Cursed by Athena

By Sherry Cerrano

On the run, concealing her identity, Colors feels responsible for murders committed to get to her. She must act alone, think alone, and avoid surveillance. A hard run pushes away the dread that she’ll become a lab rat. She turns to Colonel Sam Hennessey, a security specialist, to help her stop those who hunt her.

Like the ancient Gre

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boulder Ridge Press
• Release date: Jan 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578622835

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A young woman with wild pink hair blasted through the steam billowing up from a manhole cover. On the streets she was known as Colors, the one who always wore a backpack and hung with the homeless.

Colors felt powerful when she ran. She dodged people and cars in her way, taking pleasure in the sound of angry horns. Under her coat she clenched a warm, bulging paper bag as if it were a vial of life-saving medicine, and grimaced at the thought of how now even the simplest task took on grand proportions.

Like a soothing balm, a full run could push away the dread, but survival required she listen to fear. Her mind slipped from neutral and revisited how fear touched every move she made, every thought she had, and every person she encountered. She was on the run to prevent any more people being killed by those who pursued her.

Her right foot plopped into a puddle. Urged on by the splash of cold water, she quickened her pace and lengthened her stride. The sound of her feet pounding the pavement drummed in her ears. Her heart kept time as she silently chanted, Act alone, think alone, avoid surveillance.

A narrow, empty side street she turned into became a straightaway, giving her mind the space to replay her long trek to New York City through small towns and lonely countryside, where she had felt secure to move around undetected. In this urban environment, she felt exposed. Was her street appearance working? It was no easy task to conceal who she used to be. As she dashed into the open, an icy wind burned her nose. Her hot pink hair flashed past buildings and people. Thankfully, no one paid attention to her.

Slowing down to a jog, Colors merged onto the sidewalk and zigzagged through the crowds. A memory surfaced of a hole in a forehead stippled with gunpowder. Her body shuddered at the recollection of the bloody scene from the day her former, comfortable life came crashing down like a rock tumbling out of control. The nightmare continued here in the Big Apple—shootings, street predators, and the threat of gangs. She likened it to a war zone and wondered how people could live in constant fear for their lives. For the last year, she found out the hard way, not dodging bullets or bombs, but living with the constant fear of capture and promise of violence.

Running and weaving past pedestrians, she felt a cold wetness hitting her face as it started to lightly rain. A degree or two lower and she would be feeling the soft snowflakes. Maneuvering through and around a clump of people, she stepped off the curb into the gutter and stopped on her toes just before she slammed into a bus that was pulling over. Trapped between it and the boarding passengers, she had to wait for them to merge through the narrow slit. Colors’ hair flared back as she looked up and watched the raindrops plunge from a great height. The tall buildings served as a backdrop, making the individual droplets visible. Her fascination lasted until she felt the movement of the bus pulling away. She bounced in place like a tightly wound spring. Upon release, she leaped into the street.

Freed from momentary detention, her thoughts returned to the drab but chaotic surroundings. Here in the crime-ridden and poverty-stricken inner city, she observed the cruelty of drug dealers, the relentless cold on the street, and the destitute lives of people addicted to any number of mind-numbing substances.

Only a couple of days ago, she had stepped around a man lying facedown on the concrete in his own vomit and urine and realized a person could die in public view here, not hidden away. When she came upon the body, she had suppressed an instinct to help and ran away like a cockroach scurrying from the light. Making the transition from her middle-class principles of decency and conscientiousness to what she was becoming stung her with shame. The thought changed her rhythmic breathing of a steady run to a gasp. Take a deep breath, keep moving. None of this was my choice.

It might be easier to let them find her. But having nothing left to lose made her bold. An enemy desperately wanted her, so she worked hard to stay in control and override lifelong feelings and behaviors in order to do what was necessary. The goal she now sought to accomplish was more pressing than her comfort, her former life, and even her guilt.

As she slowed down to a fast walk, her thoughts gave words to her fears. Only slightly winded, her breath visible, she said to herself in a low voice, I have to move on now. Or someone close to me will die.

Her attention returned to the street, where she spotted Momsey, JoJo, and Old Bob sitting on the ground. She walked toward them and removed the warm, grease-stained sack from under her jacket. The cold air rushed in as she handed it to JoJo. The other two scrambled to see what she brought them. While they devoured the food, she stood lookout. If they lingered too long, the police would inevitably make them move on.

