SOFTWARE UPDATE
By Emma Anne Tate, continuing a story by Ricky.

Author’s note: The setting for this story, and three of the characters that appear in it, are based on Ricky’s beautiful story from 2016, Reprogramming Your Life. Ricky very kindly gave me the green light for this follow-on tale, and reviewed the manuscript before I posted.

The remaining four characters in this story are ENTIRELY fictional. Any resemblance to any person or persons in the real or virtual worlds is completely coincidental.

I’m reluctant to tell you that you don’t need to read “Reprogramming” before reading this story – even though it’s true – because I don’t want to say anything that might dissuade you from reading Ricky’s original tale. You want to read Ricky’s tale. Trust me. You DO. Treat yourself!

– Emma

~o~O~o~

CHAPTER ONE
February – April, 2023

I woke up to the sort of early morning noises you get used to, living in the countryside. They’d seemed strange and exotic the first time I’d come to this remote getaway, an out-of-work work-a-holic way closer to a breakdown than I’d had enough sense to see. Now, the birdsong and the rustling of leaves in a morning breeze just felt like the sounds of home.

Since the pandemic I work from here, mostly, and even that’s part-time. But I still go down to the city for a week every month. My boss Helene Patrickson lets me stay in her guest bedroom when I’m in town; she and her long-time partner Phyllis are also close friends.

Helene and I are nerds among nerds, programmers through and through, even though she’d gotten booted up to management and I’d avoided that fate with single-minded determination and the skill of an Artful Dodger. Helene and I can talk programming for hours and often do. Phyllis calls us the Goddesses of Geekistan.

I like it.

But Phyllis and I have some things in common, too. Specifically, a delight in being, and appearing, feminine, as well as a mildly inconvenient “y” chromosome. Phyllis passes pretty well, but at this point – after seven years of rigorous application, hormone therapy, assorted surgeries, and the gentle guidance of my lovely wife – I am effectively impossible to clock. I could piss in Ron DeSantis’ chamber pot and the skeevy bugger wouldn’t even know to call his gender gendarmes.

Not that I would. I mean, ewwwww, right? But it’s the principle of the thing.

Thoughts of my lovely wife are always sufficient to get me out of bed – unless, of course, she happens to be in it – and today was no exception. She had been asleep when I got back from the city the previous night, and I’d managed to snuggle against her toasty warm back without waking her. But she is an early riser and I am not – actually, that’s not, not, not!!! – so I’m used to waking up in an empty bed.

I found her where I usually do, most mornings: in the living room, a deep, warm robe over her nightgown, laptop open on a small table in front of her. Usually, when she’s at her work station, she’s in a creative fog, muttering bits of dialogue as she writes the romances for which, under several names, she is so famous.

Or infamous, these days. Some clowns had started a boycott of her known works when they had discovered, hiding in plain sight, that she had also been writing transgender fiction for years under (yet) another name. It hadn’t dented her sales all that much. Evangelicals devour trashy romances just like everyone else, they just don’t admit it. The present kerfuffle gave them an additional reason not to admit it, but they’d never needed more than one.

Sara being Sara, she had doubled down. She was writing more transgender fiction than ever, and attending transgender events regularly and openly. Just this past week, while I was gone, she had been off at a TG conference where she had been both a featured speaker and a panelist with other (less well known!) authors of TG fiction.

She wasn’t writing just at the moment, though. Instead, she was staring out the big windows that lined the south-facing wall of the main living area, apparently lost in thought. I typically don’t bother her when she’s working, and writers can do lots of that even when their fingers aren’t on the keyboard. But I hadn’t seen her in a week, so I decided I’d bend my rule. Her long, graceful neck was looking especially in need of a kiss, and I was not one to shirk when duty called.

“Mmmmm! I’ve missed you, too, girlfriend!” She snaked fingers into my strawberry blonde curls to hold me in place, then turned and kissed me properly.

“It’s worth going away each month, just to have you to come back to,” I said when I came up for air.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder?”

“You wrote that one? Damn, you’re good!” I teased.

