Back To U

chapter Eight

Steam is an underused heat source.





Moses-comes-down-from-the-mountain Monday. That’s what Deb had been calling the day the director of the program journeyed to the kitchen and addressed the students, rallied the troops, or made them cry like little girls. Deb had suggested all three may occur.

Just when the kitchen had started to feel homey, they had to make it institutional for the director. Gwen couldn’t help but compare it to the restaurant kitchen they’d toured on a culinary field trip. The stainless shone there as well, but there was life. Cilantro, dropped in a chopping frenzy gave off its distinct muskiness with so many soles pressing it into the tile. Lined up along the grill were steaks, their dark lines promising they’d completed one turn, and next to them giant pots of water bubbled, salted to the nature of seawater and ready for a sheaf of pasta.

She’d imagined the seasons made their way readily into a lively kitchen like that. The late summer soups would give way to thick and creamy chowders, hearty beans, and beefy stews. Spring would mean something too. There’d be asparagus, narrow and tender, and lots of lovely egg dishes people would order not even aware they were craving them because it was Easter.

And the sounds. It was nearly impossible to talk over the din of a working kitchen. In her own kitchen she’d often listened to music because sometimes too much quiet made her feel lonely. She’d had no idea how noisy a kitchen could be, how much sound could be generated by meats and vegetables and sauces. Steam whistled out of the tops of pots, knives sliced through cucumbers and onions and knocked against the cutting boards so quickly, the place had an almost continuous back beat. And in the center of it all, the head chef held the chaos together, directing the younger chefs back to their stations where piles of carrots and heads of cabbage waited as if for the arrival of a horde of rabbits.

It had been like another country to her, but she could see that Ty had been right at home. He seemed to know so much about cooking, she felt lucky to be in class beside him. In preparation for the day's visitation, they’d had the task of tidying the freezer and inventorying the frozen meats. It had been a cold and thankless morning made entertaining by Ty’s general flirtiness and his amazing knowledge of cuts. She wasn’t sure what it said about her, but she was pretty excited she’d finally learned the difference between a brisket first cut and a brisket front cut.

And when everything was ready and they stood around waiting, her stomach started to hurt. She couldn’t decide if it was because a real, honest-to-god French chef, who probably only spoke French, was coming to check their progress or because she hadn’t yet glanced down the hallway to see if Max had posted a winning photo outside his door. Since she was only auditing cooking classes, and wasn’t a culinary arts major, it had to be the bet that had her wound-up.

Deb had them prepare their best dishes, the ones they’d gotten A’s on, or in the case of one of the young slackers, a high C.

Ty impressed them all with pork medallions in a saffron sauce. Just looking at saffron made her nervous. It was nearly as expensive per pound as gold and even a thread of the spice made her feel unworthy. What could she concoct that would withstand that price tag? Ty was so far out of her league, culinarily speaking, and any other way she could categorize, that she knew better than to compete.

She’d chosen a straight-forward roasted chicken, about as expensive per pound as, well, chicken. The only deviation she’d made from every cooking show’s rosemary rubbed one was the apple juice. Her appley bird came out of the oven glazed a golden brown and smelling of fall. She named the dish Harvest Chicken, sliced off a thick piece of breast meat encircled in its crispy skin, and plated it for chef approval or abuse in a foreign language, whichever came first. To the platter she added sautéed apple slices, sharp in a whisky butter, and lined them up across from the chicken like a drunken parade of goodness.

Beside her, Ty flecked bits of finely chopped green pepper around the rim of a wide bowl then picked up a squirt bottle that held a thick red sauce. She tried not to compare her family-friendly fare to his artistry while she dished up the old-timey root vegetables she loved, the rutabaga, turnips, scrubbed and unpeeled carrots, and sweet potatoes roasted off in balsamic vinegar. She set the plate on the head table with the rest of the student’s offerings, and her humble fare looked like the least attractive virgin sacrificed to the volcano.

She returned to watch Ty dot pureed red peppers between the green bits. Art. Edible art. She had to question Deb’s decision to even let her in the same class. "That’s spectacular, Ty, really."

