Nicole and I had done so spontaneously. They do things together more often than they simply talk to each other. This was an aspect of being a woman that I had not anticipated.

And I loved it.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Babbo, pietà, pietà”
– Puccini, Gianni Schicchi, O mio babbino caro (Aria)

Boston, Massachusetts, December 21, later that day

I arrived at Boston’s bustling South Station by mid-afternoon, wrestled my suitcase, garment bag, laptop bag, and purse onto the platform, and was greeted by freezing temperatures, overcast skies, and my sister Fiona.

Fi was at the end of the platform, clearly trying to find me in a river of humanity. Her eyes passed over me and then suddenly returned with a flash of recognition.

And, I thought, joy.

She immediately began pushing through the surging crowd like a salmon returning up a roaring stream to its hatching ground, so I edged forward to meet her.

She practically crushed me in a hug when she reached me, and probably would have managed but for the fact that I was encumbered by multiple bags and could not properly hug her back.

“I'm so glad you’re here!!!”

I managed to say, “Me too, Fi. Merry Christmas!”

She pulled back, held me at arm’s-length and took a good look. She was beaming. “You look good, girl! I wasn’t sure whether you would be traveling as Cami or as Cam.”

I explained that I had to dress as a male if I was flying, but trains were safe.

There was still snow on the ground from earlier in the month, though it no longer looked fresh and beautiful. We loaded my luggage into Fiona’s car, which was something sky blue and very small. “Practical for Boston,” she explained. She and Henry were renting a townhouse across the river in Cambridgeport, so she headed north.

While she drove, she asked about my trip and I told her about my wonderful encounter with Nicole. I mentioned my speculation that there was a kind of emotional connection that women have that men don’t.

She nodded, keeping her eyes firmly on the road – Boston drivers really are crazy Massholes. “Probably true. But women can be real bitches to each other, too. It’s not all hugs and kisses, I promise you.”

“Another illusion shattered,” I said with mock sorrow.

She pulled into a common garage, fished out a key card to raise the gate, and found a place to park. Then she grabbed my computer and garment bags, leaving me my suitcase, and we walked over to her unit.

“Haloo!” she called out as she came in the front door, to be answered by a pleasant-sounding male voice coming from upstairs. But she diverted me down a hallway and led me to a ground-floor bedroom, saying, “Just drop your stuff here – this is the guest bedroom – and we can go see what Henry’s been up to.”

I was grateful for the chance to drop my bag, and Fiona put my garment and computer bags on the neatly-made bed. “I see you’re still a neatnick,” I said, looking at the immaculate room.

She grinned a bit sheepishly. “Yeah, though I have to get help these days.” Then she grabbed my elbow and started guiding me out of the room.

Fiona had told me that I didn’t need to worry about Henry, and had reminded me that he had actually given her a hard time when he found out that she had reacted badly to hearing I was trans. But I had butterflies in my stomach.

My new relationship with Fi was still fragile; she didn’t really know me as Cami and had spent very little time even with Cam since she left for college, almost fifteen years ago. And she was really all the family I had left; my parents would never accept me and Iain didn’t have any use for me. Never had, come to that.

So it was very important to me that I make a good impression on Henry, whom she clearly adored. “Fi, can you give me a second to freshen up? Before I meet Henry for the first time?”

Her face went from mildly exasperated to understanding to mischievous in two seconds. She squeezed my arm. “He won’t bite and you look fabulous. But you won’t believe me, so why don’t you take a few minutes and come upstairs when you’re ready. I’ll see if Henry needs any help.”

I gave her another hug, more fierce than before, and whispered, “Thanks, Fi” into her hair, somewhere in the vicinity of her ear.

She left and I heard her light steps on the hardwood stairs.

Much as I wanted to change into a dress, I didn’t think that would be appropriate. Fi was wearing jeans so it was likely that Henry would be dressed casually, too.

I left my own stretchy jeans in place but removed my boots and put on a pair of nice flats. Discarding my sweater, I selected a camisole and a pretty rayon-poly blend top in emerald green with three-quarter sleeves and a soft collar, unbuttoned just enough to fold into a nice v-neck.

My over-the-shoulder loose braid with curled ends had held up well, but my makeup did need some freshening. Especially around the eyes, where my earlier tears had done some damage.

I didn’t know much about Henry – I had only seen a couple of photos, and Fiona’s email blast to family when they started becoming an item was pretty light on details. All I knew for certain was that he came from an old Boston family and his work had something to do with finance. Since Fi knew nothing about money and cared even less, she didn’t say much more about it than that. He went by “Henry,” which struck me as very formal.

Well, time to find out.

At the top of the stairs, the townhouse opened to a spacious living area combining a kitchen, dining room, and living room. Fiona and Henry were both in the kitchen fussing over something.

Henry was dressed in a maroon sweatshirt, so I thought I had guessed right in staying with jeans. He was a bit taller than Fi, with medium brown hair, a rectangular face, and pronounced laugh lines around his mouth and eyes.

He looked up, saw me at the top of the stairs, and immediately came around the kitchen island to greet me, a large and very genuine smile lighting up his face. “Cami! I’m so very glad to meet you!”

He gave me a quick hug and even a peck on the cheek, before stepping back, taking my arm and guiding me into the kitchen. “Come on in! Wow, you and Fi really do look alike!”

It was impossible not to like Henry. I’m sure that Fi had warned him that I was behaving like a frightened rabbit, but I expect he would have gone out of his way to make me feel comfortable even if she hadn’t. That’s just who he is.

He lit up when he discovered that I like baseball. Naturally, he was part of Red Sox Nation, and his fondest memories of the sport were from 2004, when the Sox became unbeatable at exactly the right time and broke their 87-year old curse.

“I was eighteen, and my Dad took me to game 4 of the ALCS. Can you believe it? I was there, right there, when Big Papi hit the game-winning homer in extra innings. Half the fans had left when we were down a run going into the ninth; figured it would be just like 2003!”

I marveled at his good fortune. As a Cardinal’s fan I didn’t have good memories of 2004, when the Sox had mowed us down in four straight games to win the World Series. But game four of the 2004 ALCS between the Sox and the Yankees is probably one of the most iconic moments in baseball.

Of course, The National’s improbable run in the last season, and their come-from-behind win in game seven of the World Series against the Houston Asterisks, had similar magic. I was able to give a first-hand account of Mad Max Scherzer’s amazing pitching in game two of the NLCS — unforgettable even though he was delivering a beat-down to my beloved Red Birds.

Henry and I were chatting away like besties when I looked over to see Fiona looking on with an expression that was both bemused and happy. I gave her a big smile that said, “Okay, you were right,” and “Great catch, Sis!” all in one. Around 6:00 we paused and Henry went to check whatever it was he was cooking.

I took the opportunity to say to Fi, “Don’t tell me he cooks, too!”

She got a beatific smile on her face. “You can make your own judgment about that. But I’m a fan!”

“That’s good, because I don’t remember you having any interest in cooking!”

She laughed. “Well, it isn’t Mom’s thing either, really, so it’s lucky I learned to boil water. I got by, but Henry really enjoys it and knows what he’s doing.”

Despite her light tone, I noticed that a shadow crossed her face at the mention of Mom.

I went to join her on the couch and captured her hand. “How are you doing, Fi,” I asked softly. “I know you put on a good show, but that fight with Mom and Dad must have really hurt.”

She looked down at her hand, captured in mine. Ironically, but unsurprisingly given her line of work, my nails looked better than hers.

“No regrets, Cami, if that’s what you’re asking. I’d do it again, in a heartbeat. . . . But yeah. It hurts. A lot.” She shook her head. “By the time you came along, I think parenting had worn them down. Life had worn them down. But when I was a little girl — really little — they were so happy. And I knew how much they loved me, and I wanted them to be proud of me. Wanted it so bad!”

She was starting to tear up, so I wrapped my left arm around her and pulled her close.

“I thought I could reach them. Because they loved me so much, you know? I could make them accept Iain, accept you. Could make them see how much they loved you too. Big sister was going to come in on her frickin’ white horse and save the day, and everything would be right again. Everything would be perfect. And we could all be a happy family again . . . .” She was crying harder now.

I looked over her head to Henry; saw he was watching from the kitchen. My eyes implored, but he shook his head and pointed to me. I gave an almost imperceptible nod. Clearly I was the one Fiona needed to talk to about this.

“I told you before, you’ll always be my hero, Fi.” I put all of my love into my voice.

She squeezed my hand in acknowledgement but didn’t look up. “And then when they said those horrible things about Iain, I got so mad. And I lost it with them, and gave them an ultimatum. And then . . . then Daddy called me an ‘ingrate.’ Said he never wanted to see me again! Daddy said that. To me!”

I had no difficulty imagining our father saying such a thing, but I had never had the kind of relationship with him that Fiona had once had.

I had no words. In a real sense, I had caused this. My decision – my recognition – that I was female where it mattered most had caused this. Fiona would be in St. Louis with Henry right now if I had been willing to join them — as “Cam.”

But for my need to be honest with Fiona about who and what I was, and my unwillingness to continue the charade with my family, she wouldn’t have issued her ultimatum. She would still be the Golden Child, and her daddy would be walking her down the aisle when she married her wonderful guy.

“Oh, Fi, I’m so sorry! So very sorry. If I hadn’t been so selfish . . . I could have kept quiet. Could have waited! I owed you so much more than that!”

Her hand gripped mine like a vice. “No!” she hissed, emphatically. “Don’t you even think that, Cami! Don’t ever think that!”

“But it’s true,” I said, voice hoarse. My tears were coming hard. “I’m still Cam Savin at work. I can do it. I could have been Cam Savin for you, for our parents, for a while longer. Long enough . . . .”

“Long enough to get me through the wedding, is that what you mean?”

I nodded spasmodically. I felt her left hand on my cheek, though I was too blinded by tears to see it.

“Henry set me right about that, Cami. It’s just a ceremony. A celebration. I was all focused on how it was supposed to be. You and Iain and Rob, Henry’s younger brother, would be groomsmen. My best friend Cassie Johnson would be my Matron of Honor. Dad would walk me down the aisle. And everything would be just so. Everything perfect. Everyone happy."

"But don’t you see?" she implored. "It would have been a lie. The man I wanted to have walk me down the aisle would never, ever, have turned his back on you. Would never, ever, have disowned Iain. I tried to reach him, tried to bring that man back.

“This will sound conceited, but if the love he once had for me wasn’t enough to bring him back, he’s gone. That’s his body walking around, but Daddy’s gone. And you are not responsible for that. Hell, they don’t even know that you're trans.”

She paused, but I just said nothing, could only sit there, overcome with guilt and grief.