“I’m old, Rosie darlin’, not antique!” Her laugh, as always, was musical.

“Classic. Timeless.”

“True. So true. Make me some coffee?”

“Your wish is my command, my queen!”

Sara’s house – well, our house, now, but she designed and built it, so I will always think of it as hers – has an open floor plan for the main living area. So it was only a matter of walking a few steps to reach the kitchen, and I never had to lose sight of my gal as I got some magic black juice going. Still trim and fit, her fall of golden hair still thick and sweet-smelling. She had more lines on her face now, but they were smile lines. No sign of weariness or disappointment, much less bitterness. Her eyes were lively, and she remained the free spirit she’d always been.

“What?”

“Sorry not sorry,” I said, with a grin. “I could look at you all day.”

“That’s certainly one way to get out of working.”

“It’s Saturday!” I slid into a teenagy whine. “Helene said I could take the whole day off!”

“She’s just your little boss, silly girl! I’m your big boss!”

“I must have missed that part . . . .”

She shook her head sadly. “It’s sad when such a fine mind starts to slip.”

“Hopefully I’m still good for some things.” I threw in a leer for good measure.

“Down, girl!” she said, but smiled warmly. “I do miss you when you’re away. Come on, let’s sit in the sun porch.”

I poured the coffee and joined her in the enclosed porch that went off at an angle from both the kitchen and the eating area. We sat in comfortable swivel rockers, facing each other at an oblique, enjoying the warmth of the wintry sun magnified by the surrounding windows.

“How are Helene and Phyllis?” she asked, taking an appreciative sip of her morning brew.

“They’re good. Phyllis is taking ballroom dance classes, if you can believe it. She’s enjoying it a lot. I . . . honestly, I think Helene is foolish not to go with her.”

“You think Phyllis needs a chaperone?”

“Noooooo . . . Not that, exactly. Just . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s just something that’s better to do together.” Wanting to change the subject from my vague uneasiness, I asked, “How was your conference?”

“Outstanding!” She was suddenly energized. “You wouldn’t believe some of those people, Rosie. I mean, of course you would, you’ve been helping me run this little retreat for seven years now. But still . . . .”

Sara augments her writing income by hosting weekend retreats for transwomen (and, generally, their spouses or significant others). The price is wicked high, but for transwomen with means, the chance to spend a long weekend in a completely supportive and accepting environment, with an impressive selection of clothes (both intimates and, well, out-imates), and the company of other transwomen who understand their lives, is more than worth it. She suspended her operation during the pandemic, but she had cautiously reopened in the summer of 2022, and was now doing around twelve weekends a year.

“Got some new ideas for stories, did you?” I asked.

“No. I mean, yes, of course. I always do. But it’s not that. I had kind of a different idea.”

“Yeeeeees,” I said slowly, inviting her to elaborate.

“I met this complete character at the conference – one of the authors on my panel. Couldn’t pass – I mean, at all – and wouldn’t try. Just wore a fun, swishy dress and sensible shoes, and didn’t worry about the full beard. Her pen name is Tara Watt, and most of her stories are on BigCloset and Doppler. Anyhow, we really hit it off. We had dinner with a friend of hers from the BigCloset community who posts as Chris Alys. It was really, really great. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. And I got to thinking . . . it would be really cool to do a writers’ weekend.”

“I’m kind of surprised you’ve never done one.”

“Well . . . As you know, I’ve kept this place pretty pricey, for a whole host of reasons. Money being the big one, but there are side benefits. And, I’ll be honest, I haven’t rubbed shoulders with a lot of other authors until the past year or so. I was doing my thing, they were doing theirs . . . .”

“Admit it, you’re a snob when it comes to writing.”

“Well, yeah. I am. But also . . . writers can get kind of wrapped up in their own dramas and jealousies sometimes. Much as I hate to say it.”

“Who has the biggest . . . audience?”

She snorted. “Sometimes. I mean, it happens.”

“But you’re warming to them.”