He wiped the edge of the bowl for imaginary drips. It was perfect.

"Chef Gaspard will go crazy."

His head snapped up.

"In a good way."

He smiled, seemed to try to relax. "I hope so. I’ve waited a long time to have this chance. A chef of her caliber…"

She felt a little thrill run through her. This wasn’t cable TV. The woman was going to stand right in front of her. "She’s really good, huh?"

"She’s a Gaspard."

She waited because she didn’t really know what that meant. It was the woman’s last name but had she written a famous cookbook? Surely Gwen would have picked it up at some point. The woman didn’t have her own show on cable, no catch phrase, no cookware with her name on the handle…

"The Gaspards are…" He seemed to consider it as he gently placed his dish in the center of the table. "A restaurant dynasty. Her grandfather started La Blanc Pomme."

She could tell he was watching her, so she tried to appear as if she knew the place. But she was pretty sure that The White Apple? had never come to her attention before. "They’re like the culinary Kennedys?"

"Yeah. Her parents are Consequences Repas and Applaudissements, which are, you know…" He held his palms up like there were no words to describe their culinary contributions. "And her brothers’ restaurants? All five star Michelin ratings. All the time."

First, she’d thought Consequences might be the mom’s name, so it showed how much she knew. And while Ty had probably even eaten in places called the Consequential Table and Applause, she’d not even been aware they existed. It made her feel like he was a chef athlete and she was being shoved into the cooking Olympics with nothing but a crock pot.

She pictured Ty with a javelin and a pound of saffron while she tried to compete with nothing but a pink Kitchen Aid mixer and a bag of frozen tater tots. She needed to withdraw before she shamed herself and her country. Reaching for her chicken, she heard the whoosh of the door and fell into place beside the other students.

A striking woman entered, her face thin but rich with angles. She’d missed being a model by a handful of genes, and instead of the white chef’s coat Gwen expected, she wore a silk blouse and trousers that gave evidence to the claim that thin women were like coat hangers. They perfectly displayed the goods. She wore her dark blonde hair pulled back, not tucked under a chef’s hat, but in a chic, low knot.

In the complete silence, she stopped at the front of the room, acknowledged Deb with almost a smile then turned to the group. "I am Chef Nicola Gaspard."

Her accent merely flavored her speech, and Gwen had to admit her English was nearly as good as her ability to showcase clothing. And who was named Nicola Gaspard? Gwen Frame wasn’t. Gwen Ciarrochi definitely wasn’t. Neither was anybody she knew, had ever known, or would ever know.

Nicola took in the main kitchen, handed Deb an overstuffed file folder, and disappeared into the adjacent baking area. Deb kept herself occupied leafing through the assortment of papers, some yellowed and curled, some recipe cards with what looked like faded ink. Everyone else waited in silence until Chef Gaspard reappeared, not smiling, but Gwen might need to concede that smiling was possibly not one of the expressions the woman made. She had to be in her early thirties, but even then Gwen remembered having a few lines on her face. Chef Gaspard wore her French skin flawlessly.

Chef Gaspard sighed, even that not creating any movement of her face. "Yes. I am satisfied with the state of the kitchen. Nothing is to be prepared here without mise en place. No soigné without the proper set up. I see everything in its place."

Gwen thought of the spectacular mess during the middle of a class, the tables loaded with vegetables that three or four people chopped at a time until the bits of green, red, yellow were flicked onto the half wall and floor like that painting with colored dots. She could almost picture it, the island painting where the ladies had umbrellas and dresses with bustles. God, it was French too, wasn’t it? She’d have to keep her eyes open for Sunday picnic pictures in the veggies when they could trash the kitchen again. Sometimes the burners had whole chicken breasts wedged in them from over-zealous sautéing. Would she be able to find the image of the Virgin Mary or Elvis in a cutlet?

"Attention to detail is everything."

The French voice, soft, but with the edge beautiful and powerful women had, made Gwen pay attention again. Who was she kidding even being there with a real live chef? She’d never be more than a pretty good home cook with a mind that drifted to things like poultry’s capacity for religious imagery. And by religious imagery she meant Elvis. Ellen had raised her that way.

