Chapter 42


Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live; it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.

--- Oscar Wilde

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It was early, relatively speaking, when Brian wandered downstairs the next morning, wearing nothing but the formfitting gym shorts he'd chosen to sleep in, as a concession to the presence of his son in his bed. He was still yawning, and scratching his belly when he made his way into the kitchen and perched on a barstool, bracing his arms on the bar as he peered, with eyes only half open, at the woman who was watching him, coffeepot in hand.

Trina grinned. "You look like shit."

He yawned again. "I never look like shit," he retorted.

She tilted her head and stared at him, eyes filled with warmth and laugher and - maybe - just a smidgen of envy. How, she wondered, could anybody stumble out of bed, still obviously half asleep and without so much as running smoothing fingers through thick, dark hair or even bothering to open one's eyes all the way, and still manage to look stunning enough to inspire onlookers with a sense of wonder - not to mention hunger? "Okay. So you couldn't look like shit if they dipped you in it, but you're certainly not up to your usual standards of sartorial elegance. Brian Kinney with bed-head! If you had photos, you could spearhead a whole new campaign for the advantages of au naturel."

His sleepy smile was, she decided, completely charming, even if the words coming out of his mouth were not. "For that, I'd have to take my clothes off and show my assets and . . . there is a kid running around here somewhere, isn't there?"

"There is,' she replied with a soft laugh. "Although he's not really running - at the moment. He's exercising his latent artistic genius."

Brian blinked. "His what?"

She nodded toward the deck as she handed him a cup of coffee, which he grabbed with desperation appropriate for a drowning man reaching for a flotation device.

After dumping a small mountain of sugar into the aromatic liquid, and taking a deep draught to ingest sufficient caffeine to allow his brain cells to reach a semi-functional state, he stood and walked to the window, where he went very still, obviously transfixed and enchanted by the vision before him.

Justin was teaching Gus how to paint, and they were laughing together - one sunshine smile reflecting the other. Justin's easel was set up at the edge of the deck, allowing him a clear line of sight to the headland and the lighthouse looming over it, while Gus's - and who could say how Gus had come by a pint-sized easel in the first place - was situated so that he had an unbroken view of a small sand ridge just beyond the edge of the deck, where Beau Soleil was sprawled across the surface, nose buried in a patch of seagrass. On Justin's canvas, there were faint scrawls and splashes of pale paint, almost like bursts of light, while Gus's bore swirls and pools of darker colors. As Brian watched, Justin crouched on his knees, with his fingers loosely gripped around Gus's wrist, guiding the small hand that wielded a narrow brush loaded with dark ochre acrylic, and Gus was concentrating so intensely that his tongue was clinched between his teeth as his eyes were filled with a brilliant glow that could only be adoration. Justin's smile was so spontaneous, so loving, so blindingly bright, that it was a perfect explanation of the nickname which Debbie had given him so long ago.

Brian's breath caught in his throat; caught painfully, sharply, as if coated and ridged with rough ice. Then he felt his heart expand with a force that seemed to scorch him, like the eruption of a super-nova, and he wasn't sure his chest was big enough to contain it. He swallowed - hard - and was suddenly unsure that this was something he wanted to see or to feel or know. Brian Kinney did not do emotional overload - did not react to adorable (could barely even bring himself to think the word).

Yet here he stood - dumbstruck and riveted to the spot, unwilling to look away and unable to control the racing in his heart. Was this what it was to love truly - to lose one's self so completely that the merest possibility of giving up a single moment, a single image, of what lay before him was so unthinkable, so unendurable that he knew he would sooner be boiled alive, or have his flesh flayed from his body a millimeter at a time than risk such a loss?

And yet - deep inside, in a place where no one had ever been allowed to enter - a shadow stirred and reached for the conscious level of his mind - and asked a question, age-old and ancient, a question he had seldom allowed himself to ask . . . and never once been able to answer. These two - so beautiful, so bright, so filled with life and joy - they would give him happiness beyond anything he had ever dared to imagine, but what . . . what could he possibly give them in return? The loveliness that dwelled within them, that would create an incandescent joy in his soul, was what they would bring to the life they would share; it was a part of them, which lived in their hearts.

Brian Kinney knew a lot of things about life and perhaps not so many things about hearts, but he did know one thing for sure. He knew what lived in his own heart - and what didn't.

And there were yet other things that he did not know. Things suspected only, like shadows visible just at the corner of the eye that disappear when confronted directly. It remained to be seen whether such will-of-the-wisp phantoms were real and valid and deserving of attention - or whether they would simply fade away entirely with time. He didn't know yet, but he sensed that he dare not just ignore them. He lifted one hand and massaged his forehead with thumb and forefinger, and thought again about the shadows, both literal and figurative.

They were shadows that might very well fall on Gus . . . and Justin, and that was a risk he would not take. He was Brian Kinney, and he didn't rely on wishful thinking or dreams of happily-ever-after. He did what needed doing, to resolve whatever problems came his way. Then he heard a burst of laughter from his son, and he felt it like a soothing balm against sunburned skin.

In the end, he would do what he had to do - but maybe not today.

When he moved to turn away, it was to find Trina standing at his side, watching his face, and he was mildly disconcerted to read . . . something in her eyes. Something that she did not verbalize; something that he was pretty sure he did not want to interpret or translate.

"Someone should paint that," she observed softly, providing him with an escape route from the darkness of his thoughts. He was grateful, but he wished he could be sure that she didn't understand exactly what she was doing.

"No need," he replied with a tiny smile. "It's all up here." And he tapped his temple with his forefinger.

"Yeah," she answered. "I bet it is. So, what time does your girlfriend arrive?"

The smile became a broad grin. "Plane gets in around noon, but I'd be real careful about referring to her as 'my girlfriend'. She'd take it as a terrible insult."

"Smart girl?"

"The smartest. And as good a friend as I'm ever likely to have in this world."

He went back to his stool, to secure another cup of coffee - wondering, as he often did, if anyone would ever figure out a way for addicts like himself to mainline the caffeine and just skip the drinking process entirely. It surprised him when Trina leaned forward to touch his face with gentle fingers. "I'm glad to know you've got one," she said softly. "It's different to have a friend - somebody who can see you as you are . . . and tolerate you anyway. Being lusted after - or loved - isn't always an answer to a prayer."

"Of course, it is," he retorted, "or it would be - if I believed in praying."

She laughed. "Well, far be it from me to interfere with your relationship to the Almighty, but I do believe I might have earned my own particular set of wings last night."