“Not as a general category, maybe. But these women . . . I think it’s different. First, because I really do play in kind of a different league than most of them do. It’s not necessarily fair, but I made my bones in a more mainstream field, so I have contacts in the publishing world that most of these authors will never have. The other part, though, is that when they write TG fiction, they’re writing what they know. Personally. First-hand. I’m always at a remove.”

I reached out to lightly caress her forearm with perfectly manicured fingers. “Not too far removed.”

“No.” She gave me a fond smile. “And of course, it’s not just you. Through my business here, I’ve met lots of transwomen and heard their stories. But, that’s still different from what these authors are doing.”

“I guess I can see that. What kind of a weekend were you thinking about?”

“I want to invite Tara and Chris, and ask them to ask two other BC authors. People they know, whose work they like. Treat them just like other guests – you know, roll out the usual red carpet, bring Debbi in to do a hair salon and makeovers, the whole deal. But it would be the authors only – no plus ones – and it would be our treat.”

“I don’t see why not. Was there anything special you wanted to do?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it is a chance to talk about all things to do with writing. The challenges, the fun parts, how to make ourselves better . . . .”

“Well, at least that part sounds like it’ll be less work for me. I’m no help to you there.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, my little hazelnut!”

“Okay, that one’s new. Hazelnut?”

“Just came up with it while we’re sitting here. A flash of inspiration. As a widely-read author of romance, I think it sounds cute. What do you think?”

“That you’re nuts? Anyway . . . the only writing I do is code.”

“I’ve noticed that. But . . . since I’ve sunk my claws into you, you’ve branched out quite a bit in terms of your reading. You’ve read TG fiction – mine and other people’s – as well as plenty of related non-fiction. It would be really helpful to me if you could read their stories. Give me your thoughts about how they write, from the technical to the intangible.”

“I don’t have any special insights, though.”

“I disagree. You think very differently from most of the people in my world. And, of course, you’ve transitioned. Chris clearly has, but Tara hasn’t, and I obviously don’t know about the other authors they would invite.”

“So long as I’m not looped into your ‘writers’ discussions.’ I’d feel like poor Phyllis, when Helene and I get going.”

“Hmmmm. Let’s take a closer look at that bridge when the time comes. No need to decide today. You may feel differently after you’ve done your homework!”

“Have you read and of Tara and Chris's stories?”

“No. I worry about getting ideas stuck in my subconscious, and having them bubble up into full-fledged stories without my being aware that I had leaned on someone else’s work.”

“Hell hath no fury like an author plagiarized.”

“Yeah. That.”

“But you will read them, before they come? Right?”

“Yes, I absolutely will. At least some. But that’s actually all the more reason for you to read them. If I inadvertently crib an idea from one of their stories, you’ll be in a position to catch it before I ship the manuscript.”

It’s true that, at some point over the past six years, I had started proofing her manuscripts. I did add value; a career spent working with unforgiving code made me an exceptionally good proofreader. But that’s not really why I did it. Her stories were just so damned good!

“Well, darling, it wouldn’t make my top ten list of things I’d like to do in my spare time, but sure. I will immerse myself in TG fiction. The things I do for love! See what you can arrange with your new friends, set a date, and I’ll make sure I’m prepared.”

“What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“Saved my life. But more importantly, you got me a coffee refill.”

“I did not!”

“Oh!!! Right you are!!!” I stared into the depths of my empty mug and made puppy dog eyes. “But you’re going to, aren’t you?”

She laughed.

* * * * *

“What’s got you giggling like a schoolgirl?” Sara looked at me over the tops of her readers, her fond smile on her face. She’s got a good fond smile.

“Your friend Tara. Her Dorothy Sayers fanfic is inspired.”

“Lord Peter’s Whimsey?”

“Right. She’s got the Sayers dialogue down pat, and of course Lord Peter is every bit as perfect at everything as the original version – it’s just that he’s also perfect at transforming himself into a stunningly desirable woman.”

“Oh, of course!”

“And naturally, ‘Lady Petra Peach’ is exceptionally skilled at getting foolish males to confess the crimes they were trying to hide from Lord Peter.”

