Not long ago, the most photographed lighthouse in America was Heceta Head in Oregon. While that title is now held by a lighthouse in Maine (Portland Head Light), Heceta continues to be a huge draw for tourists and locals. As a lover of lighthouses who’s journeyed to at least 25, Heceta remains my favorite, and my wife and I make a pilgrimage each year to stare at the ocean from the base of the light and marvel at the giant, turning Fresnel lens that continues to light the way for seafarers, as it has since 1894.

Located just north of Florence, Oregon, Highway 101 eventually meanders back to the coast, providing a stunning view of the Pacific Ocean. The highway twists and turns…and then Heceta appears in the distance. Over the steel bridge and taking a quick right will bring you under the bridge and to the parking lot. Many enjoy the beach and the nearby caves, but to see the famous light, a half-mile walk awaits.

The gravel path hugs the side of the cliff and halfway up, you’ll reach the lightkeeper’s quarters, now converted to a B&B. There is also a rumored ghost, Rue, who periodically makes her presence felt. Although the house is open sporadically for tours, they’re hard to catch. When I wrote Beacon of Love, I had to satisfy my curiosity with pictures. Years later, I happened to be visiting with out-of-town guests, and we were lucky enough to tour the downstairs. My next goal is to actually stay at the B&B with my wife.

The gravel path continues to Heceta, and I sometimes imagine the lightkeepers trudging up the last quarter mile in rain, hail or snow. The path splinters to a smaller trail that climbs high enough to see the magnificent Fresnel light at eye level. The main trail, though, opens to the flat land surrounding the light, hanging over the enormous rocks that sit below. Tours are regularly available in high season (summer) and when there isn’t a pandemic. Benches and telescopes line the circumference of Heceta and visitors can watch sea lions sunning themselves on the lower rocks or perhaps locate a whale just passing by.

I’d been to Heceta many times before I noticed the plaque on the bench that faces southward. It’s dedicated to a woman who actually had a heart attack and died at the base of Heceta—during her granddaughter’s wedding. I instantly thought how tragic that was, but I also thought that would make an incredible plot point in a story.

I’ve visited a few dozen lighthouses throughout the U.S., and while each has its own beauty, history, and purpose, Heceta remains my favorite.

Chapter One

June, 1992

“I wish you could understand, Steph,” Paula sobbed.

Some of her tears fell on the paper that rested on her knees—Steph’s acceptance letter from UC Berkeley. Steph resisted the urge to yank the key to her future out of Paula’s hands. She knew Paula needed time to accept what was happening—that after ten years as inseparable best friends, she would be leaving their hometown of Eugene, Oregon, and moving to California for college.

They’d situated themselves behind the large rock that according to Steph’s father, divided her parents’ property from the adjoining woods. She was rather certain they owned all of the land that stretched to the road and cut through the base of Spencer Butte, but her father had declared the rock as her personal boundary when she was five. She’d always yearned to explore the thicket of trees that grew southward, but that youthful curiosity disappeared when she was old enough to see over the rock and recognize its beauty as a barrier between her and her parents.

She and Paula had no desire to venture beyond the backside of the rock, which proved to be a perfect place for private talks, smoking their first cigarettes and drinking Scotch—both of which sent them flying into the woods to vomit. Recently they’d spent much of their free time hiding behind the impenetrable granite curtain touching each other in delightful ways.

Most importantly it was a fabulous hiding place from Steph’s mother, who refused to journey past the redwood deck. Steph always knew she was safe up the little hill since Debbie would never venture that far from the liquor cabinet.

Paula sniffled and Steph snuck a glimpse at her watch. It was after five. She peered down the hill toward the backdoor. It was still closed. That’s good. Mom’s still watching TV, probably Donahue.

She gazed at Paula’s dejected face. She’d been put on the Berkeley waiting list last winter and had nearly given up hope of acceptance—until a letter arrived two days after graduation. She’d dreamed of becoming a Golden Bear since her freshman year of high school, convinced it was the perfect place for a pre-med student. She was euphoric but it had taken her a week to summon the courage to tell Paula, and after an hour of crying, Paula still couldn’t accept what was happening.

She checked the backdoor again. Still closed.

“Paula, I don’t understand why you’re all worked up. I know I’m leaving but San Francisco isn’t that far. We’ll call and write.”

She squeezed her hand and her sobs faded away. They’d held hands for years but Steph knew that any touch now had lost its innocence, replaced by a desire that crept upon both of them like a virus infecting their bodies.