Brain simply stared at her, assuming that she would drop the other shoe when it suited her.

She did. When she extracted an envelope from her handbag and laid it in front of him, he simply lifted his eyebrows, still waiting, causing her to sigh and roll her eyes in a perfect, non-verbal expression of annoyance.

"Don't bother to thank me," she said, opening the envelope and dumping out its contents. "Your 'fucking dolphin' awaits."

Brian just sat for a moment, not quite sure what to make of the brightly-colored tickets spread out before him.

"And by the way," she continued, "you owe me $96.00."

He picked up one of the small rectangles of glossy blue and yellow posterboard and looked at it, still not entirely sure what it was supposed to be; a ticket of some kind, obviously, since the bottom line of print consisted of the words 'Admit one'. But the name at the top was singularly unhelpful. What the hell was Branigan's Wharf anyway?

"I'm not . . . "

"Turn it over," she said with an impatient sigh, "and look at the picture on the back."

Judging by the blatant suspicion in his eyes as he glanced up at her, he was far from convinced that he should trust her instincts, but he did as he was told. There was a brief pause, and then he laughed. "You shelled out $96.00 for tickets to an amusement park? Why would you . . ."

"Look closer," she retorted, completely unperturbed. "Specifically, look at the carousel."

His sigh and eye-roll were classic Kinney, dramatic and deliberate, but he did look. And the slightly condescending chuckle died on his lips, as light flared in the depths of his eyes, prompting Trina to marvel at the sheer loveliness of the effect as she wondered if that was something that the people closest to him got to see often - or if it was something that happened only rarely - something that he couldn't control. She rather thought the latter was more likely to be true.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said with a grin. "Fucking dolphins indeed."

Her grin was brilliant.

"But still," he continued, "why so many? Why would we need eight tickets?"

"Well, she reasoned, "there's you and Snookums, and . . ."

"Snookums?" he interrupted, not quite able to cover up a tongue-in-cheek grin.

She simply tilted her head and stared at him as if wondering if he might be in need of special education. "Yes. Snookums. You got a problem with that? Then there's Gus and his grandfather, your lady friend and her daughter, and your bodyguards."

"You think we need bodyguards to go to a local street fair?"

"You think McClaren's going to let you go without them? He barely lets you go to the john by yourself."

"Ulterior motives," he drawled, his smile devolving into a characteristic smirk as he took a moment to remember such trips and McClaren's dual purposes for remaining at his side. Then he huffed a little sigh. Justin, he knew, was man enough, lover enough, and addiction enough to keep him fulfilled and sated and completely enthralled for the rest of his life (not to mention endlessly horny) but Chris McClaren had been - in his own way - a fabulous reminder of the joys of promiscuity. A burst of laughter from the porch drew his attention and reminded him why, in a very specific way, this was one thought he would not be sharing with his young lover any time soon.

"Hey!"

"Speak of the devil," said Trina with a smile, as she took a clean cup from the cupboard to pour a fresh dose of morning poison for the FBI agent as he eased onto the stool at Brian's side, using the towel draped around his neck to wipe away the sweat running down his face and sculpting his hair into random spikes and damp curls.

"Morning rounds?" drawled Brian, not quite able to resist a glance at the muscular torso and flat belly under wifebeater and running shorts wet enough to leave little to the imagination. "Perimeter secure for truth, justice, and the American Association of Fags United?"

Cobalt blue eyes did not quite allow themselves to roll. "Sometimes I think I should just stand aside and let some of these redneck queer-haters take their best shot at you. Just for a little while - to remind you of what you're missing."

Brian laughed, and leaned close enough to drop a quick but open-mouthed kiss on a sweaty shoulder. "But you won't," he murmured before sitting back and raising his voice. "Nevertheless, our wise and all-knowing Carolina goddess here has arranged a little excursion for our boys' club - only it will be boys plus two, in this case. We're going to take my son - and our guests - to ride a fucking dolphin at . . . " He picked up one of the tickets and squinted at its slightly gothic lettering before tossing it to McClaren, prompting Trina to wonder - in passing - if the legendary stud muffin might just be going near-sighted and exhibiting classic symptoms of narcissism by refusing to consider the possibility of a need for reading glasses. Brian, almost as if he could sense her thoughts, wasted a moment glowering at her before continuing. "Trina seems to think it's necessary for you to accompany us, but I don't think . . ."

"That's right," McClaren replied, leaning close so that he was staring directly into Brian's eyes. "You don't think. Not clearly enough, anyway. Trina's right. So if you want to go to this dog-and-pony show, you go with protection . . . or you don't go at all."

For a moment, the FBI agent was certain that Brian was going to argue, but, in the end, he didn't. But he'd wanted to; there was no doubt about that, and it didn't require an intimate acquaintance with rocket science to figure out what had persuaded him to accept the inevitable. The sound of mingled laughter from the deck was evidence enough.

Both men sipped at their coffee in silence for a few minutes until Brian pushed to his feet and turned to confront his senior security supervisor. "Can I at least drive to the airport and pick up the new arrivals?"

"No."

"Goddammit, Chris, I . . ."

"I assume you'd like to have some spare time to spend with your friend, and your son and . . . whoever." Brian found it interesting - and notable - that the FBI man seemed to avoid mentioning Justin's name whenever he could. "But if you want to be able to spend the afternoon and evening with them, you're going to need to get your physical therapy session out of the way this morning."

"Shit!"

"Yeah. Not your favorite thing, I know, but if you think I'm going to volunteer to face Dr. Mengele for you and try to justify your decision to skip out on a therapy session, you're delusional."

Brian sighed. "All right, all right. Would you mind doing the honors then?"

"Why? I thought I'd just send Eugene in the SUV. I think he's getting a little bored, and . . ."

Brian's frown was not quite a glower, but it was close. "Then take him with you, but . . ."

"Do you know something I don't, Brian?" McClaren interrupted. "Such as . . . a
reason I should be concerned?"

Brian's smile was slightly brittle. "Nothing specific - except that if something should happen to Cynthia or her daughter, I'd be . . . very unhappy. Extremely unhappy. Inconsolable even."

McClaren choked slightly on a mouthful of coffee, startled into a strangled laugh at the exaggerated drawl of Brian's statement. "Meaning you'd be cutting off my balls and serving them up on a plate of pasta?"

"With marinara sauce," Brian confirmed.

"Okay," Chris agreed. "Your wish is my command, Fearless Leader. Meanwhile, Jackson will be here at eleven, so be ready. I think he's come up with some new isometric exercises for you."