“We do have certain advantages that way.”

“I’ve heard rumors. Anyhow, the characters are good, the plots are no worse than most mysteries, and the writing is solid. Not in your league, but solid.”

“You might be a bit biased?”

“If I weren’t biased towards the woman who shares my bed, you’d evict me forthwith. And rightly. But I’m a programmer. I prefer Java to C++ – that’s my bias – but that doesn’t mean I like bad Java code better than good C++.”

“Your lips are moving and you’re making noises that sound, at first blush, like human speech. But, sadly, they aren’t. Keep trying, dear!”

“Right. Ummm. You’ve said writing is part art, part science?”

“Obviously.”

“And, because you’re a famous author, I’ll take your word for it.”

“Wise.”

“Well, the ‘science’ part is objective, at least. And there, you have an objectively clear edge over Ms. Watt, what? I think you have an edge in the art department too, but that’s more subjective.”

“And might simply reflect your animalistic desire to jump my bones?”

“I should be very surprised if it didn’t.”

“Huh.”

* * * * *

Three weeks later, we were driving into town to stock up on groceries for one of our normal client weekends – which is to say, the kind of clients that pay lots of money. Sara was driving, since she loves driving and does it whether she’s behind the wheel or in the backseat. But I was poor company, staring out the window as the foggy, soggy, muggy, muddy world went by.

Sara took a turn with her usual exuberance. Once she’d gotten on the straight she shot me a look. “You ready for the weekend?”

I had to shake my head. “Sorry – I need to pull all the info together on our guests. I’ll do it when we get home.”

“You seem distracted. Work issue?”

“No. Well, yes – work from you, my BIG boss. This is all your fault!”

“You don’t care for Chris’s stories?”

“It’s not that. She’s written a ton. It’s all technically good, but I’ll confess I kept waiting for something unpleasant to happen. Story after story, it was all puppies and kittens, you know?”

“I write romance, girlfriend. Happy endings are even more obligatory than torn bodices.”

“Sure. But I’m talking happy beginning, middle and end. The protagonist is always loved and accepted.”

“I can see why that wouldn’t be your thing. Everyone knows you're a harpy.”

“Nice! . . . But that’s just it. It was fine. The stories are pleasant. Feel-good. And – my caustic reputation notwithstanding – I like feeling good as much as the next T-girl. They’re all variations on a classic TG theme, but different enough to keep me reading. Boy meets inner girl . . . they do a little shopping . . . something, something, something . . . only girl remains. And the world rejoices.”

“I sense a ‘but.’”

“With all the potholes in our road, I’m sure you do.”

“You can’t help yourself, can you? Let me try again. I had the distinct impression that your last sentence – which was a fragment, but no matter – should have ended in a semi-colon, followed – immediately followed – by the word ‘however.’”

“Writer!”

“Programmer! Now quit stalling.”

I sighed. “You’re right. I am stalling. Last night, I was close to finished with all of her stories, when I hit two that . . . well. They just tore me apart. Brutal.”

“Brutal how?”

“The stories involved a lot of abuse. Trauma. In the second one, the character is driven to suicide. In the first, she just thinks about it. Hard. They are dark, gritty . . . I can’t get them out of my head.”

“And you think that was her reality?”

“It was real as hell, Sara. The details were granular, in a way that they weren’t in her other stories. If that was coming out of her imagination, her mind travels some twisted paths.”

“I didn’t pick up on anything like that when I met her. It was just one dinner, though.”

“All I can say is, if my life had ever been like that, I might want a whole lot of puppies and kittens too. Baskets full.”

“You’d have to clean up after them.”

“You’d help, though.”

“I wouldn’t.”

I thought about that. “It’d still be worth it.”

“Huh.”

* * * * *

When we aren’t spooning, Sara tends to sleep in a sinuous ball. For warmth, I assume. We were both wearing granny flannels; she looked almost child-like as she dreamed beside me. Her face is so animated when she’s awake that she looks like another person when she sleeps. Resting angel face.