The precious bag held fast food. When she found out how much they enjoyed the drive-through fare of suburbia, she wanted to treat them before she left. It was a small pleasure to do this one thing. What she didn’t enjoy was their desperation as they argued over the spilled french fries at the bottom.

Old Bob, much like a child, waggled his finger at the sack. It’s my turn. JoJo first, Momsey second, now me.

JoJo, the only one among them who at sixteen could still be called a child, relinquished the fries to Bob. His toothless grin revealed the feeling of victory he rarely experienced. All three looked so much older than their ages. Momsey and the old man were probably in their fifties, but they seemed older. Haggard faces and outdated clothing made them look like refugees, a condition close to their reality.

Momsey remembered herself. Hey Colors, ya got to have some too.

Colors motioned no as she continued to ponder this odd collection of people, who in her former life she would’ve never known. A collage of her journey to New York City distracted her from the feast. Pleasant images of countryside, wide open spaces, and quaint small towns filled with people living the American dream were hard to reconcile with what she experienced on the streets of one of the largest cities in the world. She soon learned how difficult life could be and wanted more than anything to stay and help.

Abruptly, as though she’d been jerked to a stop, she recited something to harden herself against tempting thoughts. I can’t help these people. I’m too dangerous to be around.

Momsey made her feel better about things. She was holding on to this place, these people. Through all her travels, she had remained detached until now.

She studied them to gather details to remember later. Momsey liked loud, flowery clothing. They all wore layers for warmth, but Momsey wore a colorful housedress over pants and a coat.

It amazed her how well the woman navigated the city streets, where in the larger world she’d fail. This kind person spent her time living in shelters, giving away blankets, sharing food, and avoiding the violence. She worried constantly for those she liked. Being a mom to everyone was how she got her nickname.

Colors frowned at how quickly word got around on the streets. Restless, she shifted. Her back now to the threesome, she studied the area for any threats. She sighed and thought of how Momsey was constantly after JoJo to wear warmer clothing. Just that morning they visited the Tenth Street Mission and found the girl a purple, outdated down-filled coat. As a teenager, she was sensitive to what she wore and would probably shed it once out of sight.

Too thin and eager for affection, the teenager shouldn’t be eating on the street but in a noisy school lunchroom. Instead JoJo spent her days eluding officials, often hanging with Momsey, who showed her care and concern.

Colors turned her attention to the old man, who liked to insulate with newspapers under his coat. Pat him on the back and he rustled. He followed Momsey around like a lost puppy. He didn’t breathe very well, and his cough was worsening.

Although Colors hadn’t been in the neighborhood that long, she earned her name because she changed her hair color daily. Her neon pink hair and heavy eyeliner contrasted with her overall dull appearance and lumpy shape. Everything she wore had been carefully selected to hide things about her: baggy jeans; layers consisting of a T-shirt, a flannel shirt, and a hoodie, topped with an oversized camouflage jacket; and a backpack molded to her shape. She slipped her thumbs into its straps to readjust it. The action, frequently repeated, reassured her. The bag contained everything she owned. It held her means to survive and complete the life-and-death mission that kept her focused. If she didn’t feel its weight on her back, she panicked.

She tried to visualize any future these people might have. Her depression deepened, adding to her own feeling of loss and displacement. It was wrong to do nothing for these unfortunate souls. It was also wrong to put them in danger. She had to get her mind off them, so she did what she always did. She began moving to shut down her emotions.

Come on, guys, we better find someplace warmer than this, Colors said, jogging in place. They finished eating, and all four had begun to move like one down the sidewalk when they heard someone calling.

Hey, Colors, I got what you asked for, a well-dressed young man yelled as he motioned her over to the other side of the street.

After she looked up and moved to leave the group, Momsey spoke up in her usual protective manner. Colors. Dun pay any mind to him. Him dangerous. Momsey was right to be wary of Brick, but employing his unique talent was necessary for Colors to leave.

His yelling out her nickname bothered her. She hesitated and scanned the area for anything unusual and decided the best thing to do was to go over there and get rid of him quickly. Brick could be trouble for her in any number of ways. His moniker conveyed just how threatening he could be, although he earned it as a kid when bricks were his weapon of choice.