She continued, her voice urgent. “And how would it have been, if Mom and Dad had agreed to accept Iain for my sake, and to apologize to you for Thanksgiving? Even if I’d had my picture perfect wedding, and we had all the photos of the family, and they all looked perfect, just like I had always imagined?”

I could see where she was going, sure enough.

She confirmed it. “It would all have been a lie, and it would have unraveled just as soon as you came out. Because as soon as you let Mom and Dad see who you really are, we both know what would happen. So the pictures would all be a fantasy, a fake image of a perfect family.”

Still, I said nothing. I’m not sure I could still speak.

“Cami, listen to me. Please. I’m sorry that I’ve lost Mom and Dad. That we all have. Sorry beyond words. But it’s not your fault. It’s not Iain’s fault. And, though I could have handled things a lot better, it’s not my fault. It’s theirs. Somewhere along the line, they lost the capacity to love us unconditionally for who we are, even if our choices disappoint them. That’s on them.”

I tried taking a breath, but found myself gulping for air, my throat tight. I felt someone pull my left hand from Fi’s shoulder and bring it back to my side. Someone was wrapping both of my hands around a glass of something cold.

I heard Henry’s voice; could vaguely sense him standing over me. “Just take it in sips, Cami. Take it slow.”

I brought the glass to my lips and cool water trickled down my throat. I tried another breath. Better. After three or four sips I felt for the coffee table and put the glass down. Henry – pretty sure it was Henry – was pressing a tissue into my hands. I made use of it, recovering my vision as my throat’s constriction eased.

I looked up. “Thank you, Henry.”

Fiona looked about as bad as I felt.

I smiled wanly at them both. “Not the cheerful dinner companions you deserve, Henry, especially after all your work.”

He smiled back easily. “Don’t worry about that. It’s a stew, and we can eat it whenever. You two needed to cry this out.”

I looked at my sister. “Damn, but you did good!”

That, at least, got a smile from her.

Henry said, “I’m going to send both of you to your rooms for a half hour to recover. Take a couple aspirin or you’ll hate the headache you’ll get from the crying. Come back dressed for dinner, why don’t you?” he added, with a wink for me.

“But before you go, if an outsider can make an observation?” he asked.

We looked at each other, then both nodded.

“You can’t deal with the people your parents have become, but you still love them, right? If only for who they were, what they meant to you?”

Fi nodded emphatically; my nod was more tentative.

“Then I think you should assume that they do still love you both, in the same way that you love them. They can’t deal with who you have become. That means you can’t have a relationship; I understand that. And it’s worth grieving. But it doesn’t mean they stopped loving you.”

Fi gave him a hug and headed upstairs to their bedroom. I simply touched his arm in gratitude and went downstairs.

Truth is, I barely even viewed them as my parents at this point. Unlike Fi, my relationship with them had been distant. So long as I got good grades, they didn’t bother me.

I got good grades.

Fiona had been far more important to me emotionally when I was a child than either of them. Fi was rock-solid certain of their love; I never had a sense of it. It was easier for me to step away from a relationship with our parents. But I deeply regretted my role in causing pain to Fiona, even if that role was indirect.

Nonetheless, there was nothing I could do to change things now. All that I could do to make amends was to be the best sister, and the best sister-in-law, that anyone could wish for.

And that, I resolved, was exactly what I would do.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Ce doux espoir de bonheur”
– Donizetti, La Fille du Régiment, Ah! mes amis (Aria)

Boston, Massachusetts, December 21, immediately following

Per Henry’s suggestion, I took two Advil and washed them down with twelve ounces of cold water. I carefully removed my makeup; if my earlier tears had caused damage, my later flood had caused the facial equivalent of a mudslide. I saturated a washcloth with warm water and just held it to my face, feeling the pores open.

Then I removed the washcloth, put it under cold water for a minute, and brought it back to my face. This time I held it for at least three minutes. When I removed it again, my face no longer looked puffy. I fished around in my toiletries and found some eyedrops, tilted my head back and applied them liberally.

Henry’s implied challenge was just what I needed. I stripped down to my panties and gaff, removing even my bra, reapplied the makeup covering the seams of my prosthetic breasts, then completely redid my facial makeup, going for a much more dramatic evening look. Rather than smokey-eye, which isn’t really my thing, I applied two tones of blue, one darker and the other more iridescent, to bring out the clear blue of my eyes.

I slipped on a waist cincher with garter snaps, then sat to carefully roll a sheer dark stocking up each leg. One of the first dresses I had bought for myself – a red slip dress with a straight front — was perfect for the evening. It exposed my natural chest to just above the seams of my prosthetics, in a way that made it appear that the flesh over my unimpressive pecs was naturally rising to well-shaped breasts. I appreciated the illusion.

I had to wear the dress without a bra because the back plunged into a deep U, coming to a point at the very end that was just above the waist cincher; long spaghetti straps went from the far sides of each breast and connected low in the back.

Once I had my dress in place, I took the ties out of my hair and brushed it out. I parted it slightly to the left and covered my forehead left to right with tresses clipped with a barrette. The remainder I brought around from the back to cascade over my right shoulder and down toward my right breast. It was a good look for fancier occasions.

I finished the look with drop earrings, a couple of thin bracelets, and a pair of three-inch heels. After checking myself in the mirror I decided it would pass, though the slip dress was pretty daring. I can’t resist a direct challenge to my womanhood!

I checked the clock and saw that I had taken closer to forty minutes than thirty. Oh, well. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I took myself up the stairs, taking small steps to retain my balance.

My hosts were standing close together near the dining room table, looking elegant. Fiona was wearing a long, form-fitting strapless dress in a jewel-toned blue that made her strawberry-blonde hair, pulled into an attractive updo, look almost fiery. A sapphire and diamond choker flashed at the base of her neck; her arms were bare of jewelry but her engagement ring flared on her left hand. Her makeup, like mine, was dramatic.

The dress did a wonderful job of showcasing Fi’s figure. She wasn’t especially busty nor were her hips all that wide, but she had a high, narrow waist that made everything around it look bigger, and she had a delightfully round and pert rump.

Jealous!

Her skin, like mine, was almost translucent, white with a blue undertone, but hers was softer, finer. It positively glowed in the subdued lighting Henry had selected.

Henry demonstrated what understatement can do for a man. To complement Fiona, he wore a crisp linen shirt in the same tone, but a lighter shade, as her dress, with gray wool dress pants and an immaculately-tailored, black silk blazer. His only jewelry was a watch, which looked both discreet and expensive.

Fiona was the first to react to my appearance. Just like the first time she saw me dressed as Cami, her eyes went wide and her mouth formed a silent “O.” When she wasn’t slaying dragons, Fi could be quite adorable. She glided over in her stilettos, matching my height almost exactly, and held out her hands.

I put mine in them.

“Let me try starting this over, okay? Cami, thank you so much for coming. I hope you had a lovely trip. Won’t you join us for dinner?”

I worked to match her light tone, but couldn’t quite. “Fi, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this lovely. You are the best sister anyone ever had. Except for the sister I promise to become. Except for that. Now,” I said, before I started choking up again, “let’s eat!”

Dinner was fabulous. Henry hadn’t cooked a “stew,” he had made Boeuf Bourguignon and fresh bread. He paired it with a perfect Pinot Noir and it was heaven on earth. We all kept the conversation light, and the candles provided a sense of timeless elegance.

“We eat like this all the time,” Henry said, with a straight face. “Which is why Fi has an entire closet of evening gowns. Just for dinner.”

Fiona managed – barely – to keep the wine in her mouth from coming out her nose, and wagged a finger at him.

“Truth is,” she said, “we almost never have time to even cook properly. And I can’t remember the last time we had an occasion to dress up. But we wanted to do something extra special for you. After all, Henry’s never met anyone from our family before.”

Before that could go in awkward directions, she said, “And Iain, of course, will never put up with any fuss of any sort. I really hope he comes to visit – I have invited him – but I’m afraid we’ll take a lot of ribbing for our bourgeois middle class lifestyle. And that’s assuming he doesn't find out that Henry’s actually slumming.”

I giggled. “Yeah, I was trying to figure out earlier how you planned to get Iain to wear a tux for your wedding. A collared shirt might be pushing things!”

She laughed. “Iain’s Iain. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

I asked if she had spoken to him since Thanksgiving.

She confirmed that she had. “By his own account he’s doing okay. Naturally he told me not to worry about him, and gave me grief for telling Mom and Dad they should reconcile with him — since, it should go without saying, he has no intention of reconciling with them. He did tell me that he’s actually not gay, and specifically mentioned that he’d told you.”

“Yeah, he was being pig-headed,” I agreed. “What’s new? But he told me not to say anything, and I figured it was his secret to tell. I’m glad I don’t have to hide that nugget from you, though.”

Dinner was followed by a fresh-baked apple crisp that cooked while we were eating dinner, paired with a single scoop of vanilla ice cream and a splash of brandy, together with decaf coffee that Henry ground while the water was heating.

I was impressed; not too many people are as fanatical about coffee as I am, though the use of decaf surprised me.

“No choice,” Henry said. “We are a bit older than you are, and it has more of an effect later in the day. Still, I found one of the few indie roasters in town that makes a CO2-processed decaf, and that’s not nearly as bad as anything else you’ll find.”

Trying it, I had to agree.

We finally ended up back in the living room by the gas fire. I was in a comfy chair; Henry and Fiona were snuggled together on the couch.

Henry poured each of us a thimbleful of the good brandy as a nightcap. “Having a nice dinner with my lovely bride-to-be and her beautiful sister, all of us dressed to the nines, required a suitably sophisticated finish. Very civilized.”

“Henry, I was pretty nervous about meeting you. I didn’t know what to expect. Fi’s descriptions were long on superlatives and short on details. But you’ve made me feel so very welcome, and under really extraordinary circumstances. Thank you.”

He acknowledged this with a smile and a wave of his snifter, then said, with equal seriousness, “It’s really a pleasure to meet you too. I’ve probably heard more about you than you have about me – I do live with Fi, after all. But I didn’t really know what to expect either. Even Fi doesn’t know you that well anymore; it’s been a lot of years since you saw much of each other.”

He paused a moment, thinking, then added, “That’s a blessing, though, in a way. I get to see you through my own eyes, rather than seeing you more through Fi’s. And I want you to know that you are always welcome here. Always.”

None of us were eager to go to bed; the night seemed magical. Fi was kinder, better, more understanding with Henry at her side; her fire not so much banked as focused. They wanted to know more about my story – how I discovered my female self; how I nurtured it; what my living situation was; how things were going at work.