Much of Paula’s profile was obscured by her long chestnut-brown hair, but it was impossible to miss the incredible eyelashes she constantly fluttered and the full mouth that readily met Steph’s whenever they were alone.

“I know we’ll keep in touch but I just can’t believe you’re leaving.”

“Yeah, but you’ll still have Emilio to hang out with,” she added, referring to their other best friend.

Paula scowled and she blushed. It was an insensitive comment. “Sorry,” she said quietly.

Paula’s face softened and she stroked Steph’s hand with her thumb. Steph closed her eyes, enjoying the connection. She’d secretly admitted that she savored Paula’s caresses and her touch could make her shiver as if she was standing naked in an Oregon downpour. Although they’d known each other for a decade, it was only in the last three months that they’d tiptoed across the line of friendship into a place that scared Steph to death.

But she wouldn’t think about it—couldn’t think about it, even as Paula’s lips found the curve of her jaw and traced it with butterfly kisses. Steph melted at the delicate gesture. Paula giggled as her lips continued their journey to Steph’s mouth. Paula pressed her against the rock, unbuttoning her shirt and fondling her breasts. Steph knew what came next. Paula pulled off her T-shirt and unhooked her bra. She was consumed by Paula’s determined tongue buried deep in her mouth, and it wasn’t until Paula’s nipples pressed against her own that she realized they were half naked.

Paula kissed her completely, as if she was leaving for Cali in just a few moments. When Paula unbuttoned her shorts, she didn’t pull away as she had in the past. Paula’s tongue was too persuasive and she pulled Steph’s yearning to the surface. Her hand crept between Steph’s legs and rested on her mound.

“More,” Paula whispered, breaking the kiss and shattering Steph’s lust.

Steph gently pushed her away. “We can’t today. My dad’s home and he’ll come looking for me if I forgot one of my chores.”

Paula frowned and her eyes gleamed with tears. Steph didn’t know if she was upset at losing the moment, the letter from Berkeley or both. They’d never talked about Steph’s fear. Paula’s soft lips confused her terribly. She wanted to run away—right into Paula’s arms. She’d created an emotional circle that she couldn’t escape but her sexual terror trumped the guilt over leaving her.

“It’s just...” Paula stammered.

She sucked in air but failed to complete her thought.

“It’s just what?” Steph asked impatiently, peering around the rock, willing the backdoor
to stay closed.

She stared at Steph for a long time before she said, “I’ll miss you a lot.”

Steph exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath.

The screen door squeaked. After a flurry of redressing, they peered over the rock. Steph’s
mother, Debbie, tottered out, highball glass in hand.

“Steph! Stephanie! Yoo-hoo! C’mon, Stephie, where are you? John, are you home?” She was wearing a silk negligee, having changed out of the leggings and oxford cloth shirt she’d worn when she’d greeted Paula an hour before at the front door. The thick blond tresses Steph had inherited were stacked on the top of her head with a black clip and her customary deep-red lipstick proved a stark contrast to her ghostly white skin.

She glided back and forth across the deck, scissoring her legs in one of her old dance moves. Her lithe body shifted effortlessly and the alcohol did little to thwart her natural grace. She’d told Steph a hundred times she’d given up a career in New York to be with her father.

Periodically she’d stop and take a serious drink and then sweep across the deck in the opposite direction. They watched her performance and Steph thought that without her glasses she couldn’t see them. Steph hated that Paula was there but she loathed the prospect of babysitting her mother so she stayed behind the rock. Her father was obviously ignoring Debbie—at least for now—and Steph couldn’t blame him. He was a saint, constantly caring for her mother, suffering her abuses and enduring the public embarrassments she caused the family. There wasn’t an adult resident of Eugene who didn’t know Debbie South, the drunkard, and her unfortunate husband, John.
He kept his sanity by frequently traveling his sales route in the Midwest where he sold medical supplies to hospitals. Steph missed him but she understood his work. They’d had long talks about her departure for college and she felt horrible about abandoning him, but he assured her everything would be fine and she had nothing to feel guilty about.

“I wish I could dance like your mother,” Paula said, interrupting her thoughts. Steph knew Paula admired Debbie, despite her weird quirks and antics, but Paula couldn’t see what she could. Steph thought Paula’s mother, Francine, was the epitome of a great parent and she’d sought refuge at the Kemper house hundreds of times over the years.