"Excellence in cuisine takes the best ingredients and time."

Gwen considered the science of cooking. It was a big part of it, but when Deb ran the kitchen she also instructed with full-out passion. She’d be elbow deep in a turkey carcass one minute and pulling scraps out of the garbage can the next to shake a turnip end at someone who wasted what could be used for stock. But Chef Gaspard was right, of course. The best ingredients and time made for the kind of cooking they were learning. This was no cafeteria food Gwen hoped she could save with cinnamon.

"Most of you will aspire to no more than, you would say, fry cook. This is as it should be. The kitchen needs many workers. One cuisinier with talent will have great rewards. You shall see."

She moved as if she were leaving the kitchen, barely glancing at the plates on the table, but Gwen knew she couldn’t ignore Ty’s. It was practically glowing. And sure enough Chef Gaspard pointed at it. "Yes."

Then, unexpectedly, she leaned closer and sniffed Gwen’s chicken. Sniffed her chicken, and Gwen thought she'd have a heart attack in the silence after that inhale.

"Perhaps."

Perhaps was good. It was plenty good enough for her. She’d happily take perhaps to her grave. In her head she was pleading, please don’t let the famous French chef say any more in any language about anything on that plate.

Chef Gaspard tapped on the file Deb held and gestured at the only two plates she’d given any attention to. "These two will work on the recipes. The best ones I’ll see."

Gwen fought the impulse to point at herself in question, like the girl at the dance who thinks the boy is asking her when he’s really coming for the prom queen standing next to her. She tried to not even blink. She didn’t want to be guilty of the wide-eyed thrilled look that said me?!

Deb glanced her way then shrugged a pre-apology. "Actually, Gwen’s just auditing the class."

Chef Gaspard lifted her head as if something smelled unpleasant to her Gallic sensibilities, and Gwen waited for her to say something, but she addressed Deb instead. "Indecision does not make for excellence. These recipes will be made with excellence. She is in the program, or she is out."

Nicola Gaspard left with the same understated flair that she’d come in with, and Gwen felt a little robbed. She'd not only been kicked out of the kitchen, but she hadn't even seen the woman do any cheffing.

"Alright, everybody," Deb motioned for their attention. "First years, I’ll see you at one for the grains seminar." She flipped open the file folder and pulled out a handwritten sheet. "Ty, I’m gonna copy this, and we’re making…" She studied the sheet. "Lamb."

The firsts filed out, and Deb crooked a finger for Gwen to follow her.

In silence they stood in Deb's office while three copies of a lamb roast recipe chugged into the tray. Deb gathered them, evened them out by tapping them on the top of the copier then doing it again. "You have to enroll in the program."

Gwen shook her head. "I'm just at Belmar for the semester. You know that."

"Yeah, here's the deal. You know the weekly tests? Well, Nicola sees them too. Gwen, you have the highest score of all."

"No." They were so varied. She knew she’d done well on the safety unit, but mother sauces… "Really? That's amazing. I guess I didn't know how much I knew, and how much I absorbed from you taking me through the material from the first year."

Deb watched her in the same way she'd watched Missy during the middle school years when the girl wasn't entirely tracking what was said to her anymore.

"Gwen? Doesn’t it seem strange to you that you could do in a couple of weeks what everyone takes a year to learn?"

That did sound kind of strange, but it was the way Deb was framing it. It wasn’t like she could cook like Ty could or anything. She just had a lot of time to kill, maybe. "Well, I watched a lot of cooking shows. And there are the cookbooks I collect, and I’m just taking one class right now, and I just…"

"You just are very, very good at this. Gwen, I noticed. She noticed."

She felt Deb’s hand on her shoulder. "It’s not my decision to make. But I think she’s right about this. You’re going to have to commit."

But she didn’t want to commit. Even the word made her stomach hurt more than standing before a French Chef who only said perhaps to her. But it wasn’t like she was some kind of chicken. Well, she made chicken, and she was somewhat chicken, but… "I was married for twenty years. It's not like I don't know how to commit. And I think we all know how that turned out."