Well, he’s no more dangerous than what could be waiting for me around the corner. I’ve got to get away now.

Anxious to get what she needed from Brick, she quickly backed away from the huddle, consciously slowing her pace, trying not to act too eager.

Momsey started to follow her. This no good, no good, no good.

Colors turned back toward her. Look, I promise I’ll be all right. She patted Momsey’s hand that had grabbed hers and was holding on tightly. I’ll be all right.

You ne’r stay in the shelter with us. It’s na safe in ole empie buildings or with Brick.

I know, I know, but I’ve got a safe place to stay. Don’t worry.

She looked across the street and saw Brick pacing impatiently.

When he saw her watching him, he yelled, Get over here, or I’m leaving.

Ya too young. Ya need git outta this place, Momsey said, pulling on Colors’ hand.

Okay, I’ll leave. Right now, I have to speak to Brick. Conspiratorially, she leaned in and whispered in Momsey’s ear, Don’t worry. I can outrun him.

Momsey squeezed more tightly and ordered, Run. Run fas. Ya run fas, okay?

Nodding to reassure her, Colors slowly but firmly pulled her hand away. As she started across the street, skirting passing cars, she glanced back to make sure her friend didn’t follow.

Brick, with a wide grin, ever the opportunist, said what he always said whenever he saw her. Why do you hang with those losers? Look, I can hook you up with a business deal that will make us both lots of money.

I can take care of myself. Just give me what I’m paying you for.

Brick put a hand on her shoulder to make her face him. No, really, kid. Clean you up, dress you like a woman, not a freak. I’ll get you outta this place. You’ll be able to get all the work you can handle, if you know what I mean.

She wanted to slap him but wanted the information more. You really know how to charm a girl. Come on. Let’s get this over with.

To move away from curious eyes, she turned and walked farther down the sidewalk. Brick followed, still pursuing his business interest in her. With your looks, when put to better use, we could make a lot of money. Mm, mm, I sure would enjoy polishing your better qualities.

"You stick to polishing cars. That is your legitimate business, right?"

What you talkin’ about? With that, he adjusted his tie to emphasize his legitimacy. That’s my only business. Doing quite well, too. His heavy wool coat, tailored suit, and polished shoes were part of his illusion that he was an impressive businessman and considered so by everyone. His appearance was out of place in this neighborhood, but as soon as he opened his mouth, he fit right in.

Oily was what came to mind when Colors encountered Brick, like the rainbow seen in a spot of greasy residue on a wet street. But he provided a service, and was the go-to man for all kinds of information. Brick had the talent and lack of scruples to learn all he could about anyone or anything and use it to his advantage.

Even now, he was working her for information. Sweetheart, someone as good-lookin’ as you with so much to offer shouldn’t scowl so much. You know there’s something about you that just doesn’t fit. You’re too savvy. What you hiding under all that shit you wear? With that, he put his arm around her, resting it on the top of her backpack, and drew her close to him.

His powers of observation scared her. She squirmed away from his embrace.

Always so unpleasant, he crooned. Look, I worry about young things like you. It’s not safe, you know. All kinds of bad shit can happen. I would love to protect you and do us both some good. At least think about it. Just say the word, and I’ll be there for you. Brick ended his sales pitch with a broad smile, revealing how much he wanted to own her.

Aren’t you afraid you’ll wear out your mouth talking to me?

Now he was the one scowling. Colors, what you want this for? he asked as he waved an envelope in her face. And how did you come up with the money to pay me?

Now more than ever, she was convinced he already had a plan for how to use this against her. Hiding her reaction, she took off the backpack, slipped out an envelope filled with cash from a front pocket, and in one quick move had the backpack on again.

Maybe this isn’t for me. I’m only serving as a middleman, she lied. And no, I’m not willing to become part of your crazy fantasies to get money.

Before he could react, she grabbed the envelope from Brick’s hand and flung his money to the ground. The bills scattered onto the gritty sidewalk a few feet away from him. She fled at top speed. Confident in her running, Colors knew she could run longer and faster than Brick’s long legs and fancy shoes would allow. She stopped briefly to look back.

Brick had stooped to gather up his money. She laughed, seeing him pick up and shake off the cash that was wet with grime. Feeling better now that she was removing herself from her street friends, she pulled up her hoodie, turned a corner, and took off at top speed.