I elided the first issue; my journey of discovery had some pretty shocking moments and I didn’t necessarily want to share them with my perfect older sister, much less her equally perfect fiancé. But I discussed the rest pretty honestly, including my recent and aborted romantic interlude.

Fi looked at me thoughtfully. “I guess I hadn’t thought about how your gender change might affect your sexual orientation. You sound pretty certain it’s switched?”

“I guess ‘pretty certain’ is about how I’d phrase it. I’m certain that, as Cami, I notice men, and find them attractive. Well,” I added, “If they are attractive, that is!”

Fi smiled.

“I notice beautiful women, too, though,” I continued. “I mean, Nicole had to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever personally met, and I certainly noticed. But . . . I didn’t feel any urge to do anything about it. I didn’t want to ask her out or anything. Didn’t fantasize about getting her in bed. I just wanted us to be friends.”

“I’d tell you to be careful,” Fi said, “but you know that already, and it sounds like you are being careful. Guys can just be so unpredictable.”

Henry snorted. “Women, of course, are renowned for their predictability and linear thinking!”

Fi and I both responded with appropriate mirth.

“She’s right on this one, Henry,” I said, becoming serious. “And I think you’ll agree I may have a unique perspective, since for me the ‘battle of the sexes’ is kind of like a civil war that the ‘Y’ chromosome lost. Men and women are unpredictable in different ways. But women’s unpredictability doesn’t usually come with the possibility of physical violence; the vast majority of violent assaults are carried out by men.”

To illustrate the point, I said, “If I had led Steve on, just continued to let the relationship develop, and he had found out I was trans when we were alone, just the two of us . . . well. I don’t really think he would have hurt me. But I can’t ever discount the possibility that he might have. That’s not something I ever had to worry about as Cameron Savin.”

Henry looked grim. “Fi’s right. Be careful.”

They were delighted to hear that I had found such a great mentor in Eileen. But Fi agreed with my analysis that the time wasn’t right for me to discuss my changing gender. “I think you’re wise to be sensitive to the needs of your team and your client, so long as there’s a defined end-date. When you’re in a position to have the talk with them – presumably, with Eileen – I think they’ll appreciate how you ‘handle’ the timing.”

Henry nodded in agreement. “Lots of organizations have non-discrimination policies,” he said. “My firm does. Your firm does too; I looked it up.”

I was surprised at that, which made him smile. “I like to do my research,” he explained. “And Cavandish, Edwards and Gunn touts their policy on their website. I’m surprised you haven’t looked.”

I looked suitably sheepish.

“It’s all just words, though, unless people really feel it,” he added. “It's hard to know whether they do until you test it . . . unless someone else has gone first?”

I shook my head. “If they’ve had a trans attorney, I think I would know about it. But there are hundreds of lawyers and multiple offices. I might not know.”

“Well anyway,” he said, “when the time comes, you’ll see whether the policy is just words, or if the people running the place believe it. If they don’t, you’ll know. And here’s my advice if they don’t — go find someplace that does. You’re a lawyer; you know what your rights are. But a position you have to sue to get isn’t one that’s worth having. You don’t need that in your life, when there are so many other options.”

It must have been 1:30 in the morning before we called it a night.

I gave Henry a hug and Fiona an even longer one. “Good night, sis. Thank you. For everything. I love you so much!”

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix”
– Saint-Saëns, Samson et Dalila, Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix (Aria)

Boston, Massachusetts, December 22

Despite the late night, I was up at 6:00, only an hour later than my usual time. I put my dark-green dressing gown over my light green nightie, and went into the bathroom to see whether I was fit to be seen.

Sigh. Not yet. There are times when being a woman is hard!

On with the padded panty gaff. Now I’ve got a couple of curves again. Brush out the hair; put it back in my loose side braid. Shave, scrub my face, brush my teeth. Put on a bit of lipstick and treat my face with cleanser and moisturizer. Okay. Good enough for first thing in the morning, if I’m spotted.

I padded upstairs and heard no noises. The door at the top of the stairs to the third floor was closed, but the door at the bottom of the stairs was open. I closed it very softly, then went to hunt around in the kitchen.

Based on our conversation last night, I had actually learned a bit more cooking than Fi had. Even if I would never be in Henry’s league, I could surely manage to come up with something tasty for breakfast.

First things first, and that meant coffee. As I expected, Henry kept his fresh beans in the freezer. I had noticed where he kept his grinder and his thermal pot, so I had all of that going in short order.

Rummaging around the refrigerator produced eggs, several cheeses, scallions, spinach, bacon . . . . Easy peasy. I looked in all the appropriate places and found a suitable casserole dish and put together the makings for a frittata. We could slice and lightly toast the leftover bread from last night, and it would be perfect.

Once I had the frittata ready to go, I covered the casserole with Saran wrap and put it in the refrigerator so it wouldn’t be done too soon. I poured myself a cup of coffee and padded back downstairs.

There wasn’t room in the first floor to do my usual morning exercises, but I did my stretches, then I got undressed, removed the makeup again, and took a proper shower, including all of the necessary shaving, shampooing, conditioning . . . .

When I got out of the shower, I put some mousse and rollers in my hair, covered it in a towel turban, slipped back into my dressing gown and listened at the bottom of the stairs before tiptoeing to the top. No one there. But, I saw that the lower door to the third floor staircase was now open and the coffee pot was showing signs of having been raided.

Good. I pulled the frittata out of the refrigerator, turned the oven on to preheat it, and hurried back downstairs.

My nails still looked good, so I wasn’t going to fuss with them. I wasn’t sure what we were doing today. One or both of them might have to work, but it seemed unlikely given how late they had stayed up. So I went with something versatile – dark tights; black boots, my full, deep red skirt, and a gray, merino wool sweater.

I zipped back upstairs and heard the third-floor shower going, so I put the frittata into the oven and got back downstairs to do my face and my hair while it cooked. All the popping up and down stairs led me to singing to myself, "When I up, down, touch the ground, it puts me in the mood; up down, touch the ground, in the mood for food!"

As I was taking the frittata out of the oven, Fiona poked her head out of the doorway to the third floor. “Good morning, sunshine,” she said. “What are you doing up so early?”

“This is late for me!” I said.

“Me too,” Fi said, “but not on my days off. What is that incredible smell?”

I showed off the frittata.

“Oh, wonderful. I’m sharing a house with two cooks! What could be better!”

I was feeling pretty virtuous since Fiona was still in her nightgown, covered by a soft flannel robe. Her hair was loose and more disheveled than usual.

She said, “Henry won’t be down until he’s properly dressed, which will be in about five minutes, I’d estimate. But he’s my fiancé and you're my sister, so I don’t care if you both see me looking like this.”

I came over and refilled her coffee and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You always look perfect to me, Fi.”

“Ha!”

I was determined. No little brother humor from me. I suppose I might have tried for little sister humor, if I had the first idea of what it sounded like. But I was not going to tell Fi that she looked like the back end of a long night, even if she did. And besides — she always did look perfect to me.

Fi’s prediction was right on the money; Henry was down in five minutes, looking freshly cleaned and comfortable in nice-looking jeans, a casual button-down shirt and a pullover sweater with an intricate pattern of reds, olive greens, golds, and russet brown. We sat at the bar and had coffee, the frittata and some toasted bread, and nobody said much until it was done.

Henry was complimentary and wanted to know what spices I had used. We discussed alternatives that would have subtly different flavor variations.

Fi went for her third cup of coffee. When she was feeling more human, she asked what I’d like to do with the day, and if I needed to do any work.

“Nothing I need to get done today. I figured I would work when you were both working too, so I can see more of you.” I smiled. I seem to smile a lot, as Cami. “I’ve never been to Boston, so I’d love to just stroll around. If there’s stuff you need to do, I can go by myself, though obviously I’d love your company.”

They had freed their schedule for me, and both of them thought a walking tour would be perfect. Fiona went upstairs to get a shower and get dressed while Henry and I handled the clean up.

While we were waiting for Fi, I asked Henry about the plan for Christmas.

In my parent’s house Christmas eve had been a bigger deal than Christmas day, at least in terms of family. We would spend the whole day visiting – my Dad’s parents, Ted and Lenore Savin, and my mom’s mother, Catriona Campbell, ending the evening with a big dinner at her father’s house. Gavin Ross was a tall, gaunt man haunted by too many memories of World War II; he and “Gammy Campbell” were divorced, but both of them loved their daughter with Gaelic ferocity.

Henry’s family had different traditions. “Folks are pretty much on their own for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. We usually get together at Uncle Chip’s big house on Beacon Hill for dinner early in the afternoon on Christmas. Probably forty to fifty people, give or take.

“Chip’s kind of taken on the mantle of the head of the family since Grandfather died two years ago. Pretty classic New England Christmas stuff. I don’t do the tree and decorations here, only because I couldn’t possibly compete with what he does.”

I was trying to figure out how I might politely ask whether Henry and Fi expected me to go, whether I was invited, and how I actually felt about it.

I must have been losing my poker face, because Henry touched my shoulder. “You’re absolutely welcome to come, and Fi and I would love it if you did. But it’s a hundred percent up to you. If you are at all uncomfortable, you don’t have to come. Fi and I will need to make an appearance, but it can be as long or as short as we want.”

I thought about it. “Do they know that I’m trans?”

He assured me that neither he nor Fiona had said anything to anyone about my being trans. “But, Fi and I have been dating for a year and a half, we’ve had dinner with my folks a half dozen times or so, and one or both of my brothers were around on some of those occasions. I’d be surprised if she didn’t mention having two brothers at some point.”

Hmmm. That does present a dilemma. “Let’s give it some thought,” I told him. “I absolutely don't want you to miss any of your family Christmas. I also don’t want to cause a scene or make any trouble — and I’m really sorry if I have.”

“Thanks, Cami,” he said, “But my family would be insulted if I left Fi’s sister home while we came to the party. And, if they feel differently based on what’s listed on your birth certificate, then they would be causing trouble, not you.”

While I appreciated what Henry was saying, I didn’t want to be the source of any friction, regardless of whether I was “at fault.”

When Fi came down, we bundled into warm coats and Fiona loaned me a powder-blue knit cap and she put on a matching one in white. “You two look too cute,” Henry said, snapping a couple of shots on his phone.

I don’t think I had been called “cute” since I was five. But standing there with Fi in ski caps, I even felt cute!

While we walked to the Bunker Hill Memorial, Fi suggested that we might want to raise the issue with Henry’s parents at least, and possibly with his brothers, as they were the only ones who might have a clue.

Henry’s take was that we shouldn’t. “Let’s not make a big deal about it. You're coming with me; no one’s going to hassle you.” So, with some trepidation on my part, that’s what we decided to do.