Debbie pirouetted and stopped short of falling over the balcony railing. Hopefully she would give up soon and go back to her Lazy Boy recliner and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s she’d bought yesterday.

“There’s a light over in the Frankenstein place... There’s a li-i-i-i-ight...”

She serenaded them with music from the Rocky Horror Picture Show, a movie she’d seen dozens of times. As long as she kept her clothes on—which wasn’t a guarantee—Steph didn’t care. They lived at the top of a cul-de-sac at the base of Spencer Butte. It afforded them a privacy they frequently needed—like today. Steph took comfort that their closest neighbor, old Mr. Crick, wouldn’t be able to check out Debbie South’s latest performance.

Paula wrapped one of Steph’s blond locks around her finger. “I’m so sorry. I know you won’t miss this when you’re gone. Debbie is just... Debbie.”

Steph turned away, hoping Paula couldn’t see how the simple gesture affected her.

Debbie hit a high note and raised her hands to the sky in a big finish. The glass slipped through her fingers and crashed to the deck but she didn’t seem to notice. She held the pose, obviously hearing thunderous applause in her head. With her arms outstretched the silk clung to her curves.

“She’s beautiful,” Paula said. “I hope I look that good when I’m in my forties.”

Paula and Emilio had seen Debbie drunk often and they’d all laughed together about some of her antics, like the afternoon she staged a pickle rolling contest, offering twenty bucks to the winner, who turned out to be Paula. Her friends always understood Debbie and it was why they were the only people who ever visited during high school.
John South emerged from the house, the breaking crystal more than he could stand. Debbie took her bow and her ample breasts slipped out of the negligee. She drew herself up before she saw him standing next to her.

“Want a little action, Johnnie?” she asked loudly, jiggling her chest in his face.

Steph thought she might be sick.

“God, Debbie, you’re trashed,” he scolded sharply, turning away from her and gathering the large shards from the deck.

She looked ashamed and she readjusted herself without looking at him again. As she
opened the screen door, she glanced up toward the rock and Steph wondered if she’d known they were there all along.

Once John went back inside they scrunched down again behind the rock. Paula reread the letter once more, quietly folded it into thirds and handed it to her. She wore a look of sad resignation. “I really am happy for you, Steph. We’ve always wanted the best for each other and I don’t want that to change.”

“Thanks,” she said, relieved.

She leaned closer and Steph could smell the Chanel No. 5 she’d given her for Christmas. “I want more, Steph, right now. Your mother’s in the house and your dad is preoccupied. No one’s coming. I want to be your first.”

Paula nuzzled her neck until Steph was blinded by sheer ecstasy. Their clothes were shed again in a matter of seconds and Paula hovered over her, wearing only her underwear. She was beautiful but Steph sat limp against the rock, like a discarded rag doll. She didn’t know what to do.

Paula crawled to her and kissed her softly, her body flowing against Steph’s. She lay her down on the soft grass and traced circles on her belly. When her hand swept under Steph’s waistband, it was as though an alarm sounded.

Steph sat up and Paula fell backward.

“Paula, I can’t.” When her eyes remained unconvinced, she added, “I love you as a friend but I don’t want you like that. I thought you understood.”

Paula’s jaw dropped and it seemed to Steph that her mind floated away from the moment, from anything that had existed between them. She remained motionless for a long time, long enough for Steph to hear the cars racing home on the road beyond the little forest.

They dressed and Paula started down the hill, Steph trailing after her. They walked around to the front of the house and into the sunlight. Paula put on her sunglasses and looked up, as if a spotlight had been turned on her. Her hair shimmered and her creamy skin relished the attention. Gone were the tears of an hour ago, replaced by a mask of self-assuredness.

“Well, good-bye, Steph.”

She was puzzled. Paula was spending the summer in Seattle with her grandparents but she didn’t leave for a week.

“What’s with good-bye? We’ll see each other before you go, right?”

She looked away. “Actually I’m leaving tomorrow. My grandfather asked me to come early and help with the chores.”

Steph knew Paula’s grandparents were third generation fishermen who owned their own business on the Washington coast. She loved visiting them and had invited Steph along one summer. It was the best summer she could remember.

“Oh,” was all Steph could say, unable to right herself from the emotional whiplash she felt. In only a few seconds the last ten years vanished.

Suddenly it was all overwhelming and the clear path of her future was covered in fog. She opened her mouth to say—something. But Paula turned away and headed down the sidewalk. Steph watched the sunlight sparkle against her hair for as long as she could, until Paula rounded the corner to her street and disappeared.

