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  Frank covered his face with his hands. Tears slipped through his fingers and fell on my book. He had denied the truth about Donald, and for that he was paying a high price. Truth denied and then acknowledged is twice as bitter, twice as cruel.

  I forced Frank to look at me. "When I look at you, I see a good man, a true friend, and a most welcomed lover." I wiped his tears away with the arm cover of Momma’s new davenport. "Turn the page and read on."

  He shook his head. "I can’t bear to read anymore about how they hurt you, especially since I did nothing to stop it."

  "You didn’t know what was going on and I couldn’t tell you. I was too ashamed and too afraid." The logic of my explanation wasn’t enough to ease his pain and guilt. I picked up the journal, turned the page, and began to read out loud.

  Dear Claudia,

  You’ll be distressed to hear that no one tried to save me. Not the doctors. Not the nurses. Not even the one who mopped the floors. In all fairness, I must admit I was beyond their reach.

  Johnny didn’t come. Momma didn’t come. No one came for me except Frank, and I was beyond his reach too. But unlike the others, he would not give up. He didn’t ask me to tell him what he needed to do. For Frank saw that I hadn’t the strength to help him help me. He spent his time, his money, and his mind trying to find a way to reach me in the dark pit that had swallowed me. Like Grandpa Eli, Frank knew that there wasn’t much difference between a pit and a grave. He knew if he couldn’t pull me out of the pit, it would indeed become my grave.

  In the fall of the year after the murder of my unborn child—for that is how I now divide time—Frank brought me the only thing that could possibly save me. He brought me one of Papa’s roses. Not just the stems, but the whole bush. Like me, the bush was ugly. Like me, it was wounded. And like me, that bush—which had been so tenderly planted in life by Papa—was dying. Somehow, Frank realized that if I could save Papa’s rosebush, then maybe I could save myself.

  Frank helped me when no one else would or could help me. Together, we saved Papa’s rosebush and in doing so, we saved me. Perhaps we even saved Frank, for Momma’s deceit and his role—however unwittingly played—in causing my dilemma had bludgeoned his soul. Frank and I were victims together. We were Momma’s Picks and wounded souls together. And it was together, we saved ourselves.

  I closed the journal, laid it on the coffee table, and held out my arms to Frank. He pulled me to his chest. I’d shared the truth with him and he’d finally believed it. I’d told him about Picks and Pickers, but he hadn’t seen them in himself or in me. Even now, Frank couldn’t discern my transformation from Pick to Picker. He didn’t realize I was slowly molding him to be my Pick. We often see the sins in others, but fail to acknowledge those same sins in ourselves or in our loved ones.

  He took hold of my hands. "What do you want me to do, Becky?"

  I’d waited all evening to hear those words. Now, hopefully, we could stop looking backwards and start our journey forward together. Only this time, I’d be the one who’d control our destiny.

  "I want us to live in Papa’s house and have both stores. You can have everything, Frank, including me."

  He showered my hands with kisses. When he tried to kiss my lips, I jerked my head back.

  "Why won’t you let me kiss you?" he asked.

  "You can kiss me, but not on the lips."

  "That’s the best place, Honey."

  "I disagree." I moved over to sit by him on the sofa.

  "But why not, Becky?"

  "When I was in Havenwood, the nurses told us kissing on the lips spread germs."

  "I’m willing to risk a few germs," he said.

  "But I’m not." Frank would require additional details or he’d continue his quest to kiss me on the mouth. "When you’re told something enough times, a part of you starts to believe it. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, it only matters that you believe it." I stroked his cheek. "I’ll make it up to you. I promise."

  I placed a throw pillow behind my neck and leaned back on Momma’s new davenport. The day it came, she informed me I wasn’t allowed to sit on it because I might soil it with dirt from the garden. I ran my hand over the blue velvet upholstery. "What do you think of Momma’s new sofa?"

  "It’s too damn expensive."

  I laughed. "Well, it’s only money. Your money."