The Memorial is a big obelisk on a hill (Breed’s Hill, naturally) that has a commanding view of the City of Boston across the Charles. We all decided to walk up to the observation deck of the monument for both the exercise and the view.

I was happy to find that my morning workouts over the past six weeks were paying off; I made it up the 294 steps without any huffing and puffing. Fi and Henry both seemed to be in good shape, too.

It was a cold day, and although it was overcast the air was clean and the view spectacular. I got some shots of Fi and Henry, looking very engaged. Very in love.

Henry took a few of Fi and me. I told him I wanted copies. Being a little sister was a million times better than being a little brother!

A good-looking Park Ranger was answering questions about the battle; I watched him talking to a boy, probably twelve or so, who was there with his mom. I liked the Ranger’s attitude – not talking down to the boy; treating his questions respectfully and giving him factual answers in ways that were still interesting.

The Ranger caught me watching him; my cheeks dimpled in a smile and I gave him a wink.

He smiled back and returned his attention to the boy.

Fi caught me looking too, and matched my wink.

I made sure I wasn’t being observed and stuck my tongue out at her. Laughing, we turned and walked back down.

From the memorial, we followed the red brick markers of the Freedom Trail down to the navy yard, where we went aboard the USS Constitution, a three-masted heavy frigate that is the oldest commissioned ship in the U.S. Navy. It was sufficiently cold that there were few visitors.

I tried to imagine the ship swarming with the hundreds of men that had been required to sail her. The mind boggled.

Next up, we crossed the Charles and went to Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market, great places to people watch even in the cold of late December. Groups of young women in tight formations, physically close, animated. Young men in smaller groups, carefully observing personal space, louder, ribbing each other, being bros. Young families; couples arm-in-arm. The unmistakable smell of roasting chestnuts. The ring-ring-ringing of collections for the Salvation Army.

Suddenly I was drawn to the sound of choral music. I glanced at Henry and Fiona, asked a question with my eyebrows.

“Sure,” Henry said.

We made our way over to where the choir gathered. They were silent as we approached, then a young man stepped forward and raised his voice in a high, clear tenor, piercing the cold air with Handel’s famous setting of Isaiah.

“Comfort ye! Comfort ye, my people, saith your God! Saith your God! Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem . . . Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her, that her warfare, her warfare, is accomplished. That her iniquity is pardoned . . . that her iniquity is pardoned!”

For the second time in as many days, I was struck by the power of a solitary voice, here raised in a paean of joy, of comfort, of good news, a bookend to Floria Tosca’s song of despair and abandonment.

I thought of Nicole, of her passion for music. I thought of my friend Sarah, living her vocation by bringing comfort to the broken, the rejected. I thought of Fi, weeping bitterly at her rejection by the father whose love had been a bedrock of her childhood.

I turned and gave her a one-armed hug, my eyes misty.

She looked at me quizzically, and I pulled her in close. “Comfort ye, too, Fi.”

She hugged me back hard, understanding.

The choir finished the song and we turned to walk away. We hadn’t turned the corner when they broke into “Ev’ry Valley” and I slowed to hear the familiar words. “Every valley shall be exalted . . . every mountain and hill made low . . . the crooked straight . . . the rough places plain.”

I pondered the imagery, and thought of the mountains of prejudice yet to be leveled, the valleys of ignorance still to be filled . . . . Please, God, I prayed, get us through all the rough patches. Bring us safe home.

I found I was no longer moving, and Fi and Henry turned back to see me standing still.

I looked at my sister. My hero. “Fi? Will you come with me to a Christmas service? Is there somewhere – anywhere in this city – that has a place for us? For me?”

I was engulfed in a crushing hug, and Fiona said fiercely, “Of course there is, Cami. And we’ll find it!”

To be continued . . . .

~o~O~o~

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Voi che sapete”
– Mozart, Le Nozze di Figaro, Voi che sapete (Aria)

Cambridgeport, Massachusetts, Christmas Eve

As soon as I woke up, my body told me that I had slept in; my internal clock is like a nightmare drill sergeant. But I lay still for a minute rather than jumping up. Took a minute to orient myself to time and place, smiling as I remembered the previous few days.

I got myself out of bed, took a shower and dressed casually. I had the house to myself for the morning, since Henry and Fi were both at work. So I spent a few hours preparing for the oral arguments that I would be presenting on Friday by reviewing all of the briefs, digesting key cases and making a short outline.

Fi – for these purposes, Dr. Fiona Campbell Savin, M.D. – worked at Mass General’s infectious disease unit. She had arranged to get off at around 12:30 in the afternoon. When she got back to the house, we had a light lunch, then she whisked me off to her salon for some pre-holiday primping.

I had been to salons before, starting with one owned by the two wonderful guys who were now my landlords. I had also been to a salon in Pittsburgh, where Liz had dropped me off to get me all beautiful for a photoshoot that never quite happened. That’s a different story.

Long and short of it was, I wasn’t concerned. If the girls at Liz’s shop had suspected anything, they had kept quiet about it, and I thought that would likely be the same here. Fi was obviously a regular customer and they weren’t going to do anything to upset her.

And, to be honest and girly as all hell, I really enjoy myself in salons. It is such a thoroughly, completely, wonderfully feminine place. There is no remotely comparable experience for the male of the species.

Men go to barber shops. In the old days – and, I understand, it may still be true in rural areas or in the Black community – the barber shop was kind of like a bar for sober people, providing an excuse to hang out and talk, while incidentally losing some inches up top.

Nowadays, men mostly go to places like Supercuts that don’t have any social function.

But even the best old-time barbershop had nothing like the experience of being surrounded by people who are easing tired feet, removing dead skin, clearing your pores, trimming up your nails and making them pretty, and fussing with your hair. It’s incredibly sensual, very personal, and at the same time, social.

What I discovered this time was that it is an even better experience when you don’t go alone. Fi hadn’t had time for the salon for quite a while; her work was even more demanding than mine. And, she enjoyed herself as much as I did. We had our nails painted the same color – an archipelago of forty identical islands of cranberry red, just for the season, with lipstick and gloss to match.

It looked so cute that we decided to match hairstyles as well. I was surprised to find that my hair was as long as Fi’s at the moment. I had been letting it grow for over four years.

Fiona shook her head. “At least five times a week, I threaten to cut it all off. It’s such a pain to deal with and I don’t have time to fuss. But whenever I come in here, I talk myself out of it. I guess I’m still too much of a girl to let it go. And besides . . . .” She blushed.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Henry likes it?”

She giggled. “That he does.”

“Good,” I said. “Besides, you’ll want to be able to do something elaborate with it for the wedding.”

“I have thought about that,” she confessed. “It’s another reason I haven’t cut it. But I haven’t really decided what to do with it.”

After checking my nails to ensure that they were dry enough, I fished out my phone. I had to go through a browser and a couple of security screens, but eventually I pulled up a photo and showed it to Fi. “How about something like this?” I was blushing a bit myself.

She looked at the photo, did a double take, looked at me sideways, then back at the photo. It was one of Liz’s masterpieces — the one in sepia, showing me in an elaborate dressing room, wearing a corset and voluminous crinoline petticoats. I was seated, gracefully stretching down to roll a lacy stocking up one of my legs, my foot delicately pointed.

Liz had caught my face in three-quarter profile, providing a very good view of an extremely elaborate updo, mixing curls and twists and small braids and requiring, as I recalled, a lot of pins and product.

“What on earth . . . ?” She was searching for words. “When . . .” She stopped again. “You look stunning. And yes, I like the hairstyle. Very appropriate . . . for a wedding. You didn’t get married without telling me, did you?” She was only half joking.

I laughed. “Let me see now . . . . Hmmm. . . . Nope. A friend of mine, who I met through work, is an amateur photographer. We were just playing around.”

“Just playing around? Well, okay. I guess. But if your friend’s an amateur, I’m John the Baptist.” She gave me a pretty funny look, but decided not to push further.

I hadn’t told her much about how I had come to explore my feminine side, and Fi is quite sharp enough to have noticed that my story had some major gaps. But she evidently figured out that I wasn’t going to say more.

Instead, she said, “Would you mind if I had a copy? I just love this photo. You look so amazing. Like a model.”

I blushed again, but airdropped a copy to her phone.

After our salon experience, we stopped at a Whole Foods (which was a zoo, of course, but they really know how to move people along), and then went back to the townhouse.

Henry had left detailed instructions for not only what we needed to purchase fresh, but also what needed to be chopped, what needed to be marinated, and all manner of prep work.

Fi and I set to the tasks together, dressed casually even though our makeup and hairstyles were pretty formal.

Henry got back from work around 7:00. His work “uniform” looked, as I expected, stylish, understated, and expensive as hell. It wasn’t what he was wearing – dress slacks, navy blue blazer, blindingly white dress shirt with French cuffs – as it was the exquisite tailoring.

I knew that he did something related to finance and investments, but I didn’t really know the details and had been a bit reluctant to pry.

He had gotten home, given Fi an appreciative look and a long kiss and shot me a smile and a wink before removing his jacket, donning an apron, and getting to work in the kitchen.

Fi and I set the table, bringing out the tablecloth that was only used for Christmas. We had picked up flowers at Whole Foods – seasonal greens, really – and I tried my hand at an arrangement while Fiona brought out the place settings and the crystal.

I thought wistfully of Ingrid Harrison, the avid gardener and arranger of flowers, whose son Steve had been such a disappointment – to me, certainly, but also, I suspect, to her. Ingrid, I thought, could do a much better job with Christmas greens than I was doing! I hoped that she, too, was having a good Christmas.

Once dinner was all in the oven, Fi and I retired to our respective rooms and changed. This time I went with a skirt and sweater, knowing that we would be going out after dinner and that it would be cold.

The skirt was black wool and, like most of my skirts, full rather than form-fitting so as to give an illusion of a narrower waist and fuller hips. The sweater was a very light cashmere that hung beautifully and felt wonderful as it slid across the nylon of my bra and camisole.

My outfit wasn’t nearly as formal as the red slip dress I had worn the night I’d arrived in Boston, but my salon hair – a simple but elegant updo, leaving a few strands to curl lazily down past one ear and spill onto my shoulder, as if they had inadvertently broken free – helped to compensate.

It was another wonderful dinner, Fi and Henry the perfect hosts. We had coffee at about 10:30, then hopped in their car and went downtown for the Midnight Christmas service at St. Paul’s Episcopal Cathedral.

Fi and I had both been raised in a non-denominational church that was Calvinist, evangelical, and conservative, but neither of us were members of any church presently. Henry said his family had always been part of the Anglican Communion, and he thought we would feel welcome there.