 

Chapter Two

April, 2009

When the bathroom attendant at the Troon North Clubhouse watched Stephanie Rollins fling open the door and burst into tears, she quickly led her to a corner of the sitting room with a box of tissue. No doubt she’d seen her share of crying wives after their catty friends had revealed over Blood Mary’s that their husbands were having affairs.

Steph dabbed her eyes, determined not to ruin her makeup. She took a deep breath and stared at the expensive paintings that adorned the little sitting room, filled with deep cherry wood settees and stuffed chairs. Classical music muffled the unrefined toilet flushes and the gossipy whispers of the trophy wives huddled over the granite sinks reapplying their lipsticks. It was amazing they could outline their lips and simultaneously stab a non-present club member in the back.

She leaned against the wall, listening to pieces of their conversations—the sudden chuckles and droll remarks, all at the expense of someone else. No one mentioned her, so at least her news from the dining room hadn’t traveled too fast. After nearly eighteen years of living as a doctor’s wife, she’d heard and said it all. She’d learned quickly that there wasn’t a high road to take and survival in the upper social stratosphere was reminiscent of Roman gladiators—only these warriors had three hundred dollar haircuts and three hundred dollar manicures.

She needed to focus on the facts. Her husband Lawrence was having another affair, according to her tennis buddies. It had taken three rum and Cokes to pry the information from Leslie, her doubles partner, but she finally admitted that she’d seen him and Steph’s Bosnian twenty-something domestic, Marta, naked and humping like rabbits in the Rollins’ Olympic-size pool. Apparently Leslie had wandered into the house looking for Steph the day before and got an eyeful from the living room window. When she started to describe their antics under the beautiful waterfall that Steph had designed, Steph excused herself to the restroom, which she now decided was the nicest public restroom she’d ever entered.

She thought about leaving but the chaise lounge seemed to wrap its arms around her, coaxing her to stay. More than likely the real culprit was the three whiskey sours she’d consumed with lunch. She was pleasantly toasted and had no desire to rise; however, she knew that her window of opportunity was closing. She checked her Rolex and verified that it was two- thirty, still an hour before Eric arrived home from school.

The thought of her son embroiled in the family drama was enough to drag her to her feet. She sought out the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. She’d never had one in her bedroom when she was a kid, Debbie decrying vanity as the root of all evil. But after years of living with a plastic surgeon in an environment where attention to physical beauty was essential to proper breeding, she automatically assessed her appearance, like a complex mathematical equation, the answer of which verified her worth.

She saw a thirty-five year-old woman who still got carded when she went on a “girls’ night out”. Plus. She had a great haircut and her hair was free of gray. Plus. She remained a size six and her long legs were still her best feature. Plus. The boob lift she’d given Lawrence for his thirtieth birthday present was losing to gravity. He’d hounded her to go back under the knife but she refused. Minus. Tiny varicose veins peeked out from under her tennis dress, threading their way down to her ankles. Minus. And speaking of her ankles, they’d soon be cankles. Minus.

Not bothering to do the vanity math, she rushed out of the bathroom, ignoring her friends who were probably ordering their fifth or sixth cocktail. The hunky valet waved at her approach and went to retrieve her Beemer.

“How are you today, Mrs. Rollins?” he offered as he pulled up.

She noticed his eyes probing her body as she slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m fine, Curtis, and you?”

“Never better,” he said with a model-like smile. “Anything else I can do for you?” She shook her head. “No thank-you.”

She sped away and recognized the irony of the situation. Curtis had indeed done many
other things for several of the bored club wives—but not for her. After Lawrence’s second affair, she’d thought turnabout was fair play, but sleeping with the head waiter didn’t make her feel better about his cheating and it made her feel worse about herself. And in the end, when she’d announced her affair to Lawrence, he’d had the poor guy fired. She decided then that affairs weren’t her style—at least with men.

A year later the club hired a new tennis pro, an incredibly attractive redhead whose personality was as powerful as her serve. They flirted for weeks but Steph was too chicken to do anything until she happened to attend a luncheon in downtown Scottsdale one afternoon and Lawrence walked past the restaurant’s front window, his arm wrapped around the waist of a very young woman. Steph knew she was a temp in the billing department but it was clear from their groping that the relationship wasn’t professional.

The next afternoon the tennis pro offered her a rubdown after their workout and Steph accepted reluctantly. She’d never been with a woman, although there had been several ladies who’d caught her eye over the years. None was as bold as the pro, who came into the massage room wearing only a robe.