Deb shrugged like she was about ready to say shit happens, but then her face wore the kind of empathy that made Gwen nearly tear up. "Except for the being left part, this is like marriage. When it’s your calling, it’s gotta be your whole heart in it. Win or lose."

Whole heart. She didn’t want to think about her marriage to Steve that way. She’d been a good wife, but she wouldn’t have been poetic about it. Whole heart sounded like something written into marriage vows by the kind of women who wanted to look like a Barbie at the nuptials.

Steve had proposed and she’d said yes and they had shared goals and outlooks on adulthood in common, and then Missy, of course. It wasn’t possible that after all she’d done she’d never been fully committed to any of it.





Gwen's Journal - November 9th, Monday 1989



So, I suppose I need to officially say that Max and I are in an adult relationship. It’s not going in the newspaper or anything, but I need to say it here. It’s just that at eighteen I suppose I’m behind maybe. Or it never felt right before.

With Max, I guess, it just feels natural. Like growing up and leaving your childhood behind. It’s not a big deal, just the obvious natural next thing. He is my boyfriend. And it was very romantic, as it should be. Rational and well thought-out too.





Gwen's life the morning before…



"I’m not going in there." She stood in the middle of Max’s room and caught the towel he tossed her. He just smiled, bare-chested, bare-footed, probably knowing how good he looked in his faded jeans, dammit.

He slung his towel around his neck like any guy heading to the shower and opened the door, checking up and down the hall. Two a.m. on a Sunday morning was as quiet as a dorm got, but she laughed at the absurdity of the whole thing. He was crazy if he thought she would even for a second consider--

She braced herself when he darted back into the room and kissed her hard. God, she could just breathe him in and be happy. She ruffled his hair, pulled him closer with the edges of his towel, but he backed away, dragging her to the door.

She felt his voice come from deep in his chest. "I’ll kiss you across the hall."

Well, she wasn’t falling for that. "I’m not going in the guy’s bathroom for a kiss."

But he stepped into the hall, backing across it while she held on and shook her head. He pushed against the swinging door, clearly labeled men’s, and she laughed but didn’t let go. She noted the wall of sinks and the stall doors but averted her eyes from the urinals and pulled him close for a kiss that was altered by the half-smile she couldn’t stop.

In their month together, they’d perfected the long hours of rolling and rubbing and longing. But they’d never… "Kissed in the bathroom. Are you satisfied, Mr. Holter?"

"No, no, I’m not, Ms. Ciarrochi and neither are you." He began to unbutton her blouse. She felt his hands brush the inner slopes of her breasts and wanted to move enough to feel him graze her nipples. When he drew her shirt open, the cool air of the room rushed along her skin. She shivered, but warmed when his palms slid across the white cotton cups and around her ticklish sides to crack the hooks open.

He grinned at her when her breath sucked in. She could see it in his eyes, the teasing challenge. She worked hard to not smile back and cleared her throat for both authority and to gather herself since she was rapidly becoming undressed in the guy’s bathroom. "I’m not taking a shower with you."

He reached so delicately for the collar of her blouse that it slid to the floor before she knew his hands had moved. She shook her head. "I’m not. You’re crazy."

Playing with the straps of her bra, he ran his fingers up and down the length of them, the bottom loose and leaning out from her body. "I’m crazy about you."

"Even…" She tried not to sigh when he let one strap fall down her arm.

"I know." He slid the other strap over the curve of her shoulder. "But it’s only a bad line if it’s not true."

He let go, and she felt her bra slip down her body to the floor. If anyone came in… she shook her head and felt his hands at her waist pulling her in warm and close as he guided her around the cement doorway to the showers.

She barely registered the row of shower heads. Crazy about her. Max Holter, the most beautiful, most interesting man ever on the planet was hers. And he was holding her so close and with such strength of feeling that she wanted to stay there forever. There was such deliciousness in having her body against his, his heart beating against hers, skin to skin. She loved the hardness of his chest and for the first time loved her own soft give against it.