And so, as Christmas Eve turned to Christmas, I stood in that sacred space as an angelic choir sang Silent Night. My wonderful sister stood on my right, together with the good man who would share her life.

I wept at the beauty of it all.

I don’t know enough, I decided, to know where I belong. But Henry’s church seemed right for that moment. I was transported by the music and moved by the stately service, reconnecting to a faith that was as deeply felt as it was undefined.

We were back at the townhouse at around 1:30, but Henry insisted there were two things that absolutely, positively had to be done before we could go to bed.

The first was that we were all required to hang our stockings by the chimney with care. “The care,” he said, “is absolutely mandatory. It says so in the poem. So get to it. Show some ‘care,’ why don’t you!”

We laughed and complied, and I was duly provided with a knit stocking for that purpose.

Then he said, “The last thing that has to happen is that we have to read the Christmas story from Luke, out loud. My grandfather used to do it. My father no doubt did it earlier this evening. I did it last year, our first Christmas together in this townhouse. But I’d like you to do the reading tonight.”

He offered me the chair by the fire and handed me a Bible, bookmarked at the correct page. It was a newer book, but it was still King James.

I looked at Henry and whispered, “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

I opened the Bible with shaking hands, took a deep breath, and cleared my hesitation away. My voice came out strong, but still soft and intimate.

“And it came to pass in those days, that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus . . . .”

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Der lichte Tag schon lachet”
– Humperdinck, Hänsel und Gretel, Das Knusperhäuschen (Aria)

Cambridgeport, Massachusetts, Christmas Day

It was, I thought as I lay in bed, already the best, most wonderful, most magical Christmas I had ever experienced. And Christmas Day had only just dawned!

I slid out of bed — always the moment when my fondness for silky and impractical nightwear proved to be most disadvantageous — wrapped myself into my dressing gown, and went to freshen up. Fiona had warned me that Christmas morning was a makeup free zone, and I would just have to live with the face that God gave me for a couple of hours.

Easy for her to say, I thought. She’s naturally pretty and I need a bit of help!

Still, I could see her point. I made sure there was absolutely no sign of stubble and that my skin was clean and as fresh as a few moisturizing agents could make it. My hair had survived the night largely intact, thanks in part to a silk turban Fi had given me for just that purpose. It needed a bit of teasing, but still looked good.

I wore fuzzy slippers at home, but had picked up a pair of pretty satin slippers while we were wandering around on Sunday. They made my feet look more dainty than they are, which I surely appreciated.

I took a critical look, decided that was the best that could be done given Fi’s Draconian cosmetic ban, and went upstairs to join my hosts.

It was 8:00 am, which is extremely late for me. Apparently not for Fiona and Henry though, as there was no evidence that they had been down. Except, of course, that the “care”fully hung stockings were showing lots of interesting bulges that hadn’t been there when we said goodnight.

I started getting coffee ready, and by the time that the beans were ground and the water was through its first pour I heard stirring sounds from the third floor bedroom.

On a whim, I connected my phone to a bluetooth speaker in their living room and started streaming Christmas music. I figured out how to light their gas fireplace, and sat in the chair by the fire with my coffee, enjoying the peaceful morning and the joyous certainty that I was where I was supposed to be, with the people I was supposed to be with.

When Fiona poked her head through the door to the third floor staircase, I got up and gave her a big hug. “Merry Christmas, sis. I love you.”

She held me in the hug for a long time before stepping back and saying, “I’ll love you too, Cami, just as soon as you give me some of that coffee!”

I laughed and got her a cup, then poured one for Henry.

I gave Henry a Christmas hug as well, then we all took our coffees over to the seats by the fireplace and Henry distributed the stockings. They were filled with small and often humorous gifts. In my case, unsurprisingly, they had a distinctively feminine theme – naughty panties, L’eggs, cosmetics, lipstick, scrunchies . . . . I loved every one of them.

The next order of the day was, apparently, a bit of breakfast. We were allowed to get out of our sleepwear before partaking, for which I was grateful. I love the look and feel of my nightgowns, but I’m not used to displaying myself in them, though my long green dressing gown was a huge help.

Casual was the order of the day, however; I was told that we would get dressed later before going over to Henry’s Uncle’s house for the big family gathering.

Fi chose sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, both looking neat enough to wear on a runway rather than anything that was actually used for activities that generated sweat. Fi was always fastidious. If she did sweat, which I sometimes doubted, she did it in private.

I didn’t own sweatpants – well, Cami didn’t; I probably still had some of Cam’s back at my apartment. But I wouldn’t have worn them if I did. They aren’t flattering on anyone. I expect they wouldn’t even be flattering on Nicole, the Most Beautiful Woman I Had Ever Personally Met (™). Not that Nicole would ever need flattering; she would look good in a root beer barrel.

Not being as gifted by nature as either my sister or my new-found friend, I wore tight-fitting yoga pants that did a nice job displaying my largely artificial figure, coupled with a light blue fleece.

Breakfast was French toast, which would certainly have pleased everyone who was worried about how much weight I had lost over the past few months. Fiona hadn’t said anything about it, but it was very unlikely that Dr. Savin hadn’t noticed, and even less likely that she hadn’t said something to Henry about it if she had.

I couldn’t complain. The French toast was excellent.

We exchanged gifts after breakfast. Henry had been the hardest person for me to shop for, because I really hadn’t known anything about him before I met him the prior weekend.

Something that Fi had written in one of her infrequent missives had left me with the impression that he might enjoy reading historical fiction, so I had purchased a two-volume leather-bound set of Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin novels.

Based on his reaction, I appeared to have hit a home run. “They’re beautiful!” he said, running his fingers over the binding. “I’ve heard about this series, and I loved the movie they made years ago. But I’ve never gotten around to reading them. Thank you!”

I also gave him a better coffee grinder I’d found when Fi and I were at Whole Foods.

That garnered a grin.

I had brought Fi’s present in the garment bag along with the gift box and wrapping paper; I had wrapped it carefully the prior morning. It was a stunning sleeveless dress in emerald green silk with a deep v neck, gathered tight to maximize the impact of her narrow waist, with a calf-length asymmetrical skirt.

“Oh. My. God!” she said, holding it against her trim body. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful dress! Thank you!”

I gave her a big hug. “Sweets for the sweet, Fi. I knew you had to have it as soon as I saw it.” I could never wear that dress – the neckline was too daring for my prosthetics, and it wouldn’t fit me at the waist. But Fi would look fantastic. I also gave her some wedding-related gifts.

It turns out that great minds think alike, because Fi had gotten me a dress as well – a tea-length gown, fully-lined in a champagne colored satin with a rich, Christmas-red tulle overdress and lace appliqués over the bodice. The tulle sleeves were three-quarter length, it was gathered tight at the waist and the skirt flared with a fair bit of drama.

The dress was absolutely magnificent and – as Fi surely intended – the absolutely perfect thing to wear to a fancy Christmas Party. I teared up. It’s a bit like smiling; I seemed to be doing a lot of it. But I couldn’t help myself. “Oh, Fi,” I whispered. “Thank you so much!!!”

I got another big hug.

Then Henry said, “One more item, Cami. We got a FedEx on Friday, and there was a wrapped package inside with a note asking us to give it to you Christmas morning.”

It was a small package, nicely wrapped. The sealed envelope that came along was simply addressed to “Cami,” so I opened that first. It contained a lovely Christmas card with an image of Pittsburgh in the snow.

I opened it and read, “Dearest Cami – I hope that you are having a wonderful Christmas up in Boston with your sister. I wish I could give you a hug and a squeeze in person, but I wanted to make sure you knew I was thinking of you. Love you lots, Liz.”

That was very sweet of her, I thought. I had sent her two packages, one labeled “naughty” and the other “nice,” and had received confirmation that they arrived in plenty of time. Hopefully she waited to open them on Christmas, but she hates waiting!

I unwrapped the package, which contained a clam-shell case. Inside was a gold lady’s wrist watch with a small mother-of-pearl face and a Celtic patterned gold bracelet band.

“Oh my!!!” I said. I carefully slid it onto my left wrist and admired it, my eyes shining.

“What a beautiful gift,” Fiona said. “Liz is your friend the photographer, right?”

“Same one,” I said.

When it was time to get ready for the big party, Fi came downstairs with me to see how my new dress fit. The first try was a fail; I couldn’t get the zipper up. I tried my waist cincher and that helped, but the zipper wouldn’t go up until Fi gave me a hand with the cincher and got it tighter still. My breathing was tight, but I knew from past experience that would get better.

Fi smiled and turned to go upstairs to change, but I put a hand on her arm. “Fi . . . Do you remember, when I was a kid, you used to invite me to tea parties with your stuffed animals, and I would get to wear your old party dresses?”

“I remember,” she responded. “I had wondered whether you did; you were so little. And I wondered . . . “

She stopped, and I finished for her, “. . . whether that had something to do with my being trans?”

She nodded, looking troubled.

“You’re the doctor. You know that’s not likely.” I added, gently, “but if it did, would you regret it?”

She gave me a long, thoughtful look. “No. I wouldn’t. I love who you have become. But do you?”

I smiled. “No regrets. I feel more alive, more centered, more connected, more human, than I ever did as Cam. I only mentioned those tea parties because they were such special times for me. I felt like I belonged, like I was part of your world. This weekend has felt like that, too. And, I’m so happy.”

She squeezed my hand. “Me too, Cami.”

After she went upstairs, I took out my phone and took a photo of my left wrist, delicately bent to display both my Christmas-red nails and my new watch. I sent a text to Liz with the photo and wrote, “Merry Christmas you crazy woman! I miss you! Any chance you have five minutes to FaceTime?”

I got back an immediate, “Yes!! Give me five!”

While I waited, I started putting on my makeup. My foundation, blush and lipgloss were finished when my phone went off. I dashed back into the bedroom, grabbed my phone, and accepted the FaceTime invitation.

And laughed, for there was Liz, wearing nothing but her “naughty” present – a black teddy that accentuated every curve and was so sheer that her nipples were clearly visible through the fabric.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Cami,” she said with a smile. Then she gave me a critical look – one that carried a lot of interesting memories. “You clean up well! Going somewhere fun?”

I giggled and told her we had a big family party to go to. Apparently Liz’s family, like mine, tended to gather on Christmas Eve. But, we had always had our smaller family units on Christmas, and Liz lived alone.

“Tell me you aren’t spending Christmas alone!” I exclaimed.

She smiled. “No, I’m going over to my brother Jim’s house later. It’s just him and the boys; I promised I would liven things up a bit.” She looked mischievous. “Should I go like this, do you think?”