But I was propped up on a pile of pillows, too wired from work to sleep. If I was going to get any rest at all, I needed to shut down that part of my brain. I picked up my iPad, opened BigCloset and went to the authors’ index. Tara Watt told Sara that she’d gotten a confirmation from “Rowena Redmond” for our writers’ weekend. Time for me to do some more homework.

It was probably three hours later when my lovely wife said, “You’re gonna be sorry in the morning!”

“I’m always sorry in the morning. If I could just sleep past noon, everything would be fine. Every day would be perfect, and there would be peace on earth.”

“We’re washing windows tomorrow, remember?”

“No. I’m affirmatively blocking that memory. I’ve decided I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.”

“Go to sleep, Rosie!”

She was right, of course. But . . . . “You awake?”

“No.”

“I know you have trouble getting back to sleep. I feel bad.”

“I am asleep.”

“Are not.”

“Am so!”

“I know what’ll help you.”

“You not talking?”

“Exactly . . . . I won’t say another word.”

“Good . . . Oh! . . . ah . . . Mmmmmmmm!”

Insomnia is a curse, and it’s a spouse’s clear duty to effect a cure by whatever means necessary. ’Nuf said.

* * * * *

Mercifully, we both slept in. But the work still needed to be done, so the next morning found me up on a ladder, cleaning the outside of the high windows of the main living area.

Sara, who had no great fondness for heights, was steadying the ladder. “So what were you reading ’till the wee hours?”

“Not ‘what,’ ‘who.’”

“‘Whom,’ you doofus!”

“I’d say something witty in Java, but you wouldn’t understand it. Whom, then.”

“Well? Whom?”

“Rowena Redmond.”

“Rowena . . . ? Oh, right. The woman Tara invited. I remember now. What did you think?”

I looked at the portion of window I’d just cleaned from a different angle, which, as I’d feared, exposed the fact that it was now streaky as hell. I tried again. “Ah . . . well. She’s, ahhh . . . pretty graphic.”

“I’m guessing you don’t mean that she writes about engravings, etchings, or woodcuts.”

“I’m gonna start calling you Merriam. No, that’s not what I meant.”

“You do remember that I write romance?”

My second attempt at the window was better, but every streak shows from the inside. I tried again. “Remarkably, that hasn’t escaped my notice. But, if you want an analogy for the comparison, skip the foreplay and go straight to business.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“You might be surprised,” I muttered.

“I didn’t catch that!”

“I didn’t drop it,” I replied more audibly. “Anyhow . . . . Graphic though she is, in the sense of explicit, she’s actually damned good at it.”

“You don’t say.”

“I did say. Just now. I said it.”

“Does that explain your extreme attentiveness to my insomnia this morning?”

“Just trying to be helpful. I couldn’t think of another way to get you back to sleep.”

“You could have talked to me about C++.”

“I doubt that would have worked.”

“Because you’re so fascinating?”

“That’s me. Rosie the Riveting. You know, I could spill this bucket on you.”

“And I could tip you off the ladder. . . . Anyhow. You were saying? Rowena?”

“Her plots are well-designed to get you from one sex scene to the next, and she knows how to steam up a room!”

“Do her characters have a gender preference for their partners?”

“Plenty of both, and it’s not always a matter of preference, if you know what I mean. But the protagonist is invariably a transwoman. I’d say the lust interests are more likely to be male – I’ve never seen such detailed descriptions of schlongs, by the way. But sex with cis women probably happens at least 40 percent of the time.”

“Sounds like a fun read!”

* * * * *

Three weeks before our scheduled writers’ weekend we got the pen name of our last guest, Sharon Sheralyke. It was probably just coincidence that three out of the four had names that were deliberately clever. Looking at the list of authors on BC, it did not appear to be the norm.

Ms. Sheralkye’s corpus of work was shorter than the other authors – a couple longer works that were published in serial form on BC, and a whole bunch of short stories. She didn’t seem to specialize in any particular genre. One of her longer pieces was a western; she also wrote SciFi, magic, a thriller and something in the superhero line, as well as a bunch of “real world” solos that took no more than ten or fifteen minutes to read. I got through it all in a couple of nights.