  "Our money," Frank said. "From now on, everything is ours."

  His words delighted me. My Pick was coming along nicely. To reward him, I eased my foot inside his open robe and began to rub his bare chest.

  "I believe, Becky, you made me a promise a moment ago. Something about kissing."

  "I always keep my promises."

  Frank leaned forward. Hope had replaced the sadness in his eyes. "What do you promise me? If I give you the house, my heart, and everything else, what will you give me?"

  "I promise to make you happy and to make sure you’re never lonely again." I untied his robe, pushed it back, ran my hands over his shoulders. I didn’t pledge undying love because I didn’t think our situation required it on my part. "And I promise you one more thing, Frank."

  "What?" he asked, unable to mask the eagerness in his voice.

  I untied the belt on my robe, taking my sweet time to allow him the opportunity to enjoy his anticipation of things to come. I slipped off the silk wrapping to reveal my gift to him, "There are a lot better places to kiss me than on my lips."

  He cupped a breast in each hand. "I think you may be right."

  I smoothed back his hair. "Sure, I’m right. I’m always right." Even though I wasn’t proficient in the art of being a Picker, I knew one thing for certain. The primary lesson a Pick must learn is that his Master Picker is always right. This strict rule is the cornerstone of the Picker-Pick relationship. I made a mental note to subtly remind Frank of this rule at opportune times during the next few days. After all, that is how Picks and children learn, by having a Picker repeatedly tell them who and what they are.

  I tried to imagine Momma’s reaction when she returned home and learned I’d seduced Frank. The role of Picker was definitely more pleasant than that of Pick. I sighed and patted him on his head.

  Suddenly, my body began to shake. Was it my vision of Momma or convulsions causing tremors to wash over my entire physical being? Neither. My trembling stemmed from the fact that Frank’s hot mouth and curious tongue had reached their final destination. In years past when he and Momma still shared a bed, I’d often hear strange sounds coming from their room. Now, I knew why.

  I struggled to keep my mind on Picker business while my body continued its involuntary response to Frank’s extraordinary maneuvers. A Picker-in-training must remember that everything moves forward for the advancement of one major goal. My goal was to own Papa’s house. So, I had to decide how much of myself to give to my new Pick.

  Earlier, I’d thought about limiting our physical mergers to Friday nights, thus reducing the possibility of his growing tired of me. But in light of present happenings, I decided to make myself available to Frank as often as he desired. In all probability, that would involve a lot of time and considerable sacrifice on my part. But I needed to bind him so close to me that nothing could rip him out of my grasp.

  Frank must become addicted to me. I’d heard of numerous twelve-step programs where addicts could get help fighting their particular addictions. But I knew of no plan that specialized in stopping a man from desiring a willing female, even if she was a Picker.

  If I had to make the sacrifice of offering my body for tantalization and exploration by Frank’s eager mouth and experienced hands, then so be it. In doing so, I’d advance my goal of gaining control of my Pick.

  Even now, as Frank and I christened Momma’s new, blue velvet davenport, my body seemed impatient for that most intimate joining which, with any luck, would soon follow. Perhaps, Frank wasn’t the only hungry child in that candy shop.

  CHAPTER 19

  Frank closed the deal on the Kirbyville
store the day before Momma returned home. She liked the idea of owning two stores until Frank informed her he’d cancelled her credit at her favorite dress shop and had limited the amount she could charge at other local businesses. With great patience, he explained the necessity of putting most of the profits back into the stores so we could build up inventory and pay down debts. He gave her an allowance, which along with her annuity from Papa’s estate added up to $600 monthly.

  Momma pitched a conniption fit. Frank reminded her $600 was a month’s wage for many folks, but that made no difference to Miss Spend Thrift. To shut her up, he agreed to review the situation in three months and consider increasing her allowance.

  I wanted to tell Momma that Frank and I were lovers, but he preferred we keep our new relationship secret. He still struggled with the fact that he was legally married to her and worried about the difference in our ages. Neither detail concerned me.