"Oh, joy!" muttered Brian. "Mengele-in-training."

"Meanwhile," said McClaren, clasping his hands like a good little choir boy with a pleading gaze for Trina, "could a poor, put-upon, overworked and underpaid civil servant get some breakfast?"

Trina huffed an exaggerated sigh. "Christ, I never realized that smart-assiness was contagious."

With an evil-eye glare that elicited a grin from both the young men seated at the counter, she turned to focus her attention on her cooking chores, just as the back door crashed open before the determined assault of a six-year-old responding to the mouthwatering aroma of French toast and frying bacon, aromas which Brian was, of course, studiously ignoring. Trina had not yet managed to break down his lifelong resistance to the kind of victuals that southern women categorized as 'comfort food', but she was still working on it. It had become a mission for her - a goal she would not relinquish until convinced that she had no other choice - and she carefully concealed a smile when she saw his nostrils twitch as she delivered a heaping platter to the table of the built-in breakfast nook that overlooked the front of the greenhouse where Simon Redding was assembling a portable trellis to accommodate a star jasmine vine recently transplanted into a big copper tub at the corner of the building. Though it was still early, the handyman's shirt was wet with perspiration and plastered to his body.

"Looks like it's gonna be a scorcher," observed Justin, insinuating himself into Brian's personal space and resting his hand against the lusciously bare skin of broad shoulders, while watching as Redding paused to wipe his brow with a dingy handkerchief.

Brian barely avoided an eye-roll for his young lover, choosing instead to voice a completely deadpan comment. "Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast."*

"Oh, shit!" muttered McClaren, not quite under his breath. "Please tell me it's not going to be one of those days."

Trina laughed, while Justin just looked confused, eyes drifting from the snarky curl of Brian's lips to the disgruntled expression on the FBI agent's face. "One of which days?"

McClaren glanced at the antique brass ship's clock on a shelf by the window and sighed. "It's not ten o'clock yet, and he's quoting Oscar Wilde. Which I'm thinking doesn't bode well for the afternoon."

Justin frowned as he edged around Brian and moved toward the table where Trina had set out goblets of orange juice for him and Gus and was currently transferring a stack of French toast triangles to the little boy's plate, before pausing to watch with a fond smile as Gus proceeded to drown it all under a deluge of maple syrup. The hunger in Justin's eyes was blatant, but he kept glancing back over his shoulder, his gaze drifting from the smirk on Brian's lips to McClaren's sarcastic frown. "You're telling me you actually recognize an Oscar Wilde quote?" he asked finally, as he slid into the breakfast booth. "Without having to look it up? That's just . . . "

"Brilliant?" drawled McClaren. "Impressive? Amazing?"

"Lame," said Justin, flashing a cheeky grin toward his lover and eliciting a quick laugh from Trina.

McClaren very deliberately stared into his coffee, continuing his sotto voce commentary with a soft reference to enfants idiot, which Brian tried to ignore, although a quickly truncated snort indicated that he was not as successful as he might have hoped. The near glower that registered on Justin's face was even stronger evidence that he'd failed to conceal his amusement. Still, he quickly redeemed himself by getting to his feet and moving to the table where he wordlessly demanded - and got - a fast, hard, seering kiss from his young lover, followed by a forkful of syrup-laden French toast from his giggling son.

Then he sank into the booth and deliberately turned to catch the eye of the FBI agent. "I can resist everything . . . except temptation."**

This time the muttered comment was more guttural, less understandable, and considerably ruder, concluding with mumbled syllables that might have referenced "educated fuckers".

Trina moved back toward the stove, a small grin on her face, until she happened to turn toward the bar and catch a brief glimpse of the look in Chris McClaren's eyes as he rose to leave the room. She tried then - tried hard - to resist the quick thought that flared in her mind - but couldn't.

Someone always loses. Even in 'happily-ever-after', someone always loses.

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The narrow clapboard house had a nice lived-in look, thought Lindsey, although a close inspection revealed that it would have benefited from a fresh coat of paint and some new shutters. But overall, it was attractive in a retro way, perfectly in keeping with the ambiance of the neighborhood, which Brian always termed faux chic - when he was in a relatively tolerant mood - or Stepford Pretentious, when he wasn't, and she was slightly ashamed to realize that she knew what he meant. Though pleasant enough, with a measurable degree of curb appeal, the entire street, with its subtle emphasis on a symmetry just slightly too deliberate for natural order and the proliferation of art deco accents, was just that much too "twee" (and oh, my God, she had to make sure she never, never used that word in any conversation with the father of her only son or she would literally never hear the end of it), and just marginally too self-consciously posh, like a neighborhood filled with varieties of dwellings that could be instantly converted to dollhouses.

Only someone like Brian Kinney would ever be able to define exactly what he meant by the term "Stepford fagdom", but most people with a scintilla of common sense would recognize it when they saw it.

Lindsey glanced at her watch, hoping that she had timed her visit perfectly, in order to avoid coming face to face with the woman with whom she'd spent more than ten years of her life. A face-to-face with Melanie was not something she was ready to endure; not today, at any rate. Such a confrontation was unavoidable, she knew - was something she would not be able to put off forever. But before she felt strong enough and prepared enough to face that encounter, there were other things to be faced first.

Like this one.

Michael had been reticent and ill-at-ease when she'd phoned him, offering her a whispered warning that he couldn't speak freely, under the circumstances, but he had not argued when she'd stated that they needed to talk - and soon - though he had managed to suggest, in a round-about way, that she delay her visit for a couple of hours.

So here she was. It was still morning, but only barely as the sun was almost at its zenith, threading through the foliage of a gnarled old chestnut tree to dapple the street with bits of gold that danced before the onslaught of a chilly springtime breeze.

She moved toward the front porch, noting that the dusty rose color of the main body of the house was perhaps just a shade too cotton candy pink to contrast perfectly with the gray/blue of the trim, that the ceramic tiles underfoot on the front porch were cracked and crumbling in some spots and buckling and uneven in others, and that the wrought iron plant stand placed near the porch railing was just slightly frou-frou, and would have had Brian rolling his eyes over the exhibition of blatant bad taste. And when, she wondered, had Brian Kinney become her arbiter of style? Then she closed her eyes and pictured him in his dark Armani suit and crimson shirt with perfect silk tie and beautifully tailored French cuffs clasped with brushed platinum and ebony cuff links - and realized that her question was actually quite stupid. Brian had always been her fashion guru. Mastering the manners and mores of fashionable society was, of course, an educational process, which Brian had accomplished easily, with only a bit of help from her. But perfect taste - that was something one did not acquire; it was a gift, which could neither be imparted nor learned.