Sara asked for my debrief the following evening as I was making dinner.

“Another pretty strong writer in the technical sense. Her dialogue could use some tightening up, but she writes a good scene. And her characters are very believable. But . . . her protagonists all seem to be pretty much the same person in different settings.”

“Mary Sue/Gary Stu?”

I looked up from chopping peppers. “You planning to translate that, or do I need to talk to your AI friend?”

“Leave Alexa out of this.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” I went back to chopping.

She stuck her tongue out at me. “It’s writers’ shorthand. When authors insert themselves into their main characters too much, they all seem very alike. And they’re all really wonderful, and everyone likes them. Except for the bad guys. You know someone is a bad guy, because they don’t care for Mary Sue. Or Gary Stu, if it’s a guy.”

“Or, in the case of trans characters, both. . . . Yeah. Could be that. I mean, if you take Constance, the Cowboy-turned-Femme Fatale Saloon Keeper and put her on the Space Cruiser Inspiration, she’d be at least a stunt double for Lieutenant Tabitha Long.”

“Hmm. Well . . . what do you think of Constance and Tabitha?”

“Great characters. Or, really, character. I like her. Smart. Caring. Desirable, but that goes without saying. There aren’t that many writers creating ugly protagonists.”

“Our sales would plummet.”

“Can’t have that – I want you to keep making more than me, for ever and ever. Makes me feel like a kept woman!”

“I’ll work on it. It’s a good thing you’re no longer useless in the kitchen. Kept women have to earn their kept!”

“I thought I was just supposed to be highly decorative and capable of entertaining visitors with witty banter?”

“Well then, you’re an All Star – you’re batting 500!”
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CHAPTER TWO
May 26, 2023

Somehow, no matter how often we do these weekends, Sara finds herself mowing the lawn at the last minute. She loves that riding mower almost as much as she loves her snowmobile. Go figure.

As a result, and very much as usual, she was inside getting showered and cleaned up when the first of our guests arrived for the writers’ weekend. A nondescript rental car drove past the end of the driveway, slowed, reversed, and made its tentative way up the gravel. I gave a friendly wave from the front porch so the driver would know she was in the right place, then came down to meet her once she parked.

The woman who emerged was probably in her thirties, if only just. Short and petite. Unlike most transwomen, she deliberately wore her hair short, but it just made her look like Demi Moore back in the day. She was wearing form-fitting blue jeans and a sleeveless collared shirt, and none of that made her look less feminine either.

I smiled warmly and extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Rosie, Sara’s assistant.”

The woman had a nice smile, though it was a bit guarded. “Hi, Rosie. We’ve talked on the phone. I’m Chris.” Her handshake was delicate.

“Chris Alys!”

“Well . . . it’s Chris Sherman, really. But that didn’t seem like a very exciting name for a writer.” She popped her trunk and grabbed a carry-on bag and a garment bag.

“Here, let me help you with that,” I said, relieving her of the garment bag. “Come on in and let me get you settled.”

“Thank you!” Her eyes wandered as we walked to the house, taking it all in. “What an amazing place! You two live here all by yourselves . . . in the middle of the woods?”

“I’m guessing you’re a city girl?”

“Not originally, but for the past ten years. Soon as I could. It can be a scary place, I guess, but for me, it’s home. I hope I’ll be able to sleep without hearing the traffic and the el train!”

I ushered her through the front door, saying, “It’s pretty quiet at night, that’s for sure – though we can probably pipe some background city noises into your room at night if you need them to sleep. You know, gunshots, breaking glass, sirens and such.”

She laughed, light and playful. “It’s not that bad!” As soon as she got a look at the main living area, she stopped. “Oh. My. God. That’s . . . wow. I think that living room/dining room space is larger than my whole apartment!”

“But you can get take-out at 2:00 a.m.”

“Yeah, there’s that. I’m a sucker for pre-dawn Pad Thai.”