Colors snaked her way through crowds and traffic until she decided it was safe to walk. She saw no sign of Brick and assumed he planned to catch up with her later, except she was never coming back to the neighborhood. She had what she needed. It was time to move on.

CHAPTER 2

Colonel Sam Hennessy sat five feet away from the only other person in Bill’s Cellar Bar—Bill, who occasionally gave his customer a side glance. The colonel’s brooding stare into a glass was not normal. He liked to have his people around to share war stories and a good laugh. Today, he was glad for the peace and quiet. The solitude, along with Bill’s mechanical tidying up, was just what he needed.

Everything about Sam looked ex-military. He was a retired marine, a war veteran, and now, a businessman. The only thing to ever change his neatly pressed clothing and soldier’s posture would be old age. In his new capacity as a businessman, he provided security and protection and traded his military uniform for a wardrobe of khakis and polos.

The retired colonel avoided complicating his life and did not plant roots that might tie him to anyone or anything. Until his most recent job protecting Mario Lupo, the new life suited him, but there had been complications that turned his stomach.

Studying the ice in the empty glass, Sam knew he had spent too much of his life alone, sipping whiskey at the rail of a bar. He was mentally running through all the women in his life, wondering which one would have been his choice for a wife and mother to the family he didn’t have. He had just turned fifty, with most of those years dedicated to fighting America’s battles.

He thought about how the military had rewarded him with a life of excitement and a clear purpose. He rarely knew regret until this last job. Sam hated the recent publicity and loathed that his name was linked to that piece of shit, who was living it up somewhere in the witness protection program. He growled under his breath and looked up.

Bill’s eyes met his customer’s, but he kept silent.

Colonel Hennessey mumbled in a low voice and pushed his glass forward. Better get me another before I decide to kill that bastard. Sam nodded a thank-you to Bill, guzzled the drink, and then withdrew into his thoughts again.

He didn’t start his own security company to help crooks. Having seen too many cruel, senseless acts of violence during his tours in the Middle East, he returned to the states with hope and a mission to protect those who needed him. Sam couldn’t buy the rationale of a free pass to a gangster just for his testimony against another gangster. After spending a few months protecting the guy, Sam was ready for a search and destroy mission on his ex-client.

He never would have taken the work except the general had called in a favor. Sam steered clear of military politics, but Retired General Forrester sought him out. He was a forceful man with a long memory for favors owed him.

Sorry, Bill. I’m not good company today. Think I’ll go home and hope none of my people drop in. I’ll pay my tab before it gets any larger. Actually, Sam was considering leaving town as soon as possible and not returning. At the moment, the thought was quite appealing.

Bill slid the tab toward him. Sam left cash on the bar, including a nice tip. He liked the feel of cash. Like many other things in his life, he liked to keep it real.

Sam walked toward the door, busy putting his money away. An overdressed young man with slicked-back hair brushed past him.

The young man, too much in a hurry, didn’t take notice of Sam, and headed straight to the bar.

Outside, Sam stopped on the steps leading up from the cellar bar to the street. As he passed the window, he looked through it and shook his head as the man leaned in to talk to Bill.

That guy would never pass muster in my outfit. This stinking city is full of punks always looking for a quick buck, no matter who they hurt. He’s no good, regardless of the expensive suit.

When he reached street level, he turned right into the icy wind. His mind drifted back to the idea of moving his operation south, thinking he could work anywhere but here. A life away from constant reminders of the eat or be eaten mentality, which seemed to thrive in sophisticated New York City, sounded like a good idea right now. If a person had to endure the bad to make the big bucks, he no longer wanted any part of it. He could move closer to a military base and have an apartment in a small town or a modest house in the country. He smiled at the thought.

Although he never shied away from a challenge, having witnessed his share of the gritty realities of life, he was at a point where he didn’t have to put up with bullshit. Right now, the thought of being married with children in a small town sounded appealing, even though it was probably too late for him to start a family.

The winter wind whipped around him as he turned the corner to his apartment building. The icy gusts sent shivers down his spine, causing him to blurt out, Hell, I’m going soft.

He picked up speed, entered his building, and punched the elevator button to the fifth floor. Impatiently, he waited for the doors to open, hoping no one would be waiting for him in his apartment. So much for having an open-door policy for my employees.