I giggled again. I was doing a lot more of that, too.

“Thank you for this,” she said, giving the fabric of her teddy a gentle caress which made my heart beat a bit faster. I might be finding men attractive these days, but there was just something about Liz.

“I really liked my ‘nice’ gift too,” she added. That had been a very high-end black leather camera bag that I had managed, barely, to get monogrammed before I sent it off to her. “And the website. I mean, I’m starting to think you’re trying to tell me something.”

“Maybe,” I said playfully.

“I might just listen. Work’s been busy, and it’s not like I don’t have a pretty full social life. But I really used to enjoy photography, and you got my creative juices going again.” She smiled wickedly. “Well, not just my creative juices, but those too.”

Evil!

“Anyhow, I thought I would do some more shoots to fill out a portfolio, put them up on the website you designed for me, and go live. I wouldn’t be able to do many gigs, but it’s not really for the money. It’s just for me.”

I was enthusiastic. Liz is terrific at her job and is absolutely going places in the telecom company where she works. But she’s got real artistic talent, and it would be a shame to waste it.

Sounding suddenly tentative, she said, “I was wondering if you might be willing to come back out to Pittsburgh for a weekend and do some more photos that I could use.”

“Me?” I asked, surprised.

She nodded encouragingly. “Look, I know we were doing some role play, but you were a fantastic model, and you’re very photogenic. I would really like to have some wedding photos in the collection; that’s the number one reason people hire photographers. I promise, I’ll get you a different wedding dress to wear.”

“Of course I’ll help you. I’d love to. And . . . I’m really flattered that you would want me.”

“There’s one more thing I’d like to do, but only if you are okay with it,” she said.

I let my face ask the question. Liz and I were still in some tricky emotional territory; I wasn’t sure what was coming.

“Not that,” she said softly, seeing where my mind had gone. “Just a photoshoot this time, I promise.”

I was relieved, but also somewhat disappointed. As I say, my feelings are complicated where Liz is concerned.

“What I was wondering is whether you would be willing to have my friends join us for the shoot – wedding photos include group shots. I can green screen it and add them later, but it’s better if the people are together. Would you be willing to see them again, this time as Cami?”

I didn’t take long thinking about it. Cam was becoming more and more distant to me, and I wanted to be myself everywhere. Work had to wait, but the faster I was “out” to the rest of the world, the better.

I had liked her friends from her office – Fernando and Tish (a couple), Janet and Tim (not). We had hiked, kayaked, and done rock climbing together back when Liz and Cam were dating, but I hadn’t seen them since the night when Liz broke up with Cam. The same night when she began, without intending to, to wake the woman inside me.

“Sure. I’d like to meet them again, as Cami. But, can you talk to them first? Make sure they’re okay with it, and accept it if they aren’t? I don’t want to cause any friction with your friends.”

“You know they aren’t like that.”

I shook my head. “I suspect they aren’t like that, but I don’t know it and you don’t either. People can be weird about the whole transgender thing. Trust me. If any of them are, that’s okay. But if they do have an issue, springing it on them is the worst way to find out.”

She agreed to raise it.

We talked about timing. I suggested that I might be able to come out for the MLK holiday weekend. Then we said our goodbyes, added “Merry Christmas” for good measure, and I blew her a kiss.

I checked my beautiful new watch, saw that I was running behind schedule, and rushed to get ready.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Rideva, l'empio mostro... rideva”
– Puccini, Tosca, Il tuo sangue o il mio amore (Aria)

Boston, Massachusetts, Christmas Evening

Henry’s uncle’s house was an imposing 1890s edifice on Beacon Hill – lots of granite and marble, intricate Persian carpets, and more Christmas decorations than Macy’s flagship store in Manhattan. It was overflowing with Christmas cheer and a bewildering number of people who bore a strong family resemblance to Henry.

Our host and hostess were greeting guests when we arrived and valets whisked away our car. There were a dozen or so people in the foyer, but the Padrone’s air of authority left no doubt as to the identity of our host, even if Henry hadn’t been steering us toward him.

He was an imposing man. Maybe a shade over six feet tall, bald but for a fringe of closely cropped iron gray hair, broad shoulders, and a powerful chest. He had the same rectangular face as Henry, but his nose was substantially more pronounced and his eyes were a pale, icy blue.

He was dressed formally, in a dark suit that was as well-tailored as Henry’s wardrobe. His wife, who stood beside him in a winter white form-fitting dress with belled sleeves, was almost completely overshadowed.

“Merry Christmas, Uncle Chip, Aunt Gooney!” Henry said cheerfully.

“To you, too,” his uncle replied, shaking his hand.

His Aunt’s face lit up. “Henry! Fiona!”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

I noticed that Fiona bussed his Uncle’s and Aunt’s cheeks as well; clearly she was well-known to them both.

Henry turned back to me. “Uncle, this is Fiona’s sister Cami. Thanks for letting us bring her. Cami, let me introduce you to my Uncle Chip, formally Cornelius Hutchinson, and my Aunt Geraldine Hutchinson.”

“Thank you so much for having me,” I said to them both. I wasn’t sure of how I should handle handshakes, hugs, and the like, so I did nothing, but that seemed to work just fine.

“A very Merry Christmas to you, Cami,” Cornelius said. “Any family of Fiona’s is welcome here.”

His Aunt bubbled, “We’re so glad you joined us. You look so much like your sister!”

More people were streaming in, so Henry steered us past our host and hostess and up to another couple. His greeting here was even warmer. “Merry Christmas, Mom,” he said, giving a big hug to a short, auburn-haired woman with kind brown eyes and a warm smile.

“Merry Christmas,” she said fondly, a warm smile lighting her face.

His father, standing beside his mom, was a slightly shorter, slightly thinner version of Cornelius, with a narrower, more ascetic-looking face and a neatly trimmed pepper-and-salt beard.

“Dad!” Henry gave him a hug as well.

Fi got her greetings and I was introduced. His father was “George,” his mother “Anne.” I was desperately trying to keep all the names straight, and knew I was going to fail.

Anne was saying something to Fi and Henry was looking around. “Where’s Robbo?” he asked his father.

“He was around a couple of minutes ago,” George replied. “I saw him talking to Jonathan.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll bump into him,” Henry said.

We spent a few minutes with Henry’s parents, who seemed like lovely people. They wanted to know how I was enjoying Christmas in New England, and I told them honestly that it was the best Christmas that I had ever had, due in no small measure to how fabulous their son was as a host.

It was one hundred percent true, but there’s also no better way to make a mother happy than to let her know that her eldest child is wonderful.

She was, indeed, beaming.

The four of us toured a bit of the downstairs, where the party was cheerfully spilling from room to room. The first floor had twelve-foot ceilings and lots of original cherry trim, polished to a warm, glowing matte finish.

The main living room was enormous, dominated on one end by a fireplace that would not have been out of place in a castle, complete with a roaring Yule log. The Christmas tree on the other end touched the ornate ceiling, and every inch was decorated with white lights and ornaments of all shapes, sizes, and materials.

The room also contained a baby grand piano where several people were gathered, singing Christmas carols. Family, not professionals. They looked, and sounded, like they were having a delightful time.

A sumptuous buffet had been laid out in another room and people were happily partaking of both the food and beverages. We grabbed a couple of nibbles and moved from one group to another, exchanging Christmas greetings, laughing, and talking.

After a while, I heard the sound of louder music coming from another room.

The sound made Henry grin. “Oh good, time to work off some of this food!”

He took both Fi and me by the elbow and led us through a couple more rooms until we reached an honest-to-God ballroom, complete with a parquet floor, gilded pilasters and an ornate ceiling. Pine and fir boughs festooned every wall.

I was astonished and must have looked it, because Henry put his head close to mine and said, loud enough to be heard over the music, “Back when this house was built, anyone with money had a ballroom in their house. Throwing dances was just what people did when they entertained.”

I just nodded, not comfortable trying to talk over the music. This was definitely a window into another world.

I was surprised to discover that Cornelius and Geraldine were going to begin the dancing formally, and it was apparently a group thing. Not knowing the dance, I tried to fade back to a wall.

Fi looked uncertain as well, but Henry said, “Don’t worry, you two. It’s like a square dance; just follow what everyone else does. By the time it’s your turn you’ll get the hang of it.” He led us to the center of the room where the guests were lining up, with women in a line on one side and men in a parallel line on the other.

I stood next to Fi; Henry was across from her. Next to him, and across from me, was one of the numerous young men in attendance who looked a lot like Henry.

The music – provided live, by a group of about ten – smoothly swung into a different rhythm and tempo, and everyone turned to face the person across from them, clapping in time with the up-tempo tune.

There were shouts of “Hey!!! Hey!!!” as Cornelius and Geraldine stepped off in time with the beat, brought both hands together and twirled, then came side by side with their arms crossed, hands still clasped, and danced down to the end of the line where they twirled again, released each other, and took their places at the end of the line.

We all took two steps to our left, and with more shouts of “Hey, Hey,” George and Anne took their turn down the middle.

I relaxed and started to enjoy it. This, I can certainly do!

Fi and Henry were about twelve down in the line and they got very enthusiastic “Hey, Hey’s!!” as they took their turn. Fi had decided to wear the dress I had given her; we looked very Christmassy together with me in red and her in green.

Henry was wearing his combination of gray dress pants with a tailored black blazer, but he had accessorized with a festive holiday vest in a red brocade. They were a stunning couple. Henry had clearly grown up with this kind of event and his dancing showed it, but Fi held her own.

I hope I’ll manage as well!

Then it was my turn. I skipped forward to the beat and raised my hands to my partner, who took them in a firm and competent grip. He leaned back slightly to give me a twirl and I instinctively did the same to avoid losing my balance, then I was beside him with our arms linked, dancing down the floor.

He led with smooth and practiced assurance, looking very graceful. I was content to follow his lead, and tried to make up for any lack of skill with a big smile. We reached the end and he effortlessly twirled me again, gave me a smile as big as my own, and let me go.

Fi gave me a high five as I danced back to join the ladies’ line, swaying my hips and pumping my arms.

There were a few more dances of this sort – big, communal, joyful. Then there was a break in the music and some of the people – mostly the older and younger ones – began to wander off.

“The next bit will be more of the dancing you are probably used to, Cami,” Henry said. “Which is why the crowd is thinning a bit. Are you up for it?”

“Sure!” I felt like I was up for anything. I’m no great dancer, and I certainly don’t have a lot of experience dancing in heels. But what passes for dancing today was mostly just free-form moving in time with a beat, and I could manage that.