“Climb up on the table,” she’d instructed.

Steph held her towel against her chest and lay on her stomach while the pro kneaded her muscles from head to toe for over half an hour, soft jazz music preventing any awkward conversation between them. The afternoon was clearly about their bodies.

Steph was so relaxed that she quickly turned over on her front when instructed to do so. The powerful fingers that had released all the tension from her back muscles caressed her face and breasts lovingly. It was an hour Steph would never forget and their weekly liaisons continued for several months until the pro got a better job offer and left Arizona. The entire affair made Steph think of Paula—often.

They’d never seen each other after that summer day when she walked away and turned the corner to her house. During the many intervening years the image of her hair glistening in the sunlight took on an ethereal quality and Steph elevated her status to angel. The story of their past had gilded corners on each page. All of it was romantic and beautiful—even the moment when they said good-bye.

Her dreams of med-school and an amazing experience at Berkeley lasted a mere year. She’d been lost without Paula and embraced the first clique of co-eds that was kind to her, a group that included Lawrence Rollins, her future husband. According to the therapist who would treat her for depression years later, she hooked up with Lawrence to forget Paula and the feelings she secretly harbored for her.

He was a third-year med student, destined to join his father’s lucrative plastic surgery practice in Scottsdale, Arizona. He introduced her to the wealthy crowd—frat boys, sorority girls and the elite athletes. It was intoxicating, as was the alcohol that she enjoyed whenever it was offered. By the time she returned to Eugene for Spring Break, she was pregnant. Lawrence had realized Steph could be persuaded to do most anything when she was under the influence, such as give up her virginity. Unfortunately, when he got drunk he also experienced lapses in judgment—like forgetting to wear a condom. Their son Eric was living proof that pregnancy can happen the first time.

She wound the Beemer around the golf course path, grateful for the easy drive when she was drunk. She parked a few houses away and walked the distance. She was on a stealth mission and wouldn’t give herself away.
She dropped her keys at the door, swearing softly as they clinked onto the terracotta entryway. She fumbled for the right one and the door opened. Eric stood there, his arms crossed, frowning. His dark curly brown hair was long again and she couldn’t see his eyes, which she imagined were filled with disapproval. For a seventeen-year-old, he often acted middle-aged.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

She worked to control herself but she was rather certain that her body was swaying, as if she were dancing to a song on her IPOD.

“What are you doing home?” she asked, ignoring his statement and sweeping past him. “It’s only two-thirty.”

He followed her into the kitchen, took her purse and set it on the sideboard. “It’s the third Wednesday of the month. I have early dismissal, remember?” No, she didn’t remember but she nodded anyway.

“What are you doing home?” he asked, annoyed. “It’s your day for tennis and a massage.”

“I decided to skip the massage,” she said, already heading for the stairs. “Why don’t you run down to Sal’s and pick up a pizza or something for dinner?”

“Dinner’s not for four hours,” he said, going to the refrigerator. “Why don’t you sit with me and I’ll make us some Arnold Palmers? And we can eat some of your amazing muffins.”

He pulled out the lemonade and iced tea pitchers and grinned at her. She loved that grin and Arnold Palmers, their favorite non-alcoholic drink. “Um, just give me a sec to change, okay?” She figured that she could confront Lawrence and because Eric was home, he wouldn’t make a scene, but he would be caught.

She’d climbed to the first landing and Eric overtook her, his hand touching her arm. “Mom, don’t go up there right now.”

They stared at each other and his eyes were filled with knowing. He was an old soul and his calm nature was contagious. She let him lead her down the stairs and out to the patio. She imagined his plan was to have a pleasant conversation with his mother while his father finished pleasuring the maid and snuck back to work, thinking his stupid wife and former-druggie son were none the wiser.

They planted themselves in the lounge chairs, enjoying the tepid weather, which wouldn’t last much longer. Within three weeks the persecuting heat would kill all of her flowers and drive the humans inside. Even the pool wouldn’t be enjoyable, the sun practically boiling the water.

“It’s not too hot yet,” Eric said, reading her mind.

“No, but it will be,” she said sharply. “God, I hate it here.”

“Then why don’t you move?”

She looked at him, astonished by the question. “What are you talking about?”