She tilted her head down towards her shoulder, and he took the invitation to kiss her there beneath her ear, nip once, and lick the length of her neck. He followed the path down to the hollow of her throat and then, with his hands tight at her waist, pulled her nipple into his mouth.

The whole world narrowed to the warm tug of Max’s mouth on her, and she couldn’t think past it. He hesitated while he kicked his pants off, and over his head she glanced toward the doorway. She wasn’t going to… the other nipple felt even better, like anticipation made it more intense. Then he took both her breasts in his hands, rubbed them, swollen and so sensitive, and kissed her until all she could think about was clinging to him completely naked under a cascade of heat like some tropical waterfall.

He’d worked her pants off before she noticed, but then stepped away to spin the silver handle of the shower. It took him a minute to get the temperature right, an inch in the red then closer to the swirl of blue. She could have thought about it, changed her mind if she’d even made it. But she didn’t want to think or change anything.

He stepped into the stream of water and held out his hands, and she just wanted to put herself in them.

The water ran between them like a slick veil that gave her the courage to not feel completely naked. She slid against him, felt his hands shape the curve of her lower back to pull her closer. With his erection against her belly, she moved her hips to rub the length of it.

He made a sound deep in his throat that never made it into words and gripped her thigh to slide her leg over his hip, and she thought there, right there. He felt even harder against her and she wanted everything, even things she didn't know how to ask for. She felt his penis jump against her, amazed that it could do that, such a mystery.

On his bed she’d managed some exploration inside the waistband of his jeans where only fingertips could go. But this, with water pounding on her breasts and the sounds of it shushing against the grey floor, was true exploration. Reaching down she put her hand around him, slipping up to the blushing top and back down to the dark blond curls at its base.

He lowered his head to her shoulder, his forehead pressing with intensity against her. The water made everything so warm and easy, and she ran her hand up again, felt, this time, the texture of it, the cords of strength that ran through its soft skin. She traced her thumb around the top, the rim so interesting, then down the almost seam of it to the thick base, and back to--

Max gripped her, pulled her closer, and shuddered, her hand trapped between their bodies. She looked down and saw the milky fluid run across her fingers.

His eyes were unfocused, but he was already shaking his head.

She looked again at her hand between them, then back at Max. "Did I do that?"

He was blushing, she could tell, even in the heat of the room, but he smiled, started to laugh.

"I did, didn’t I?" Wow, it was impressive. She’d, without even meaning to, done something pretty impressive.

He shifted, and she released him, only to be drawn back into his arms to feel his sigh. "I will, I swear, make it up to you."

"Well, it was really interesting."

"Gwen," Max leaned in, and she felt his lips so soft against hers. "Let’s define interesting for you."

"What the f*ck?" A loud voice came from the other side of the cement doorway.

Max shifted Gwen behind him, grabbed a towel, and walked to head off whoever was coming.

She lunged for her towel, wrapped it around her, and attempted to get her jeans on over her wet body, silently pogo-ing around with the effort.

The guy greeted Max as Gwen imagined all guys talked to each other when no girls were around. "You jerking off in there, Holter?"

"Yes, yes I am."

She didn’t let herself make a sound, but she felt the wide smile. She’d done something really interesting, and Max was going to do something really interesting to her.





Back to U…



She wasn't sure how she'd kept her fingers still attached to her hand during the chiffanade of a pound of parsley. Her head certainly hadn't been in the game. Normally she had such concentration, especially for the minute jobs in the kitchen. She loved the clean green fragrance the flat leaf Italian released when stacked and rolled like an old time cigarette. Each slice off the end released the paper-fine shreds of herb and made her glad to be right there right that moment.

But this time she knew her head had been elsewhere. She'd enjoyed taking the cooking class for fun because there was a relaxing lack of risk. The credits were paid for so why not learn something? She didn’t need to be in the program, didn’t need to deal with competition, or added stress on top of the steaming pile of stress that was her life. Besides, she didn’t have aspirations of Parisian kitchens or seeing head chef embroidered on her jacket even though she loved her jacket. She only had a small hobby to enrich and in the arena of the kitchen, nothing to lose. Why couldn’t she coast somewhere in her life?