Brian had always had that gift and been completely unafraid to demonstrate it and use it to achieve his goals - in life, in business, and in pursuit of whichever body might interest him at any given moment.

He had even used it - once upon a magic summer - on her.

She paused at the foot of the steps and inhaled deeply, taking a moment to calm herself and take stock of the situation. As she squared her shoulders and straightened her charcoal gray raw silk blazer and the pearl-and-teal paisley scarf that peeked out beneath the collar, she heard raised voices in the house, noting that one of them, especially, was instantly identifiable. Nobody, after all, in the expanse that encompassed the gay lifestyle of Pittsburgh would ever mistake the not-so-dulcet tones of Debbie Novotny.

And, unfortunately, it required no great sensitivity to realize that said tones were currently even less dulcet than usual.

"Michael, you can't just ignore that kind of threat."

Michael's response was a low-pitched grumble, thin on clarity but thick with irritation.

Obviously, all was not well on the set of the Michael-and-Debbie show.

Lindsey swallowed a sigh, fairly certain that she already knew the cause behind the burgeoning battle, as she heard Debbie continue. "Well, that's just not an . . ."

She rang the bell, and was grateful that the sound apparently interrupted the flow of Debbie's incipient diatribe. However, she was less satisfied with the look on Michael's face when he opened the door. He did not - quite - actually say, "Oh, shit!" But she heard it anyway.

"Have I come at a bad time?" she asked, displaying the country club manners that were as natural to her as breathing, trying not to notice that he was as annoyed by her innate courtesy as by his mother's blatant lack of anything remotely comparable.

"Well, Melanie's gone," he retorted, "if that's what you're asking. She left to drive back to Toronto."

"It's not," she answered, stepping across the threshold and looking over quickly to see the fires - barely banked - glittering in Debbie's eyes. "But it's good to know." Then she smiled at Michael, trying - and failing miserably - not to feel sorry for someone so obviously out of his depth and flailing to remain afloat. He was so very ill-equipped to handle the slings and arrows that life seemed to delight in tossing at him - not to mention the RPGs that his mother was aiming his way.

Debbie, by virtue of a massive effort that was reflected in the feral gleam in her eyes, maintained a grim silence, obviously waiting to learn the purpose for Lindsey's visit before declaring her friend - or foe.

"Would you like coffee, Lindsey?" called Ben from his place near the stove, and Lindsey was pretty sure she had never been as glad in her life to hear a voice that might be classified as friendly. Or, at least, not specifically hostile.

"Thanks, Ben. I'd love a cup. Even Starbucks gets old after a while."

"Then maybe you should take that as a sign that it's time to go home," said Debbie, clinging to neutrality by her fingertips.

"Debbie," replied Lindsey, in ultra-polite mode, "I think I am home."

For a moment, nobody made a sound; it was as if her flat statement had dropped into a silence too profound to disturb.

But Debbie was not one to mince words, no matter how dire the consequences. "So," she said slowly, coldly "Brian Kinney strikes again."

"Ma," said Michael sharply, "you can't . . ."

"Don't you dare," Debbie almost snarled. "Don't you dare offer up excuses for him. This is all down to him, and you know it. He's cost you every dream you ever had, and now - Jesus Christ! - he's going to cost you your daughter, and you . . . you're just going to sit by and let it happen. How can you . . ."

"Stop it!"

To the surprise of everyone in the room, it was neither Michael nor Lindsey who spoke up to intervene on Brian's behalf.

It was Ben.

"Debbie," he said firmly, "no matter how much you try to twist this, you can't lay the blame on Brian. He didn't . . ."

"But don't you see that it always comes back to Brian," she raged. "Everything that goes wrong in Michael's life - always revolves around Brian. It was because of Brian that he lost David; that he never built a life for himself; that he almost died in that bomb blast. And now - now he's going to lose his daughter, because Melanie is going to make sure he doesn't stand a chance in a court of law, and . . ."

"No," said a smooth voice emanating from the open doorway behind Lindsey, "she's not."

Lindsey was closest to the door so she was the first to come face-to-face with the young stranger who was regarding her with a beautiful smile, prompting her to realize that she'd often heard the word "winsome" but never quite realized what it meant - until that moment.

"And just who the fuck are you?" Debbie demanded, not mollified in the least by the prettiness of the new arrival, nor the warmth of his expression.

He stepped forward and paused to close the door behind him. "I'm the man who's going to make sure that your gloomy scenario never happens. My name is Liam Quinn. Brian Kinney sent me."

"Jesus Christ!" said Michael. "How the fuck did you get here so fast?"

Quinn grinned. "When the Master says 'jump', one doesn't stop to ask for directions. He called me last night, Or - to be absolutely accurate - in the wee hours of the morning, to inform me of where I needed to go and how quickly I needed to get there. And it doesn't hurt that he has a chartered jet on stand-by."

"Great!" muttered Debbie. "Another Kinney flunky who can't wait to get screwed."

"Excuse me," said the young man, his very pleasant voice hardening suddenly, and reflecting a glint of ice, "but who - exactly - are you?"

"I'm Debbie Novotny, Michael's mother," she retorted, "and J.R.'s grandmother, so I think that gives me the right . . ."

"In actual fact," he interrupted again, without even an elemental hint of apology in his tone,"it doesn't. Any action that needs taking will be at the discretion of Mr. Novotny, and his spouse, and - peripherally - the individual who pays my fees, and I think we all know who that is. You decide nothing, Mrs. Novotny; you dictate nothing, but you might be interested to know that Ms. Marcus is about to find herself at the center of a cyclone that is literally going to rock her world. She's used your naivety and your ignorance of the law to intimidate and threaten, and make you believe that she has advantages which are virtually non-existent. Thankfully, we are far beyond the days when gender alone was enough to constitute a deciding factor in child custody cases. Acceptance was a long time coming, but, believe it or not, it has finally been established that there are fathers who are perfectly capable of seeing to the needs of their children, sometimes even more capable and more dedicated than the female of the species. In this particular case, Ms. Marcus's history is rife with examples of the kind of behavior that judges tend to view with extreme misgivings.