I did, and it was fun. I danced with Henry, I danced with Fi. I danced with a number of different flavors of Hutchinson. I danced with my partner from the first dance, who was much sought-after as a partner. He was mostly dancing with cousins, of course, but he was probably the best dancer there.

While keeping firm hold of my right hand, he twirled me toward him until my back was against his chest. “I’m Robert, Henry’s brother,” he said, almost in my ear. “Just wanted to tell you that Fi’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him!” Then he spun me back out again.

Damn, can he dance! “Good to meet you Robert; I’m Cami.” I managed to make myself heard without shouting, but I had to work at doing that while still sounding feminine.

The dancing continued and I lost track of the number of my dance partners. There was another break in the music and Henry gathered Fiona and me. We all looked a bit flushed from the exertion, and happy. “How about a bit of a breather?” he asked.

We were happy to agree, and wandered back towards the buffet. I had a bit of water, then picked up a flute of champagne. “This is fabulous!”

Fi agreed.

Henry nodded. “I took it all for granted, growing up with it. I’ve known these people my whole life, and this was just what Christmas was like. I couldn’t imagine it any other way. I was probably in my teens before I even had a clue how privileged I was. And I don’t just mean money, though there’s that. I mean by all of this. The big family gatherings, the closeness of it.”

Henry’s Aunt had something that she wanted to show Fiona, and the two of them wandered off.

I readily agreed when Henry offered to show me a bit more of the house. He took me upstairs where it was quiet – the party appeared to be on the main floor only. “You’ve got to see the library!”

We had just walked in when Robert poked his head in. “Hey Henry, Fi’s looking for you.”

“Go on, Henry,” I said. “I’d like to take a closer look. If you aren’t back in a couple minutes I’ll join you downstairs.”

He trotted off, and I wandered around the room, marveling at the gilt paneling, the ten-foot shelves, the rolling ladders, the rows and rows and rows of books. There was a small fireplace in a corner with two comfortable-looking armchairs, and a large library table in the middle. It looked like the model for the library in Beauty and the Beast!

Just then I was slammed in my neck and the back of my head. I must have fallen down, because when I blinked my eyes back into focus I was on all fours, looking down at a pair of men’s dress shoes.

A man’s voice above me said, casually, “So you walk in, and Robbie says, ‘I didn’t know Fiona had a sister.’ You probably didn’t think about Google, but I did a little search. And sure enough, I didn’t find a ‘Cami’ Savin. But I sure as hell found a ‘Cameron’ Savin. And the picture on his firm’s website isn’t female, now is it?”

I said nothing. I was still a bit stunned, but this was a raging, three-alarm fire, and I always get calm in emergencies. Calm . . . and cold. My mind was working just fine. And very quickly.

He must have leaned down, because his voice was closer, more threatening. “I don’t know what scheme you’ve hatched, you and that sister of yours. But no one fucks with the Hutchinsons. I’m going to kick you out of here so hard your ass will feel it for weeks, but I’m going to teach you a lesson first.”

I could smell the juniper tang of gin on his hot breath as he bent close. “You want to play at being a girl, faggot? You’re making a good start, on your knees like that. So suck my dick and slurp down everything I give you. Got it?”

“Or what?” I asked in a low voice.

“Or, I walk downstairs and blow the whistle on you in front of God and everybody. Daddy’s got no use for your kind. Now, get busy!”

I heard the unmistakable sound of his zipper, then he grabbed my hair and brought me more upright, still on my knees, my eyes level with his full, pulsing cock. “I said, get busy!”

I kept my eyes downcast. Slowly, reluctantly, I brought my left hand up to curl around the back of his shaft. I licked my lips. Looked up at him.

“That’s it, bitch,” he sneered.

“Oh, HELL no!” I said, suddenly vicious, as I brought my right hand up in a quick vertical motion. My beautifully manicured nails slashed the entire length of his engorged dick, shredding flesh as they went. I crunched the fingers of my left hand around the shaft and twisted it as he staggered back.

“I’ll fucking kill you bitch!” he shrieked, even as he continued to stumble backward. . . . just as the master of the house entered the room behind him.

“Bastard!” Cornelius Hutchinson positively spat.

The man turned towards this new threat in perfect time to take a hammer-like fist right on his nose. He stopped making noise and dropped like a dead cat.

The blood pounded in my head and the black tunnel of my vision narrowed, then narrowed some more. I heard roaring in my ears and everything went black.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY
“e pel possente, Misero anch'esso, tua pietà dimostra”
– Verdi, Otello, Ave Maria piena di grazia (Aria)

Boston, Massachusetts, Christmas Evening, shortly afterward

My internal clock told me that I hadn’t been out all that long. But I was in a bedroom, somewhere.

An incandescent Fiona gripped my hand hard. “I want him in JAIL, Henry. After I rip off his balls!!!”

Henry was saying something, but I didn’t catch it.

I opened my eyes and gave Fi’s hand a squeeze. “Thank God you’re here!”

“Oh, God, Cami!” Fi was shaking.

I took a breath, and my arctic cool came back in a rush. I sat up. “It’s okay, Fi. I’m fine.”

“Fine??!!” she said, incredulous. “That little turd . . . .”

I stopped her. “I know. But I’m all right.” I managed a weak smile. “I think the waist cincher had more to do with my blacking out than anything else.”

Fi was speechless.

I looked up at Henry, speculatively. “Who?”

“My cousin, Jonathan. Uncle Chip’s son.” His eyes looked hard. “Fi’s right, Cami. Nail him.”

“Thank you both, so much.” I paused, my mind still whirling. “Henry, do you know where your Uncle is?”

He looked surprised. “Yes, he’s in his study . . . he asked me to tell him when you recovered. He wants to talk to you.”

“Not without me,” Fi said, practically snarling.

Dear, fierce Fiona. But direct action isn’t the best response to every problem. I looked at Henry. “I’d like to tell him myself, if you don’t mind. Will you take me to him?”

Fiona was looking at me like I had two heads.

“Fi, I can’t begin to say how much I appreciate that you want to protect me. I do. But this calls for my skill set, not yours. This is something I need to take care of. Okay?”

She didn’t look remotely convinced, but Henry nodded slowly and said, “Okay, Cami.”

I looked back at Fiona. “Can you please do something with my hair? He pulled it.”

She was still looking rebellious. “He ought to see you just the way you are!”

I covered her hand with my free one. “He already has. Do I look alright – otherwise?” Amazingly, I did. I had taken quite a whack to the back of my head and neck, but nothing visible.

Fi fussed a bit with my hair. “Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”

“You’ve never seen me at work,” I responded. The University of Chicago doesn’t hand out law degrees to the helpless.

Apparently I passed inspection, and Henry led me down a hallway. We turned a corner and walked further. As we came to a door at the end of the hall, Henry stopped me. “Cami . . . Rob had nothing to do with it. Jonathan told him that Fi was looking for me. He had no idea. I thought you should know.”

I gave his hand a squeeze and sent him back to Fi, then raised my hand and knocked firmly.

“Come,” said a harsh voice from the other side.

I opened the door, stepped in, and closed it behind me.

Cornelius rose from behind an ornate table desk, looking surprised. “Miss Savin. I would have come down.”

“I thought our discussion might be easier without my dragons guarding me. I want to thank you. And, to say how very sorry I am.”

“Sorry? Why? Because my son is a worthless piece of excrement? I’m sorry about that, too, but it’s no fault of yours. And I’m very sorry that this happened to you.” He sat and waved me to a seat in front of the desk.

He isn’t going to give up the place of advantage, I thought with amusement. Very well.

“If you would like to press charges, I will support you. As far as I’m concerned, he’s no son of mine. Not anymore.”

“I really don’t want to press charges. For my own reasons.”

He gave me a shrewd look. “Because you would need to reveal that you are biologically male?”

I was surprised, but hid it. “I don’t seem to have been very convincing.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he said gruffly. “If I had seen you anywhere, I would have had no idea.”

I raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

“I’m not just Henry’s uncle, I’m the sole trustee of the Hutchinson family trust, of which Henry – and my worthless offspring – are potential beneficiaries. And Henry’s not just my nephew, he’s one of my three direct reports at Hutchinson Investments. Of course, I know who his fiancée is, and all I need to know about her family, too.”

I said nothing, so he proceeded to demonstrate. “Her father owns an insurance agency in St. Louis; he and his wife are upstanding members of their evangelical church, lifelong members of the NRA and involved in local Republican politics. The older of her two brothers is an aspiring actor who works as a waiter in New York and has middling talent.

“Her youngest sibling is a graduate of the University of Chicago Law School, Order of the Coif, member of the Chicago Law Review editorial board. Currently works in Washington DC for Cavandish Edwards, is named Cameron, and – as far as anyone knows, anyhow – is male.

“Fiona Savin has no known female siblings, and – making some allowances for dress and cosmetics – you bear a strong resemblance to Mr. Savin’s image on the Cavendish website. Ergo. . . .”

He paused for a moment, then apologized. “I’m sure it seems creepy. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t investigate people who intend to marry trust beneficiaries. Or, my senior business associates. I’m surprised Henry didn’t know that.”

I tried to keep my voice even and my tone equable. “I understand the caution, sir, though the extent of your investigation seems excessive.”

He was unperturbed by the implicit rebuke. “That’s probably because you don’t know how badly money warps people, and I, unfortunately, do.”

“I’m sorry, but that thinking does seem paranoid. Your son sounded similar. He assumed Fiona and I were up to some kind of ‘scheme’ and aimed to punish me for it. I guess he thought we were after your money, too.”

Cornelius sat back in his chair. “My son doesn’t think, Miss Savin. If you will excuse the crudity, on a good day he can find his reproductive organ and something to eat. The idea that you would advance a scheme by appearing at my house in female attire is ludicrous on its face.”

“I appeared at your house in female attire, as you put it, because I’m a woman.” I managed to keep my voice level. “A transwoman, but still a woman. I wasn’t attempting to deceive anyone.”

“I apologize if my word choice implied otherwise. I don’t pretend to understand ‘transgender,’ and I will confess that the idea makes me uncomfortable.”

He raised his hand as if to forestall a reply, though I hadn’t intended to interrupt him. “But I don’t need to be comfortable with it. It’s none of my business. All I am required to do is be aware of risks.”

“And you concluded that my being transgendered doesn’t present a risk?” I asked, looking for confirmation.

“By itself? No, I can’t think of any. Indirectly, though . . . . Am I correct in assuming that you have not identified as transgendered at work, since you are not identified that way on your firm’s website?”

I nodded.

“Alright Miss Savin. You tell me what the risk is.”

I looked down. “Blackmail,” I said quietly, thinking of Jonathan’s threat of exposure.