Sam pushed the button again. Even though he was much older than most of his employees, they liked to gather to talk business, hang out, watch sports on his fifty-two-inch TV. Sam hoped that his employees would follow him and stepped into an empty elevator as the doors opened.

The thought of hiring a new team made his stomach churn. What if most of them wouldn’t want to leave big city life? How much time would I have to be without clients to set up in a new location? Damn, I hope I’m not becoming fickle. I hate indecision and constant wavering. I took a shot at it here, and it’s good to know when to move on. Besides, I prefer open spaces. I can’t believe I’m living in a high rise. I should’ve known better. The ding and the doors opening stopped his life review.

Arriving at his apartment, a swell of anticipation for his black leather recliner overcame him. Sam unlocked his door to find no one there. The most prominent attraction in his combination efficiency kitchen and living room was the large TV. The other notable features in the living space was a wall of framed photos of soldiers in desert fatigues from his work in Iraq and Afghanistan.

He grabbed a bag of corn chips and his remote, sat down, and eased back his recliner. As the TV came on, he flipped to a game between the Rangers and Canucks.

After watching a few minutes, his mind returned to the unsettled feeling he had. For some reason, his gut was nagging him. Something was about to happen.

Trying to shake off the bad feeling, he recalled what led him to this point in time. He felt the best part of his career was the time he spent during the Gulf War. In his late twenties, eager to see real combat, he never felt more alive than the night he and his men parachuted into Kuwait as a reconnaissance team. He enjoyed feeling grounded, when America had a clear purpose and won decisively.

The rest of his career was fraught with complexities and rules of engagement that sometimes made no sense. He had changed with these new demands, even if he didn’t like them. After 9/11, he served in Afghanistan as an officer, and then in Iraq a second time. As the promise of a definitive victory faded, so did Sam’s enthusiasm, and he began losing count of the battles he fought and the number of wounds he incurred.

Discouragement, lingering aches and pains from injuries, and his age caused him to retire. Now he was going through the same thing with his security business. He had looked forward to helping people, not doing favors for a shady general. He could not understand how a mobster-turned-snitch like Lupo had any connection to General Forrester, who was known for his involvement with black ops. The implications were disturbing.

With his obligation to General Forrester fulfilled, tomorrow he would decide whether to give his business a second chance. He didn’t mind putting his life in danger for others, but he was particular about who he might give it up for. He certainly was not about to die for a career criminal.

The klaxon sounded as the Rangers scored a goal. He disengaged from his bad feelings and settled into watching the game.

After Sam left, Bill picked up the tab money to count and arrange in the cash drawer. The young man who had bolted into the bar past the colonel sat down noisily. Bill didn’t flinch, only looked up.

Pointing to the cash in the bartender’s hand, the man said, I’ll give you twice that for some information. Call me Brick. He held out his hand.

Bill put the money away and twisted a towel into a glass. You want something to drink? I’ll serve you, but I usually got no information worth selling.

Give me a scotch, neat. I was told that a security guy comes here.

Not looking up, Bill answered, Yeah, we got all kinds of policemen who are regulars.

No, no, I mean, ah . . . he’s in the private security business. Hear he made a big splash protecting that rat Lupo, who turned state’s evidence.

I don’t know anybody who fits that description, Bill lied and moved closer to the gun hidden behind the bar. He detested people nosing around. As Bill poured the whiskey, he said, You got a name for the person you’re looking for?

Yeah, it’s Sam Hennessey.

Bill shrugged, maintaining his poker face. I keep my nose out of other people’s business. It’s a good rule to follow. He set the drink down and wiped the bar again, avoiding looking at the man. Brick threw down his drink and pointed for another.

As Bill poured the second drink, he watched the kid. The young man couldn’t sit still, like his motor was all revved up. First, he took out his wallet and went through it. Then he stood and searched his suit’s inner pockets. He found a small piece of paper and took out his cell. He called someone and turned away from the bar.

Hey, Brick here. Are you sure the guy hangs out at Bill’s Bar? Irritably, Brick snapped, Yeah, I’m at the right address.

The young man walked to the back of the room and pretended to look at a photograph on the wall. He lowered his voice. I just wanted to look into why the girl wants to meet this guy. It could prove interesting. He paused, listening, and turned to look at Bill as he signed off, Catch ya later.