"In addition," he continued, as Debbie's eyes grew larger and her mouth gaped wider, "you might wish to reconsider your somewhat sweeping statements about the negative impact of Mr. Kinney's actions on the lives of your son and his daughter, as it is extremely easy to demonstrate that both Michael and J.R. have benefited from the benevolence and support provided by Mr. Kinney, and that Ms. Marcus has willingly and flagrantly used her personal connection to Mr. Kinney's son to benefit her and her daughter, far beyond the bounds of propriety. And while I am familiar with your inclination to ignore the evidence - which is, by the way, right in front of your nose - concerning how Mr. Kinney has frequently intervened on behalf of you and the rest of his extended family in order to improve your lot in life and avoid the repercussions of bad choices, I feel compelled to point out that anyone with a modicum of motivation could have discovered just how helpful he's been with very little effort, leading me to conclude that you didn't make such an effort because you simply didn't want to know. I also feel compelled to observe that - as Mr. Kinney is very fond of pointing out - money really does talk, or - in his case - it actually rises to the level of a Maria Callas performance as Aida , when the man who controls it is willing to spread it around like fertilizer to support any cause he espouses. In other words, Mr. Kinney's wealth has provided aid and comfort to an astonishing variety of people he cares about - including you and yours - and I, frankly, can't comprehend why you seem so eager to forget that fact just because one loud-mouthed, greedy, self-centered bitch of a lawyer tries to compel you to look at life from her perspective."

He paused then - just to catch his breath - before favoring Ben with a smile that was only a bit come-hither. "And did someone mention coffee?"

By this point, Debbie was almost gasping for air, exhausted from trying to get a word in edgewise.

"Welcome, Mr. Quinn," said Ben with a huge grin. "Regular . . . or decaf?"

Michael and Debbie remained open-mouthed and silent, but Lindsey had to suppress an urge to break out a cheerleading routine. "I take it," she said softly, "you're the man who's going to see that my son's rights are protected?"

Quinn took a seat at the table and inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of freshly brewed, fully caffeinated coffee. "That's me," he replied. "And, of course, I know who you are. I saw you during the video-conference, but I'd have known you anywhere. Brian briefed me on what to expect, and he was dead right. The face of a Botticelli Madonna, indeed."

Lindsey bit her lip. "Did he really say that?"

"He really did."

Ben resisted an urge to grin as he heard Lindsey whisper a curse word. He wondered if she understood and accepted the fact that she would always love Brian, no matter how badly he might behave at any given moment; then he wondered if she knew that the sentiment was mutual, even at the worst of times.

"So," said Quinn, after taking time to savor a few sips of coffee, "are we ready to sit down and discuss how this thing is going to go - or do we need to allow more wasted time for theatrics and crocodile tears?"

This time Ben couldn't help it. He laughed out loud, and, after a few seconds, both Michael and Lindsey joined in, leaving only Debbie to stew in her funk.

When everyone was finally seated around the kitchen table - each focused on their own cup of dark brew - no one seemed to know where to begin. For a few minutes, Liam Quinn seemed content to wait to be asked for guidelines to his master plan, but none of his potential clients were willing to press the issue. So he and Lindsey sat back, letting their eyes drift around the room and wondering what on earth had possessed the householders to hang a velvet cat painting on the wall of the adjacent living room, while Debbie thought that the kitchen shelves looked very bare and would benefit from a liberal supply of her ceramic owls. Ben, however, was concentrating on the fear he could read in his husband's eyes, and Michael . . . Michael could only stare at the young attorney - the lifeline provided by Brian Kinney. At that moment, he didn't care that the horrible painting his mother had insisted on hanging in his den was making a terrible impression on their guests, or that she was very likely plotting a major redecorating when he turned his back; he only cared about what Quinn might have to say, and how far Brian might be willing to go to keep his promise.

"Can she take my daughter away from me?" he asked finally, barely audible, barely breathing.

"No. I'll make sure of that."

"But she could have friends in the courts there. Contacts, advantages . . ."

"Mr. Novotny, I . . ."

"Just Michael, please."

Quinn grinned. "Not Mikey?"

Michael's smile was faint, but definitely real. "That's . . . reserved," he explained, with a little apologetic glance toward his husband.

Quinn's eyes - very lovely, parti-colored eyes, Michael noticed - were soft with understanding as he replied."Right. Now, while I'm quite sure Ms. Marcus has tried to impress you with her knowledge of the Canadian courts and her importance there, the simple truth is that, for now, she's simply a student. Canadian law is very specific. Until she is eligible to sit for their bar exam, she cannot be considered a practicing attorney. And I had my staff check it out. She has several more months of classes before she can even apply to take the exam. In point of fact, all these contacts and intimate acquaintances she claims are just stuff and nonsense."

Michael nodded. "Even so, she can prove that I haven't provided much support for J.R. That won't look good, will it? And . . ."

Quinn lifted his hand to deflect the incipient lament. "Granted, there are problems, but you have time to make amends. This is not going to happen overnight. Also, Ms. Marcus, despite having a bark like a pit bull, is not going to let this deteriorate into a 'he said/she said' confrontation. She knows she's vulnerable, and you can be certain that she was hoping that you didn't know that. But now, we should assume that she's already figured out that she's got an uphill battle on her hands. If I looked into her situation, you can be double sure she looked into mine, so she's realized that her original tactics are not going to work. She's going to be scrambling madly for a new scheme." He paused then, and looked directly into Michael's eyes, before shifting to look into Debbie's. "And desperation breeds hostility, so you have to understand that you're the key here. The weak link. Please don't make the mistake of assuming that she doesn't know that. She's had years to figure out that you're vulnerable to the kind of attack she's going to launch."

"Such as?" That was Ben, speaking up when it became obvious that Michael was having trouble finding the breath or the words.

Quinn shrugged. "What will you say when she threatens to take your daughter and steal away into the night? Just vanish, and take her where you'll never find her? What will you do?"

"We can't let her do that," said Debbie sharply. "We have to find a way to help her, to keep her here and let her know that we support her and . . ."

"And when you do that," he interrupted, completely unintimidated by her tone, "when you indicate a willingness to play the game by her rules, what do you suppose she'll demand? What will you have to do to convince her that no sacrifice is too great, in order to mollify her, to assuage her anger and stay in her good graces?"

"Whatever we have to." Debbie was adamant. "She's J.R.'s mother. Nothing else matters. We have to remember that, unless we want to lose her entirely."