He said nothing. When I finally brought myself to look up, he was simply waiting, still as Judgment Day.

“Miss Savin, if you are not honest with your employer, you create a risk. You give people a lever to make you do things, or forgo doing things. That is a danger for your firm, for your clients, and for those you care about. You see that?”

I could only nod. “I do, sir. But I intend to inform my employer. The timing wasn’t good, that’s all. If anyone did attempt to blackmail me, I can assure you, absolutely, that I would let the firm know.”

“Even if it cost you your position?” he pressed.

“Yes. Though, if I may borrow your framing, I don’t consider that risk to be particularly high.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “I strongly suggest, for your own sake, that you don’t delay matters too long.”

I nodded my agreement.

“Putting all of that aside, we still need to discuss what you would like us to do about today’s incident. Other than disowning my son and cutting him off from the trust, which I have both the authority and the strong desire to do.

“Is there something that I can do for you? You were an innocent guest in my house, behaving impeccably. It shames me that you were treated with anything other than courtesy and kindness.”

I sat for a moment, weighing what to say. I knew a whole lot more now than I had when I decided to walk in here alone. This is a very powerful man, and he might take what I’m going to say very poorly. But I decided to go ahead. “If I may make a suggestion, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t disown your son. There’s been too much of that going around lately. It causes incredible pain. Trust me. My parents have disowned all of us because they thought Iain was gay and because Fi and I wouldn’t stand for their homophobic bigotry. And all five of us are going to have those scars a long time.”

“A Chicago-trained lawyer should see the flaw in that analogy,” he replied. “Your parents’ reasons for their actions were specious. Being gay is not a violation of the law in any American jurisdiction, thank God and the Supreme Court, and standing up for a brother is nothing if not admirable.

“My son, on the other hand, committed sexual assault in my own home, against one of our guests. As far as I know, that is illegal in every jurisdiction, and rightly so. It is an unmitigated, unpardonable evil.”

His voice had the calm, the dispassion, and the weight of a judge reading out a sentence. There was no anger in his voice.

But neither was there any mercy.

“He remains the flesh of your flesh, the blood of your blood.” My voice was low and soft. “He may be beyond redemption, but do you really need to pass judgment, to say the words? Do you need to do that to him, to yourself, to your wife?”

“Geraldine will understand,” he said heavily. “She is not blind to what our son has become.”

I thought of them dancing together, such a short time before. How beautiful, how at peace with each other they had seemed. How filled with the joy of the season. God, I’m so tired of causing trouble! Let me, for once, be an instrument of peace!

My lips lifted a fraction, showing a half smile. “Well, if I can’t convince you with sentiment, perhaps practicality will work?”

“You’re welcome to try. Tell me what I’m missing.”

“Leverage, Mr. Hutchinson. While he remains your son, and a potential beneficiary of your family trust, you have leverage over him. Without it, you don’t.”

He looked intrigued. “Interesting.”

“If I may return to my analogy, my parents disowned me before they knew I was trans. Disowning me didn’t bend me to their view of the world, it freed me. What might your son become, if you lose any ability to restrain him?”

He parried easily. “Would you have ‘bent to your parent’s view,’ if they hadn’t disowned you?”

I acknowledge the hit. “No,” I said quietly. “I am as God made me. But it seems unlikely that your son’s urge to commit sexual assault is anything like my understanding that I’m a woman where it counts, so application of leverage may work in his case.”

“Besides,” I added pointedly, “you said that money warps people. Jonathan has millions of reasons to behave for you that I didn’t have, with respect to my parents.”

It was his turn to acknowledge a score. “Touché.”

“I assume that you can arrange payments from the trust, or your firm, or wherever, in such a way that he is kept on a very short leash?”

He actually chuckled at that, though the sound was pretty humorless. “I can. A short leash and a choke collar.” He paused, then shook his head. “You’ve given me something to think about. And discuss with Geraldine, of course. But you still haven’t said what we can do for you.”

“I need my own leverage, sir. I don’t want to bring charges. But I want affidavits from you and from Rob attesting to precisely what you personally saw, with every detail that you remember. If Jonathan threatens or causes any trouble for me, or Fiona, or Henry, I will come down on him like the Anggge . . . .”

Inexplicably I stammered, but recovered to complete my thought. “Like the Angel of Death.” What was that all about? “I want him to know it, and to know that I’ve got the ammunition to do it.”

The look I got this time was one of respect. “Miss Savin, I apologize for thinking you might be too soft-hearted when you asked me not to disown my son. I will be delighted to provide you with whatever documentation you need, and I’m sure Robert will do the same. Right now, if you would like, although if you wait until tomorrow I can have the documents notarized.”

“Tomorrow will be fine, Mr. Hutchinson.” If there was one person on the planet who exemplified the saying “His word is his bond,” I was certain it was Cornelius Hutchinson. “I do have to catch a train tomorrow afternoon, though, so the morning would be better if that’s convenient.”

“Perfectly. Perhaps Henry can bring you into the office, and we can take care of business there.”

It appeared that we had finished, which was good – I felt like I’d been running a marathon. I rose to leave and then paused. “Mr. Hutchinson, where is Jonathan now?”

He had risen as well, and walked over from behind the desk. “Last I saw him, he was still out like a light. I have one of our household staff sitting on him, metaphorically speaking.”

“I hate to bring this up, but . . . does he need medical attention?”

He produced a half-smile that would have made Cam Savin proud. “I expect so. I’m confident that I broke his nose, though the damage you inflicted might actually hurt worse. However, I don’t believe there’s anything that won’t wait.”

I thought for a moment. “I’m not sure I can pull it off — last I saw her the Hippocratic Oath was pretty far from her mind — but my sister is a doctor . . . .”

This time he looked astonished. “Miss Savin, I don’t surprise easily, and that’s the second time this evening that you have amazed me. If you can convince your dragon to sheath her claws and take a look at him, that would be a kindness. At the very least, it will ease Geraldine’s worry.”

“Then I’ll be happy to ask her.”

I faced him and said, very formally, “Mr. Hutchinson, I know you said that you feel shame at your son’s behavior. But you and your entire household have treated me with amazing kindness. Your son’s actions are no one’s fault but his own; they do not reflect on you or anyone else.”

He tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Miss Savin. I’m going to have to go back downstairs; this party will keep going for many hours and I have obligations to fulfill. I am going to guess that you and your party are going to want to leave, and I can’t blame you. But you are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

I thanked him and left.

I went back down the corridor and almost ran into Fiona and Henry. “I was going to barge in, but Henry wouldn’t let me!” Fi exclaimed. “What took you so long? I was worried!!!”

I steered them back into the bedroom where I’d left Fi and closed the door. “We had things to discuss, and I’ll tell you the details later. But the bottom line is that I told Mr. Hutchinson that I don’t want to press charges.”

They both began to protest, but I cut them off. “For my own reasons,” I said firmly. “I will be getting an affidavit from your Uncle tomorrow morning,” I said, looking at Henry, “and I’ll need to ask your brother to produce one as well. When I leave here tomorrow, I will have your cousin by the short hairs, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

My conviction got through to them, though Fi still looked fit to breathe fire.

I squeezed her arm in reassurance. “Fi, he’s a bad apple. But this is a wonderful family. Let’s not ruin everyone’s Christmas, okay?”

“Cami, what happened to you is way more important than a party!”

“But it isn't more important than family. I don’t want to be remembered as the transwoman who cost Geraldine her son. I don’t want you to be remembered as the tranny girl’s sister. Henry’s Uncle and I will, between the two of us, take care of cousin Jonathan. You and Henry don’t need to be involved, and I don’t think you should be. Please, at least for now, let it go.”

“Ooookay,” Fi said, a bit shakily.

Time to grab the tiger by the tail. . . . “I did volunteer that I would ask you to take a look at Jonathan’s injuries before we leave.”

Her eyes blazed. “Oh, did you? Well, I’ll just do that! And if someone can find me a knife — or even a rusty saw blade — I promise he’ll never do anything like this again!”

“I’m serious. I’ve got no more use for Jonathan than you do. But I’m asking for the sake of everyone else in this house, including you, and Henry, and me. Please?”

She shook her head. “I don’t begin to understand you, Cami!” But she agreed to do it.

Henry went out and discovered where they had stashed Jonathan. When he came back, he led Fiona there and then, at my request, he and I discreetly went downstairs and rejoined the party. Amazingly, only about an hour had passed since Henry had taken me upstairs, and the party was still in full swing.

I looked at Henry. “Smile, brother-in-law. Don’t let them see you sweat! In fact, let’s dance!”

Fiona was astonished to find us in the ballroom when she came downstairs, about forty-five minutes after Henry and me.

I was glad for the break, and we all went back into the area where the food was set out. While we had been gone, the savories had been replaced with all manner of deserts and sweets. And, for a blessing, there was coffee. Good coffee.

We found a quiet corner and sat. A moment later, Cornelius and Geraldine came in and wandered in our direction, sitting down when they reached us.

Geraldine put her hand on my arm as said, very quietly, “I’m so sorry, Cami. So very sorry.”

I covered her hand with mine. “It’s alright now. Really. I’m fine, and judging by Fiona’s expression Jonathan hasn’t sustained any long-term injuries.”

Fiona confirmed it. “I bandaged what had to be bandaged. His nose is broken but there’s nothing more to be done for it right now. His other injuries . . . .“ she paused, trying to think of a diplomatic way of saying it. “They’ll cause him a lot of pain for a while, but he’ll heal completely, in a few weeks.”

Geraldine still looked haunted; what mother wouldn’t? But she thanked Fiona for her assistance. They got up and went back to mingling.

We sat for maybe ten minutes, talking quietly, when Henry’s parents and his brother sat with us. George said, “I’m sorry, Cami. And Fi. You certainly didn’t see us at our best.”

I jumped in before Fiona could say anything. “I disagree, Mr. Hutchinson. You have an amazing family and I think Fiona is extremely lucky.”

They looked incredulous, so I said, pointedly, “I have had a fantastic Christmas. Really. There was one bad moment, with one bad guy. And I handled it, with your brother’s help. I am not going to let it ruin this wonderful day, and you shouldn’t either!”

We left at around 11:00; Geraldine and Cornelius were back in the foyer, thanking their guests for coming. We smiled and took our leave. When we finally got back to the townhouse, it was almost midnight and I was exhausted.

But I was not defeated. The day had presented a terrible and unexpected challenge, and I had been able to deal with it. I would not let Jonathan color my view of the Hutchinson clan, much less of all men.

I gave Henry and Fiona big hugs at the bottom of the stairs, too tired to climb to the main floor. I said, with feeling, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

To be continued . . . .

~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 . . . .