She'd stepped out of the building before she remembered the photo bet. She wanted to keep walking, head to her room, and ignore one more complication, but curiosity drove her back in and down the hall toward Max's office.

The photo took her breath. He'd captured her, but not the woman she'd ever seen in herself. The almost sepia shot, framed and hung just outside his door, hadn't been taken in the football stadium at all. She'd been relaxed, content in that lawn chair with Guy and Annie beside her and the tailgate party swirling behind them. She'd heard the click of his camera that day but couldn't have imagined what he'd seen through his lens, what he'd seen when he looked at her.

She traced on the glass the fine lines beneath her eyes, a deeper one, less than fine, across her forehead. In the context of the portrait, her wrinkles seemed so necessary to everything. They defined her expression. Relaxed, they showed the paths joy and sadness had taken again and again. The sun warmed her hair, a shade of chestnut she'd forgotten it had, and the curls she'd fought for so long, looped around her face with energy. She looked whole and loved. She reached for the photo, saw her hand shake. The title card she left hanging on the wall. The Long and Winding Road.

She had to go.





"Annie, you’re doing an outstanding job on the mashed potatoes." Annie smiled at her, a real one Gwen felt lucky to be the recipient of. From the beginning of the semester when she’d feared Annie would careen off the couch trying to avoid human contact, the girl had really come along. She couldn’t be described as confident yet, but with time and attention she might be described as the girl who hadn’t kept to herself.

Gwen surveyed the rest of the kitchen crew. Jason and Bryan were watching the lounge TV. She was sorry she'd introduced them to musicals. They'd gone through Hello Dolly, a no. And Grease, naturally their favorite. Blue Hawaii currently played, round two, and they were keeping up with Elvis pretty well.

Beside her at the small counter, Hayden tossed the salad. When she’d shown him how to make the dressing, she was pleased at how quickly he’d picked up on the emulsification of the oil into the balsamic vinegar. On the last section of counter Guy rolled the sushi appetizer, bringing his own mat and wooden hangiri rice bowl to the gathering and making quick work of the cucumber and avocado rolls. Maybe there’d be something about his sushi that would tell them exactly where he was from. Some people could identify a wine’s region by taste. She’d like to, in one sushi bite, reveal his home. Now that would be a good party trick.

She opened the efficiency oven, admired the perfectly caramelized roast, and forked a carrot, beautifully cut with the five angles she'd learned from Deb. Done. She’d let it rest to redistribute the juices. It would take her that long to get the boys disengaged from Elvis. "Guys, pause Elvis and set the table."

Jason gave her a pout worthy of a two-hundred and fifty pound three-year-old. "It's the best part. He's gonna spank that high school girl."

Bryan sighed. "God, Elvis rocked."

Hayden, gathering a stack of mismatched plates, headed for the table. "His girlfriend, Miele, is degrees hotter than the spoiled blonde."

Bryan snorted. "No way Miele would let him spank her."

"I didn't say she would. I said she was hotter."

Jason jumped in to vote with Bryan. "He's like, already thirty, and he can still get a high school girl across his lap. That is pretty hot for an old guy."

That was disturbing all over the place. She’d had no idea Elvis movies were so inappropriate. It was like those National Geographic magazines that seemed so harmless until the exposed breast page. Leave it to boys to find the dirty parts. Well, she was going to eat, and then she’d find a way to get rid of the Elvis spanking movie. She scooped the carrots into a bowl and put it in the middle of the table. "Set this or don't eat."

Guy grabbed the remote and hit the power, so he knew two words: sex and eat. What else did anyone need? Well, she just needed to eat.

She helped Hayden find the drawer with the silverware, odd pieces that had migrated from the cafeteria in the sixties, seventies, eighties and now even the cafeteria didn’t want them. Poor silverware, turfed at mid-life. Sometimes it really made her mad the way the world worked, how Elvis wasn’t too old for a high school girl, but she was too old for a guy even her own age. There was no way Steve had left her for another thirty-nine-year-old. The other woman was probably a dead ringer for the spoiled blonde Elvis practiced corporal punishment on. "And thirty is not old."