Quinn nodded. "So you're going to allow her to dictate the terms of your life, including how you relate to your granddaughter, and who deserves your loyalty." He leaned forward then, and came close to invading Debbie's personal space, although he stopped just in time. Barely. "And, as part of the process, demand that you turn your back on Brian Kinney. So what happens then, the next time you need him to step in on your behalf? The next time that Michael or Hunter or Ben or Emmett - or any of you - need to be bailed out? The next time that you're teetering on the verge of losing your house, or Ted is facing jail time, or any of the thousand other examples of Brian playing lifeguard while you all sit around and pretend that you never noticed a thing - a game which you're incredibly good at, by the way. On the other hand, what - exactly - will you teach your granddaughter by allowing yourselves to be puppets on Ms. Marcus's strings?"

"Brian's a big boy," said Debbie firmly. "He can take care of himself."

Quinn paused and took a sip of coffee, before looking up once more to study Debbie's expression. "I suppose that's a good thing, in light of the fact that none of you have ever stepped up to pitch in. Except for young Taylor, of course, which explains a lot. But tell me, Mrs. Novotny, what exactly did he do to you - personally - to make you resent him so much?"

"Me?" she retorted. "It's not just me. Everybody resents Brian. He's spent his whole life pissing off everyone around him and proving himself to be the asshole king of the world."

Quinn turned then, to look into Michael's eyes, before turning again to stare at Lindsey. "Is that true?" he asked finally. "Is that how you all see him?"

Strangely, it was Ben who answered. "Actually, that's not how any of us see him. That's just the mask he wears."

"No, it's not," snapped Debbie. "That's who he . . ."

"Ma," said Michael suddenly, sharply, "shut up."

"Don't you open up a mouth to me, Michael Novotny. Don't you dare. You've never once looked at him and seen the truth. Seen what he should have been - how he should have repaid what we did for him. He should have . . ."

There were tears in Michael's eyes as he looked at his mother, his lips trembling as he realized what she had not - quite - dared to say. "Should have what, Ma? Should have given his life for me, as payback for what you did for him? Should have stopped being who he is, in order to make us happy? Should have made you his mother-in-law, so you could enjoy all the perks of a family tie to the man who would become the advertising king of Pittsburgh? Is that what this is all about, Ma? Is that why you resent him so much . . . because he couldn't love me the way you thought he should?"

"Don't you dare speak to me like that," she snapped. "All I ever wanted was for you to have the life you wanted to have - to be who you wanted to be. And we both know what that was, don't we, Michael? You have no right to . . ."

Michael rose quickly to his feet, and braced his hands against his hips. "I've got every right, Ma. There's so much that you don't know - so much that I never told you, mostly because Brian never wanted me to make a big deal about it. He was the big brother I never had; the one who's stood up for me and been there to catch me whenever I needed help, in ways that you never even suspected. I know you've been good to me. I know I owe you more than I can ever repay. But you don't know how much I owe Brian - or how much we all owe Brian - because you never knew the whole truth, and I think now that I always realized that you didn't really want to know it, although I didn't know why. Brian always took care of me, Ma, but he never wanted to talk about it. I think . . . I don't think he believed that he deserved any credit for it; he just thought it was something that came natural to him, because he was always bigger and tougher and stronger - and better at fighting back. Anyway, that's why you never knew. Was he perfect? Hell, no! He's selfish and arrogant and cocky and demanding . . . and a thousand other things that define just how imperfect he is. Except that, in his own way, he is perfect, because he's true to who he is. He doesn't lie, and he doesn't pretend or make excuses, and I don't know why we all expect him to be something he's not, because we should know better. And now . . . now you think I should turn my back on him, because Melanie's got it in her head that she's entitled to some kind of vengeance. Just because Gus loves his daddy. And because Lindsey loves him too. Well, guess what, Ma! I love him too. He's Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake, and I figure I'm going to love him until the day I die. He's earned that, and I don't know why you can't see it, because he's earned it from you too. Ben knows that; I think he knew it even before I did. So . . . why can't you accept that? Because, if you can't . . ."

Debbie rose slowly, her face set and hard. "Go on. If I can't?"

Michael swallowed around a lump in his throat. "Then you can go and take your place in the enemy camp. I'm sure Melanie will be delighted to have you on her side. She's a woman, after all, and that seems to be the only thing that matters to you."

"She's J.R.'s mother." It was almost a primal scream.

Michael nodded. "And you're mine. So tell me, Ma. Where - exactly - do you plan to take a stand?"

Debbie's eyes were huge now, and filled with a strange combination of rage and heartache. "So . . . that's the way it is, is it? The great god Kinney wins again, and never mind the fact that he never once gave you what you deserved - never even acknowledged that he should have loved you . . . the way you loved him. That he should have . . ."

"Should have what? Pretended that I was the great love of his life? I wasn't, Ma, and you can't change that, no matter how much you might want to. He gave me what he could. He always loved me, and he always will, but not the way you wanted. No fairy tale happily-ever-after. So . . . should he have lied about it, to make us happy? Do you really think I'm so stupid that I wouldn't have figured it out, in time? You and me, we fooled ourselves into thinking that it was because he wasn't capable of loving anybody but himself - but that wasn't true. It was never that he couldn't love somebody; it was just that he'd never found the right person. Until Justin."

She sat back down, apparently not noticing that tears were brimming in her eyes. "But it should have been you," she whispered. "It's not fair . . . that it wasn't you."

"Yeah," he retorted, more harshly that he'd intended. "Because life's always fair. Right? Because Hunter deserved a mother that sold him to the highest bidder, so he could carry his weight in the family. Because Brian deserved to be a punching bag for his fucking father, so Joan and Claire could stand by and watch while he took the beatings that spared them. Because Uncle Vic deserved to die of AIDS, and Ben deserves to be HIV positive. And most of all, because we all get to choose who we fall in love with. Don't we, Ma?"

And, for one of very few times in her life, Debbie Novotny was stricken speechless, as the truth poured over her like a towering tsunami, against which there was no defense.

"Oh, my God!" she whispered. "Is that . . . what you really think of me, Michael? Is that how you really see me?"

Michael found that he could not speak, that he no longer had the will to provide an answer, so it was up to Ben to step forward on his behalf. "Wrong question, Debbie," he said, his voice gentle - almost apologetic. "The real issue is how you see yourself."

She turned then, to study the face of her son-in-law, to search his eyes for a truth she did not really want to see. "You agree with him."

He sighed. "I do." Although he knew it had not really been a question.