  I wanted to see Momma’s face when she learned Frank belonged to me now. Even though she’d lost him years before due to her spitefulness and lies, she’d still be upset. She might not want him, but she wouldn’t want me to have him either. She’d play the wounded wife scenario, lament her betrayal, and warn us we’d burn in Hell for our sins against her. That’s when I’d pull out my list and read the names of all her known lovers. Frank and I might end up in Hell, but Momma would be right there with us.

  Vengeance! That’s what I wanted. But how could I hurt Momma without wounding and embarrassing Frank? It wasn’t that he still had feelings for her. He didn’t. In fact, sometimes it seemed he hated her more than I did. But Frank lacked the one personal quality Pickers like Momma and I had in common—the desire for revenge.

  In the end, I agreed to keep our affair secret. My wish to please Frank was greater than my need for payback. Maybe I wasn’t made in Momma’s likeness after all. My soul might yet be saved from eternal damnation.

  *****

  What a difference a few months can make. For over two years, I’d walked through each day without delight or hope. But because of my new relationship with Frank, I found myself laughing and daring to dream again.

  Frank had always been a visionary, one of those rare individuals who could look at something and recognize its potential. He’d worked a miracle with Papa’s store. Grandpa Eli had always taken care of the business. In the three years between my grandpa’s death and Frank’s taking over, the store—under Papa’s supervision—had lost money.

  Papa was a lousy businessman, but a great gardener. He loved to feel the earth crumble in his hands and watch seeds he’d planted sprout and bloom. He’d passed on to me his reverence for life and his ability to see the beauty buried in a pot of dirt. But after losing Johnny and our baby, I’d pushed all life-affirming emotions to the dark recesses of my mind, allowing fear, despair, and downright hate to take their place. Frank planted a new seed of hope in me and doggedly tended it until it blossomed.

  Under Frank’s tutelage, I spent the summer of ’69 studying for and passing my GED test. In late August, a letter from Kirbyville Community College confirmed my acceptance. Momma and I were surprised. Frank was ecstatic. He organized a party in my honor at the Kirbyville store. There was cake and punch for every employee, customer, and anyone who happened to wander by. For someone who’d spent most of her life trying to remain invisible, the attention was overwhelming. The only thing stopping me from flying up the stairs and taking refuge in our apartment was the smile on Frank’s face every time he looked at me.

  The party should have been for Frank. For me, going to college was a lost dream. But he found my dream and returned it to me on a silver platter. And when fear and self-doubt stopped me from reaching for it, he forced that platter into my hands.

  Momma considered a party for me a waste of money, but she came anyway to see the new store. She liked it. It was bigger, fancier, and grossed more money than the Sugardale store. She insisted on seeing the apartment.

  "You and Frank spend a lot of nights here, Becky Leigh. What do you do to pass the time?"

  "We work on store business or watch TV." At Frank’s urging, I’d started talking to Momma again. No long conversations, just short phrases like, "Pass the salt," or "Betty called." Simple statements of fact were my contribution to family harmony.

  Momma turned the television on and off a couple of times as if checking to see if it worked. "I thought you didn’t like watching TV. You never watched much at home."

  "People change, Helen," Frank said as he entered the room.

  She glanced at us and laughed. "If you say so, Sugar."

  "How’s Henry, Momma?"

  "Henry’s fine. Why do you ask?"

  "I think you know." Momma was too smart not to catch my drift. If she started trouble about Frank and me spending time together, I had enough ammunition to annihilate her and her lover. After all, Henry had a business reputation to protect too.

  "I’d better head home so you two can get back to the party or whatever else you had planned for the afternoon," she said.

  "There’s something you should know, Momma."

  "If you’re going to tell me you two are lovebirds, Becky, you’re a little late. I’m not blind or stupid like some members of this family."

  "Don’t start, Helen," Frank warned.