I showed her to her bedroom and gave her the standard introductory spiel, slightly modified. “Please feel free to wear any of the clothes in the closet or the drawers. They've all been cleaned and are for our guest's use. Just put anything you've used in the hamper so we can launder it for the next guest.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you aren’t going to want to use any of our breast forms or wigs, but they are available for your use. So if you want to feel extra stacked, or fancy being a long-haired blonde for the weekend, feel free. You can use any of the makeup at the table, but please take the open items with you.

"There are four of you for the weekend and we cook and socialize as a group. Tonight we have an evening of conversation and games planned; tomorrow we have a hairdresser and a makeup specialist available.

“We try to respect our guest's privacy, and you can use any name you want for the weekend. I know that you all know each other online – and that you and Tara, at least, have met in person. But not everyone may be ‘out’ to the same degree, so everyone needs to respect each others’ privacy. Naturally if anyone volunteers any details we would hope all you will keep them to yourselves.”

“Thank you,” she said warmly. “I don’t know how much, if any, of this I’ll use, but I love the fact that it’s here. I really appreciate you and Sara opening your home to us! So, what’s up next, and when?”

“You’re the first to arrive; I expect it’ll take a few hours before everyone’s here. So the next couple hours are all yours. You can rest up, or read a book – Sara’s library is impressive, as you might guess! If you’re feeling energetic, you can take a walk – the trails are extensive and really pretty. We’ll all meet for dinner at six. Because all of you have been traveling, this is one meal you don’t need to help prepare.”

“I may take a bit of a nap, if that’s okay. Dress code for dinner?”

“Casual tonight. Sara and I tend to favor skirts and fun tops. Nothing fancy, but traditionally feminine. Seems to put our guests at ease. But if you’re a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of gal, go for it!”

“Thanks, Rosie.” Her smile was tentative, but hopeful. “I think I’m going to love it here.”

“We can’t ask for more than that. I’ll get out of your really lovely natural hair for now, and see you soon!”

I heard Sara talking with someone out front and surmised that another guest had arrived. A moment later, she came through the front door with someone with a pretty androgynous look, probably mid-thirties at a guess. Medium height, medium-length medium brown hair, unremarkable eyes.

Sara made introductions. “Avery, this is Rosie, who is both my business partner and my wife; Rosie, this is Avery.”

I smiled and shook her hand; we were both pretty gentle about it. “Welcome, Avery! I’m really Sara’s assistant, so don’t let that ‘business partner’ shtick fool you!”

“It’s good to meet you,” Avery replied. Medium voice, too.

“Let me show you your room and get you settled,” Sara said to Avery. To me, she said, “Keep an eye out, would you?”

“Absolutely.” I poured myself some unsweetened iced tea and went out to the front porch. We’d just put up the mesh hanging chair, so I sat and watched the clouds go by, sipping my drink and enjoying the quiet time. My brain, typically hyperactive, seized on a programming issue that was giving me a challenge at work.

It was probably close to an hour later when our next guest arrived. I had kind of gone into a fugue state contemplating my work problem, so it took a moment to reorient myself to the sidereal universe. I rose, stretched, and walked over to the muddy SUV that just finished parking.

The driver who emerged was a tall man, probably 6’2” or so, thin but for a slight paunch. Clean-shaven, so this wasn’t Tara Watt unless he’d shaved. His hair was short and professional, the kind of pale, pale blonde that fades almost imperceptibly into equally pale silver. It had already done the preponderance of its fading.

He looked like a scared rabbit. “Umm . . . Hi. I’m looking for Sara McClure’s house? I think I might be lost.”

“You once were lost, but now you’re found,” I assured him. “I’m Rosie. I work for Sara.” And work, and work, and work! “Welcome!” I put on my brightest smile.

My normal winning manner wasn’t working; he still looked skittish. “Oh! Ah . . . that’s great. I exchanged emails with ‘Rochelle’ . . . .”

“Same chica. I only use ‘Rochelle’ for correspondence. ‘Rosie’s’ a little more wash-and-wear.”