"Debbie," said Lindsey slowly, leaning forward to regard the older woman with a tentative gaze. "if everyone who ever wanted to be loved by Brian . . ." She hesitated then, and tried to swallow around the lump in her throat. "Love isn't something he can just turn on - like a light switch. It's not something that he can choose to feel, and if you condemn him for that . . . Is it right for us to decide that we have the right to hold him accountable just because he doesn't feel what we feel - can't give us what we want? Because he won't lie and pretend to be what we want him to be? Do you really think we have the right to expect that from him?"

There was a period of silence then, as each of them digested what they'd heard, and each tried to figure out what to say next.

Liam Quinn, of course - by his very nature - had no such problem.

"Okay, then," he said easily, his smooth tone cutting through the tension and pushing it to the verge of their perception, where he thought it belonged. "If we're done with the theatrics now, we can proceed to the practicalities - to planning out our strategy and finding the best way to handle this, for all concerned." He paused then and looked directly at Debbie. "However, there can be no ambiguity here, on which way you choose to swing. Mrs. Novotny, you've voiced your misgivings plainly; now let me be equally blunt. I believe we have an excellent chance of prevailing in this case, but it's not going to be pretty. So we can't take any chances. You're either with us - or you're not. There can't be any uncertainty, because if Ms. Marcus gets an inkling about what we're doing, it could be disastrous. For your son, your granddaughter, Ms. Peterson . . . and Mr. Kinney. And I'm not willing to take that chance. So you have a choice to make, and no time to think it over. Decide. Now."

"But . . ."

"Now," he repeated, absolutely determined.

"But . . ."

Michael looked at Ben, and was overwhelmed by the look of love he read in those beautiful dark eyes, giving him the courage he needed to express his feelings. So he turned and stared at his mother, and his voice did not waver. "Now, Ma . . . or not at all."

Debbie allowed her eyes to drift from one face to the next, as a tug-of-war waged in her mind, between old prejudices and ingrained beliefs versus swelling hopes and unshakeable loyalties.

For most of her life, she had proceeded with all the determination and purpose of a guided missile, never pausing to question or entertain second thoughts. But that would not do for this moment in time. For once, she couldn't figure out which way to turn, or whether or not to turn at all. And she decided quickly that being indecisive was something she didn't like one bit.

She took a deep breath, and turned to stare out the window where a morning breeze was stirring the foliage of the overgrown rhododendrons surrounding the back yard. The sun was just breaking through the clouds and washing the scene in bright, almost liquid gold, and - for some reason - it made her think about Brian. Perfect, beautiful Brian - the man who should have loved her son above all things, should have given him the life he deserved, should have given him the thing he wanted most - the heart of Brian Kinney. Brian with his arrogant smirk and his complete lack of inhibition and uncertainty and pretentiousness. It was so miserably unfair. He should have been Michael's; that was just how it was supposed to be.

Debbie had never had many dreams of her own; dreams had been in short supply in her youth, and she'd occasionally wondered why the sweet fantasy of happily-ever-after had somehow skipped her generation. But she hadn't spared much time for lamenting. Instead, she had focused on her son, on what he should have, what she could give him. And the thing she had most wanted to give him was . . . Brian Kinney.

Only . . . Goddammit! The truth was a bitter pill to swallow. Brian had never been hers to give - and never would be. And she couldn't even claim that she hadn't known he was trouble from the very first time she'd seen him. She had, from the beginning; from the first moment she'd looked into his eyes and seen an unquenchable spark of mischief and confidence, disguising a vulnerability that very few would ever be allowed to see. Only . . . he'd been so young, and so beautiful, and she'd been so sure that she would be able to mold him and focus him and transform him into the man she hoped he would grow up to be. Which, of course, turned out to be ridiculously impossible. Nobody had ever molded Brian Kinney . . . except Brian Kinney. And now she had to decide if his refusal to accept the life she'd planned for him was enough to justify her turning her back on him, with her relationship with her granddaughter hanging in the balance.

He was supposed to turn out to be the answer to all her prayers; he was supposed to be perfect!

Like you were perfect? She did not quite gasp when the thought flared in her mind, harsh, and sharp, and irresistible. When you walked out and left your brother to die - unforgiven and alone.

But I didn't mean it.

She was shocked to realize that she'd almost spoken the words aloud, almost offered a verbal denial to the image in her mind - the image of Vic as she'd seen him last, when she'd poured out her fury and her frustrations in a scathing condemnation of all that he was. When she'd been infuriated that he'd refused to fall on his knees in gratitude for the sacrifices she'd made. It was only later that she'd realize what a betrayal that had been. Not that he had betrayed her. On, no! That would have been far easier than accepting the unvarnished truth - the realization that she had betrayed him.

And she really hadn't meant all the bitter things she'd shouted at him when she'd stormed out of his house that fateful day. Only . . . what difference did that really make? She'd said them just the same, not realizing that she'd never have a chance to take them back.

Until now.

She only barely resisted an urge to roll her eyes and snap at the voice in her mind, the one that sounded suspiciously like that of her late brother. But why would he . . .

She had heard of epiphanies - in theory, at least. But she'd never actually experienced one herself; that was the kind of thing that happened to philosophers and deep thinkers and intellectual poseurs - not middle-aged women with grown children and neither the time nor the patience for maundering. But there was absolutely no denying that she was experiencing something totally new and unexpected; she was caught in a painful realization - a sunburst dawning of truth. She had heard it all before - from a variety of sources. All the drivel about why she resented Brian, and why she held him to a different standard from the one that she applied to everyone else. She'd been told and told and told and . . . never once conceded that the sources might just be right.

She closed her eyes and looked into her own heart, and saw the sad, sweet, loving smile of her brother, and heard him urge her to do the right thing - to open up the closed fist that was holding on to all that bitterness, all those lost, futile hopes, and simply let it all go. It had poisoned her for too long.

But maybe - in a way - this was her chance, an opportunity to stand up . . . and make it right, because, much as she'd like to, she couldn't pretend that she didn't know what Vic would have said to her in this situation, while her son waited to hear what she would decide.

Vic had certainly known that she had never once backed away from a fight. The question now was whether or not this was going to be the first time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The short, plump teen-ager with the beautiful blonde curls and eyes the color of rich, dark chocolate, was very pretty - from a distance - and the flight attendant, also young, pretty and blonde, tried very hard not to notice the vacant quality of those eyes or the slightly odd placement of features in the slightly flattened face. Still pretty - even close up - but empty somehow, unfocused and disconcerting. Melissa Blaylock recognized the symptoms. Prior to recognizing her true calling - to fly the mostly friendly skies and see the world courtesy of Liberty Air - she had spent one semester at LSU, trying to prove that she would make a good nurse, before realizing that she was wasting her time; thus she had picked up a few random medical facts that she would probably have preferred not to know. Such as the name of the affliction that would forever make this young girl different - separate and apart - from her fellow teen-agers.