He pulled his long legs off the lounger and faced her, his arms resting on his knees. He looked more like a father than a son, someone who was about to begin an important lecture. He’d certainly heard enough of them from the drug counselors who’d helped him kick the cocaine habit he’d developed while attending an elite private school. Steph had tried to tell Lawrence that private didn’t equate to better, but there was no way his son would go to public school. It was beneath him. A three month stint at Charter Hospital changed his mind. Eric had straight-A’s after a semester at Desert Mountain High School. If he took summer classes, he could still go to college at San Diego State in the fall, although he couldn’t participate in his high school graduation ceremony, a fact that broke Steph’s heart. Seeing her son in his cap and gown was one of the images she’d clung to throughout his youth when things were incredibly difficult and she wondered if she was a good mother.

“Mom, you need to leave dad.”

She couldn’t look at him. Yes, he was right. She needed to leave Lawrence. She hated him. She’d never loved him but now she hated him. Such a thought, though, wasn’t supposed to be voiced by her teenage son.

“Listen,” he continued, “when I was in rehab we talked a lot about our parents and I think I understand you now.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You do? What do you think you know?”

“That you gave up everything for me. That you never had any help. And since I was a surprise, as you call it, I don’t think you ever loved dad. I think you tried,” he added quickly, “but you can’t force yourself to love someone just like you can’t stop yourself from falling in love.”

For a fleeting second she thought of Paula and the fire that burned in her belly every time they’d met behind the rock.

She was impressed by her son’s understanding of the world. Of course gay topics only warranted fleeting mentions in their rare family dinner discussions and Lawrence usually had the final homophobic word.
She looked at her son, a young man she admired and pitied at the same time. He’d grown up in spite of his parents. Steph blamed herself for his stint in rehab but he’d denied she’d played any role in his addiction to drugs—Lawrence hadn’t fared so well. While Eric never blamed him, he never excused him either.

“Son, I appreciate your exceptional and rather uncanny understanding of my situation but I’m not leaving you. I’ve sucked enough as a mother and I’m not going to add abandonment to my list of faults.”

He laughed heartily. “Mom, you’re not abandoning me. In a few months I’m out of high school. I’ll be abandoning you. I’ve already told you that I’m going to San Diego. I figure Dad’s good for that much cash since he’s gotta feel a little guilty about missing out on every single thing I ever did in school and countless birthdays. Or, I could join the military,” he added, knowing that topic could make her blood boil. She pointed a finger at him but he backed down. “I’m just saying that it’s time for you to live your life and to hell with dad. Go back to Oregon. You’ve always talked about how much you miss the rain and the trees.”

That was true. She gazed out at the sprawling deep emerald green golf course that lay before them. She’d agreed to build their mini-mansion here because of the view. The lush trees and grass reminded her of home, but she was assaulted by the dreariness of the desert each time she drove out of her garage and faced the other direction.

“You could live with Grandma,” Eric suggested.

She offered a pained smile. She knew he was trying to be helpful. “You know Grandma lives in an assisted living setting, sweetie. It’s not really an option.”

He laughed again, knowing all of her issues with Debbie. While her parents had always been good to him, particularly when John was alive, she’d always felt closer to Francine, Paula’s mother. Francine had been instrumental in Steph’s decision to keep Eric and they still remained close through phone calls. She’d never say it out loud but Francine had been more of a mother to her than Debbie.

He spent another half-hour lobbying for her departure, and she finally asked him if he was trying to get rid of her. He dismissed the idea with a wave and she knew he had no ulterior motives, such as returning to his life of hard partying. She pondered his offer seriously until the backdoor opened and Marta appeared. In the distance Lawrence’s car left the garage. How stupid did he think she was?

Marta had told them she’d been a model back in Europe and since her body was nothing but curves, Steph believed her and Lawrence instantly hired her. Her hair was wet from the shower she’d taken after they crawled out of Steph’s bed, and the smile that spread across her face could only belong on the face of an adulterer.

“How you doin’ Marta?” Eric asked, lifting his drink.

She flashed a wide smile and Steph bristled. Marta had been eyeing him ever since she arrived and Steph worried that she’d make her way into his bed. Steph knew that he’d lost his virginity to a woman ten years his senior during a church summer camp on abstinence and addiction.

“I’m great, Eric,” she said, refusing to acknowledge Steph. “In fact, I’m perfect.”

“Is that what Lawrence says, or is that your own over-estimation of your ability in bed?”

She’d said the words before she could stop herself. Marta stared at her, her eyes the size of golf balls.
Steph looked at Eric and his broad grin. “Damn it.”