Brick returned for his drink and made one more try. I just wanted to hire Mr. Hennessy for a job. Do you know anyone else who might know him?

Bill shrugged and shook his head no. He figured the moron didn’t know what Sam looked like since he blew right past the colonel on his way in.

What time does your crowd come in?

My busy time starts around four-thirty. Sorry, kid, I think you’re wasting your time here.

Brick had another drink, sat around for a short time, then beat it out as fast as he came in. Bill just grinned.

CHAPTER 3

LATE JANUARY, ONE YEAR EARLIER

Helen Elizabeth Merrick lived in St. Louis, far from Colors and her problems. She enjoyed a Midwestern life, where middle-class people traveled in SUVs to soccer games, to church on Sunday, and to grandparents, who helped out when time demands overwhelmed parents. In Helen’s world, people could be insulated and sheltered, and unlikely to fathom a person on the run whose life is in constant danger.

Once an attractive woman, her face was now creased and framed neatly by short silver hair, and she was comfortable with herself and her surroundings. Her appearance and deportment conveyed a person who could take command of a crisis if needed. Her casual clothes were befitting her age—a woman in her mid-seventies. She wore a navy blazer with slimming lines, a bright red shirt for a splash of color, and tailored matching pants. She was not fussily dressed like many women of her age and status. Her complexion betrayed an uncharacteristic pallor. The slightest slump to her shoulders would be perceived only by those who knew her well.

She sat at a table with white linens in a café that traded on the history and charm of an old building and waited to visit with her friend. Although they both resided in Clayton, an upscale suburb bordering St. Louis, they found it hard to find the time for their monthly get-togethers.

Helen took a drink of her water and thought how much things had changed. A wave of melancholy accompanied her memory of the day they met. It added to the sadness she already felt. Fifteen years ago, at the university where Helen taught sociology, Dr. Sarah Alberts, a young, practicing physician, started as an adjunct professor of physiology for premed students. On that day, Sarah, wiping away tears, sat alone in the cafeteria. Sensing the young woman could use a friendly face, Helen struck up a conversation. Before the end of their talk, the two realized they had one thing in common—troubled marriages. Through the years, Sarah divorced, and Helen became Dean of Admissions, then eventually retired.

Fingering the cloth napkin, Helen felt a heavy tiredness come over her and rested her head on her fisted hands. After a few minutes, she straightened up and sat back in her chair. She unfolded the napkin, spread it on her lap, and repeatedly brushed the crumbs of memories away.

Her feeling of loss dimmed when Sarah, beaming and waving, walked into the café. Her friend’s beautiful, wide smile stood out against her dark, shoulder-length hair. Grabbing the napkin and struggling to get the feeling back into her legs, Helen stood, using the table for support.

Sarah took her elbow and asked, You okay?

They hugged and sat down. Oh, it’s these old legs. Seems like if I sit any time at all, they stiffen up. You look great. What’s new?

Nothing, except Edgar and I are getting married, and I couldn’t wait to tell you, she blurted out like a twenty-something rather than the forty-five-year-old she was.

No kidding. I needed some good news, and this is it! Helen said as she grabbed her friend’s hand and squeezed. She liked Edgar and knew he was good for Sarah. He would bring to the marriage some children from a former marriage, which worried Sarah, but this was an area in which Helen could help.

Sarah shook out her napkin to place on her lap. Both began talking at the same time about wedding plans, then laughed that neither was listening to the other. Sarah stopped abruptly and put her hand on Helen’s forehead. What’s wrong with you?

Nothing. Why?

You don’t look well. Have you taken your temperature? I’ll bet you have a low-grade fever.

Let’s not talk about me. Besides, I have a doctor’s appointment in a couple of weeks.

You look gray. I’m really concerned. How long have you been like this?

Dr. Sarah Alberts, you can’t tell by looking at me what’s wrong. I’m not getting any younger, you know. I’ve just been a little tired. It’s probably nothing more than being in my seventies. I’ll keep you informed if there’s something wrong. I promise.

And if you need a specialist, you’ll let me in on the decision? Right?

A specialist. I doubt if that’ll be necessary. Sarah narrowed her eyes and put down her menu. Helen grinned and acquiesced, Okay, yes. I would never do anything regarding my health without consulting you. Enough about me. Now let’s talk about you and your exciting news.

