And a make-up pencil–whose color perfectly matched the scribbled words on the scattered paper. I didn’t have to read her scribbling to know what it was she had been writing about. Or rather, who. All these things I neatly returned to her own small clutch and lay it gently on the empty space of couch by her side. ‘Last night, ‘ I began. ‘Was that your first meeting with Sir face to face?’ Slowly, the young woman nodded. She then took a breath as if to speak, but instead said nothing. ‘Hmm. And I suspect that you were fully aware of what Sir is before you met with him.’ ‘Yes,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. ‘For about a year now.’ She took a moment to compose herself before finally raising her eyes to meet with mine. There was no fear there when she looked at me. She knew exactly what it is that I was, though there was still a question in her eye in concerns to the who. Instead, she exuded and air of curiosity and intrigue that surrounded her like a second skin. Why, she even smiled. " Well, put on some work gloves and let's get after it," I replied, my own smile matching hers.Beth was my step-daughter's best friend and college roommate. She was fifteen six years ago when she arrived at our house for a party. Even that first time, I noticed her. Those big, brown, eyes and warm, quick, smile drew my attention. Beth had an easy way about her, as though being happy and positive was so embedded in the core of her personality, no other emotion was possible.As the girls grew, Beth was a frequent visitor to our home, spending almost as much time there as Vicki. Barbara welcomed Beth with open arms. I, too, developed a caring relationship with Beth. I told myself we were like father and daughter. I resisted the thought of a different relationship, which sometimes required conscious effort.As we worked and talked, my mind's eye suffered from double vision. Beth and the present overlaid memories of the past which flowed like a disjunctive home movie. A party Barbara and I.
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