  Momma laughed. "I’ll make you a deal. You two keep the money coming in and leave Henry and me alone. In return, you can play house with my blessing, as long as you’re discreet. For the sake of the business, we’ll continue our happy family routine whenever we’re in public, and we’ll all live happily ever after. Okay?"

  Damn her. I wanted to shock her, to embarrass her. I should’ve known it wouldn’t happen. How can you humiliate someone who’s incapable of feeling shame? I stared out the window while Frank and Momma discussed the finer points of the agreement, including a raise in her monthly allowance.

  As she started to leave, Momma said, "I think I liked it better when you weren’t talking to me, Becky."

  There’s no pleasing some people.

  *****

  I couldn’t sleep. Classes at the junior college started the next day. Frank and I had stayed at the apartment. The idea was to get a good night’s sleep so I’d be alert for my first day of class.

  Throwing back the covers, I padded across the room and picked up the alarm clock. Frank kept it on the far side of the room so he had to get up to turn off the alarm. Once up, he never went back to bed, or rather he never went back to sleep. He liked making love in the morning. I preferred to do so at night. We compromised by doing both.

  The green numerals glowed in the dark. Half past two. Only three hours until time to get up. After we made love, I’d cook breakfast while Frank showered. Then I’d tidy up the kitchen and take my bath while he read the morning paper. At 7 a.m., Frank would open the store. Half an hour later, I’d go downstairs, put on a fresh pot of coffee, and head for the greenhouse. That was pretty much our routine whenever we stayed at the apartment unless one of us decided to join the other in the shower. Then breakfast ended up being a donut instead of pancakes or omelets.

  I climbed back into bed and snuggled up to his back. "Frank, are you awake?"

  "No," he whispered.

  "You must be awake, you’re talking."

  "I talk in my sleep."

  "Can you answer questions in your sleep?"

  "Not if it’s about waiting another year to start college."

  I gave him a shove and sat up.

  Frank pulled himself up and turned on the lamp. "We’ve had this discussion a dozen times, Becky."

  "You didn’t agree with me before."

  "And I’m not going to agree now either. Let’s go to sleep."

  "It makes more sense to wait. I’m needed at the stores."

  He wrapped his arm around my bare shoulders. "I know you’re afraid, but what’s the worst that could happen?"

  "What if the teachers ask me questions I can’t answer?"

  "Then they’d tell
you the answers. That’s their job."

  I pushed his arm away. "I’m glad you find this funny." My career as a Picker wasn’t going very well. How could I manipulate someone who agreed with me most of the time? And I learned not to make a fuss over anything. If I did, Frank got it for me. If I made a suggestion concerning the stores, he ordered it done. I found it hard to practice Picker ways against a man so dedicated to making me happy.

  "It’s a big campus. What if I can’t find my class?"

  Frank put his arm around me again. "If you want, I’ll walk you to your first class. I’ll even carry your books."

  I laughed. "Johnny always carried . . ." How did I let that name slip out? "I’m sorry."

  "Don’t be sorry. You two were special friends. You’ll never forget that."

  I leaned into him. "How is it you understand me better than I understand myself?"

  He smiled. "Because, my young friend, I have the wisdom of time on my side."

  I slipped my hand under the sheet and ran my fingers up his inner thigh. "I forgot you’re such a decrepit old man."

  Frank captured my dancing fingers. "Watch it, lady, you’ll get something started."

  "That’s what I’m trying to do." I kissed his neck and proceeded down his chest.

  He stoked my hair. My tongue flicked across his right nipple, then moved to his left.

  He pushed me back. "You’re trying to change the subject."

  My lover knew me too well.

  "Do you think about Johnny a lot, Becky?"

  I shrugged.

  "It’s okay if you do. You loved him and he loved you."

  "I don’t know about that. He forgot about me soon enough."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Johnny’s cousin, Emelda, came into the store last week. She said he married a gal he met while in the service. They live in Texas near Anna and are expecting a baby."