The waitress came, prompting them to focus on their lunch selections. After they ordered, Helen gladly went into listening mode as Sarah explained her wedding plans.

Both Edgar and I want a civil ceremony with a nice dinner party to follow. We want to invite a few close friends and family. Would you organize the restaurant location and send out invitations? I know it’s a lot to ask, but we don’t know how we can accomplish this without help, and, of course, you immediately came to mind. You know what I like, and Edgar isn’t fussy.

Helen grinned and said, I’ve been blue, but this is just what I need.

The wedding will not be for several months, as soon as both of us can find time in our schedules. Later, we’re taking a cruise. Her smile disappeared, replaced by a look of worry. Now if you don’t feel up to it, we’ll figure out something else.

Okay, now you’re officially scaring me.

I just don’t like your coloring. I know we’re all pale this time of year, but . . . What are your symptoms?

Do you want the whole list of complaints?

Of course!

Well, my skin is as dry as cardboard and looks like crepe paper. My joints ache on cold rainy days. It’s a struggle to get up off the floor or out of a chair if I sit too long. I can’t lose weight. I hate my age spots, especially this large one on the back of my hand. Helen held out her hand like she was showing off a diamond ring. Each year instead of looking better, it’s a struggle to look good enough not to scare little children. If I exert myself, I injure a shoulder, knee, something. Oh yeah, I just love this flab under my arm which sways back and forth. She held up her arm, pointing to what she was explaining. So, Doc, what do you think I have?

Sarah, with her arms crossed, glared at Helen. Then finally she said, Okay, I get it. I’ll wait until after your appointment. You’ll be hearing from me if I don’t hear from you.

Could we please talk about your marriage? Helen then lit up with an idea. Oh, wait! Do you think we could find some time to shop for your dress? That would be so much fun. And I know a great seamstress if it needs alterations.

Sarah was already pulling out her cell phone to check possible dates and times. Helen took out her datebook. They both laughed at each other. Their age difference was often a topic of discussion, as was their preferences for how they dealt with life’s complexities. Sarah, the analytical one, gravitated to gadgets, while Helen enjoyed things like handwritten letters on stationary, research in libraries, and a pen and paper datebook. It was all part of what they liked about each other.

After lunch was cleared away, they got to the best part of their meetups, catching up.

Sarah started off with one of their usual topics, Helen’s inattentive husband. Well, has your invisible husband been around?

Not much. Something’s changed, but what, as usual, I don’t know. You’re worried about me, but he looks horrible, very worn-out. I think the work will kill him. The last little bit of information he gave me was ‘I’m close, Helen, I’m close.’ Then he turned, put on his coat, and walked out the door. Oh, let’s not talk about this. I’ve become very adept at shutting out whatever I don’t like to think about. I find as many distractions as I can and keep moving forward. You know what? It works!

I know, I know, but I’ll never forget how you held my hand through my divorce. You understood how a doctor’s life can affect a marriage. We tried to make it work, but in the end he was unhappy. I guess I was too busy to analyze what was going on and didn’t care enough to change. Whereas, you found the strength to make a life for yourself without divorcing Joseph.

I came close. Remember when I thought he was having an affair with Marlee?

You were right to worry. When a man and a woman work as closely as those two did, feelings can develop.

Helen chuckled. I can’t believe I entertained the idea. His only mistress is his work. She shook her head and paused. Marlee is brilliant. I think she left Joseph’s laboratory because she couldn’t take his inability to communicate, to relate. I know his work is important, classified research, but to be so cut off from his top lab assistant . . . it’s ridiculous.

Sarah leaned in toward Helen and lowered her voice. It’s all a bit strange, don’t you think? You told me she quit without giving notice or leaving any forwarding information.

That’s right. She and I were close. It didn’t make sense she’d leave without at least telling me what was going on. She still hasn’t contacted me. It’s not like her.

Isn’t Joseph concerned?

Not really. Since he and Conrad finished their research, Joseph remained to close the lab. He assumed she found a new job. You know, anyone else would have been upset about how she abruptly quit and hasn’t contacted us, but not him.

So . . . is he thinking about retiring?

"I’ve asked and asked. I don’t waste my time anymore. Like I said, he keeps telling me how close he is to a breakthrough. He’s concluded the government research