The boys laughed and Jason pointed the finger gun at her and pulled the trigger. "Right."

Bryan could be counted on to recover first and lie. "You're absolutely right, Venus."

"Shut up, Bryan."

His smile didn’t change. "You're absolutely right, Venus."

She laughed. They were annoying like all males, and yet so damn entertaining. Plus they still had years left before they routinely dated younger women. She took a couple of bottles of sparkling cider out of the refrigerator, and poured it into six miniature paper cups, motioning for everyone to take one.

She lifted hers, printed with Tweety birds. It wasn't the Frame family crystal. "To higher education." No one toasted her, and even Guy looked unimpressed.

Annie cleared her throat. "To Gwen, who is teaching me to cook." She looked at the boys. "And you guys how to eat."

"Venus!" the boys toasted and downed the cider in a shot.

Guy whistled three times and threw his empty cup over his left shoulder.

There was a pause, and then she led the way, and they all whistled three times and tossed the empty cups over their left shoulders.

Guy laughed, and Gwen wondered where he was from, what he understood, and why she felt so at home in a dorm lounge with a bunch of freshmen. She smiled at the silliness of her own existence. She was, after all, a sophomore.



She'd never had a more unique Friday before. After dinner, while Blue Hawaii played without sound, she learned how to play poker.

She’d made them start with pennies. The boys said they only played strip poker or if there were only guys, five-dollar-a-chip poker, but Gwen assured them neither game would be happening on her watch. She might have once imbibed in Red Bull and vodka with them, but she’d been a good role model since. Besides, Annie seemed to have some skill and might have been able to make them penniless or naked.

The boys were only okay at poker but made up for their lack of play by being outstanding at trash talking. Guy's playing indicated it was an international game, which she should have guessed if she’d given any thought to poker, but it hadn’t ever been an element of her social life. Maybe she’d not really had a social life. She’d had a family life with Missy’s school functions and all the necessary work to keep a house afloat. She’d helped out her mom’s Bunco group on occasion when they were short a player or needed a designated driver. But she’d always been too busy, or at least she’d felt like she was, to really invest in friends. It sounded terrible put that way… all the book clubs she didn’t join, the organizations she hadn’t volunteered for, the neighbors she’d failed to really know well. Maybe she’d just needed to let go of some chores to make room for people.

She studied her hand and tried to make sense out of a two, a three, one king, a seven, and a nine. It was easier to first look at the cards by number and then deal with the suits. She put the seven down to get another card, still not entirely sure it was time to do that, but Bryan gave her another card, so she had that part down. She fanned out her hand. A pair of twos. She really wanted to say read 'em and weep but hands like that only made the holder weep. "I'm out." Okay, she got to say that.

Annie gave her a pat of pity. "I can spot you a nickel."

She tried not to smile at Annie’s offer. She really was down to her last penny. "I'll go get some change out of my jar for coffee money. If I have to withdraw from caffeine, I’ll know who to blame."

Bryan shuffled the deck, bringing the cards back to the table in that fancy bridge move she'd tried earlier and caused a fifty-two card shower. Clearly the game would go on in her absence.





Gwen's Journal - November 9th, 1989 Monday



It’s really sad that as Max and I begin our relationship, and it deepens and intensifies and just really takes off, things can’t be good for everybody. There are sad people out there who have just lost love, and they really suffer from not being with the one they want to be with. To love someone who’s decided not to love you anymore, it’s hard to see. Very frustrating.





Gwen's life - the morning before…



She stood breathless in the doorway, the towel wrapped tightly around her breasts, the escape from the guys’ bathroom successful. Beside her, Max gripped a towel at his waist. His promise to define interesting for her was making her nearly black out in anticipation.

And there on the bottom bunk, where they’d kissed and touched and were heading for half naked, lay Justin, clutching his girlfriend’s photo to his chest and crying.





Back to U…