On the other hand, there was nothing even remotely unfocused about the slender, fashionably dressed woman seated beside the girl, and nothing in her manner that indicated a forgiving nature. Thus, when the flight attendant paused in the aisle to present a tray offering twin glasses of chardonnay to the woman and the man sitting across from her, she was extremely careful to make sure that her face revealed nothing of her thoughts about the teen-ager. Despite the marked difference in expressive qualities of the two female faces, there was more than sufficient similarity to proclaim close family connections, and the bright, almost sharp gleam of intelligence in the woman's eyes indicated that she was not one to suffer fools gladly - if at all.

"Katy, are you sure you don't want something to drink?" asked Cynthia, stretching just a bit and allowing herself to enjoy the comfort of the first class seat. Not being one to pamper herself, she'd reserved coach seats for herself and her daughter, but when she'd checked in at the airport, she'd found that someone - and it wasn't too hard to figure out who - had intervened and upgraded the reservation - and expanded it to include one additional traveler.

"Of course, she does," said Lance Mathis. "She just doesn't want what you're willing to let her have."

"Meaning?"

The security chief leaned forward and spoke to Katy in a conspiratorial whisper. "What's your favorite soft drink, Sweetheart?"

Her smile was beautiful, withholding nothing of the easy joy in her heart. "Dr. Pepper."

Cynthia Whitney huffed a quick sigh and shook her head. "How about a nice cold glass of chocolate milk? Or apple juice maybe? Or . . ."

Katy and Lance exchanged eye-rolls. "Boring," they almost sang together.

Cynthia chuckled. "Stop encouraging her," she grumbled to her fellow employee. Then she tried not to cave too quickly to the adorable pout on her daughter's face. "Dr. Pepper, huh?"

"Dr. Pepper." The two spoke in tandem again.

Kinnetik's second in command knew when she was beaten and believed in practicing grace in defeat, so she nodded to Melissa Blaylock. "One glass of Dr. Pepper - with lots of ice."

"Uh, oh," said Mathis with a sympathetic smile. "No swigging from the can, Girly."

Katy giggled, and he was even more charmed than he had been from the first moment he'd come face to face with the lovely teen-ager - and that was pretty damned charmed.

"You should feel flattered," observed Cynthia, as Katy turned back to press her nose against the window and watch the hills and valleys roll by far below. "She doesn't generally talk much to the male of the species. Too shy."

The girl turned back and rolled her eyes again. "Not shy, Aunt Tink. Just bored. Boys are silly - mostly."

Mathis grinned. "Aunt Tink?"

Cynthia took a deep breath, resisting an eye-roll of her own. "You can thank your boss for that one. Leave it to Brian to corrupt an innocent child."

"Brian waiting for us?" Katy asked, a pale shadow rising in her eyes. She did not have a well-developed sense of time, but she remembered that there had been a gap - a gap that felt like forever - when she had not been able to speak to Brian, when the daily phone calls from her Aunt Tink had not included a quick, lovely conversation with the man who always seemed to find time for her - for a silly little private joke and shared laughter - and she still worried that such a time might come again.

Katy did not like being deprived of her Brian, who was - as only she and her Aunt Tink seemed to know - completely different from the Brian that the rest of the world would recognize.

"Yes, Katy," replied Cynthia gently. "He won't be at the airport, like I told you. But he'll be waiting for us at the beach, just like he promised."

With a happy smile, the teen-ager accepted her drink from the flight attendant and went back to watching the landscape below, fairly sure that she would not really see a Pegasus-type horse launching itself into the sky, but willing to be proven wrong.

Katy loved the old stories of heroes and knights and demons and dragons and beautiful fairies and handsome young demi-gods; she was even pretty sure that she was privileged to know one of them, although he'd never really taken flight or engaged in a battle on her behalf. Not with swords or six-guns anyway. But she knew what she knew, nonetheless.

"She's very fond of him, isn't she?" asked Mathis.

Cynthia grinned. "Fond? You have no idea how fond." She turned to meet his gaze and read his skepticism easily. "That surprises you, does it?"

He shrugged. "It does, a bit. I mean . . . there are plenty of qualities in Brian that I appreciate and admire - honesty, courage, candor . . ."

"Balls?" she interrupted, her grin growing brighter.

He managed not to blush - but only barely. "Yeah. That too. But he doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd be good with kids."

She nodded. "And you're right. He's not good with all kids, but he's very good with his own . . . and with Katy. And I have no idea why. Except . . ."

It was his turn to study her face and try to figure out the speculative gleam in her eyes. "Except what . . ."

"Except that there's absolutely no artifice in Katy. No pretensions. She is what she is, and she's never embarrassed about it, or reticent in speaking her piece. Sometimes I think they're a kind of kindred spirits. He thinks she's special, in a way that has nothing to do with her mental capacity."

"And what does she think of him?"

It was Katy who chose to answer, her eyes suddenly not nearly as vacant as they'd seemed before. "I think he's pretty - all of him."

Mathis smiled. "Guess nobody can really argue with that. Whatever else the world might think of him, they can't deny that he's pretty."

Katy's grin was impudent. "Right. Nice ass too."

Both Cynthia and Mathis choked on their chardonnay, and Katy turned back to her perusal of the world below, wearing a very self-satisfied smirk - worthy of the great Kinney himself. Later on, when she mistakenly assumed that Katy was asleep and couldn't hear her, Aunt Tink would comment wryly that maybe she should rethink the amount of time she allowed Katy to spend with Brian - that his smart-ass mouth was rubbing off on his young admirer - but Katy knew better. From her parents and her Aunt Tink, Katy had learned sweetness and serenity and a plethora of skills and attitudes that she would need for navigating the world successfully, especially given the degree of her differences from that world and its "normal" inhabitants. But Katy had learned something else from Brian - something that had little to do with success but everything to do with happiness. From Brian, she had learned about spice and laughter and finding her own place in that world and the joy that could be hers. And she had no intention of ever letting it go and settling for a place to which other people might relegate her.

She drank her Dr. Pepper and settled comfortably in her seat, happy to doze until it was time to greet her very own personal knight in shining armor - although she was pretty sure he would roll his eyes and laugh at her if she ever dared to call him that.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*An Ideal Husband - Oscar Wilde
**Oscar Wilde

TBC