He still stood there, looking lost and frightened. This one's going to take work. I put a hand lightly on his forearm. “It’s okay. Really. You are among friends here. You’re safe. And we’re very glad to have you.”

That seemed to penetrate, finally. He didn’t say anything, but he did look less likely to run off into the woods.

It wasn’t my first rodeo, and I knew what I was dealing with. The poor guy was in the closet – probably so deep in the closet that he ought to smell like moth balls. Keeping my voice soft, I said, “It’s just us for the weekend – me and Sara, and your friends from BigCloset. What would you like us to call you?”

He closed his eyes, as if in pain. When he opened them, I saw the gleam of unshed tears. “Could you . . . could you call me Anna?” It was barely a whisper, filled with fear and hurt and longing.

I took her elbow . . . with her name finally out, I could think of Anna as “her,” and started guiding her gently toward the house. “Of course I can, Anna. All of us will.”

“Oh . . . I should get . . . “ She looked back toward her SUV.

But I knew there would be nothing for her there. “Don’t you worry, Anna. We’ve got everything you need waiting for you. Unless you’ve got medications?”

She shook her head.

I continued guiding her to the house. “Everything you might like to wear . . . inside and out. We’re going to take good care of you, honey.”

She was trembling. As we came inside, she looked around fearfully, and only calmed when she didn’t see other people. I decided not to waste any time, and brought her straight back to her room.

I gave her the same spiel I’d given to Chris, although I took the time to explain that the breast forms had been sterilized and that the padded panty products were available for purchase, since they couldn’t be reused. I showed her the wigs and explained that we had others available. Showed her the cosmetics. Throughout, her expression was a mixture of longing and fear, of desire and frustration.

As I wound down, she finally sat on the bed heavily, like her knees had given way. She looked at me hopelessly. “Rosie . . . this is all like some kind of a dream. But . . . dear God, I don’t know the first thing about any of this! I don’t . . . I can’t . . . God! I should never have come!” She could no longer hold back the tears.

I sat next to her on the bed and put an arm around her. “Anna . . . Anna! I said we’re going to take good care of you, and we will. You don’t know how to make yourself look feminine and pretty? I didn’t either, when I first came here. But I’m damned good now – as I very much hope you’ll agree! – and I’m going to give you all the help you need!”

“You’re trans? Really?”

I nodded emphatically.

“Okay, but . . . you’re beautiful, and I’m . . . .” She made a hopeless gesture. “I’m this.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve had tougher challenges, believe me. Believe me! Now, here’s what I want you to do. I’m going to draw a bubble bath for you. I want you to soak for at least forty-five minutes, and I’m going to put a moisturizing mask on you while you’re soaking. When you’re finished, I want you to get into one of the long nightgowns in the second drawer of the dresser over there, then wrap yourself in the blue dressing gown that’s hanging on the hook in the bathroom. Okay? Once you’ve done all that, I’ll be back to get you ready.”

Anna looked dubious, but I managed to get the bath drawn and get her set with the moisturizing mask. Once I was certain she would actually get into the water, I left to find Sara.

She was in the kitchen, fussing with everything that was going to go into this evening’s stir-fry. She took one look at my expression and said, “High maintenance?”

“Yeah . . . clearly very much in the closet. I’ll need to do a lot of hand-holding. She’d like to be called ‘Anna.’”

Sara cocked an ear and said, “Hey, be useful and do some chop-chop, would you? I think I hear Tara.” She took off her apron, handed it to me, and headed for the door.

Two minutes later, I heard the sound of Sara’s voice, followed immediately by a laugh so round and joyous and full of mirth that I couldn’t help but smile myself. A man bounded into the house, a bemused Sara following in his wake. Late forties, a barrel chest and red beard that would make Hägar the Horrible proud, and a slightly simian face reminiscent of late-stage Ernest Borgnine.

“There she is! The fabled Dulcinea!” He bounced over to me and pulled me into a fierce hug.

I barely had time to drop the cleaver on the cutting board.

“You aren’t pregnant, are you, my dear?” he inquired with an infectious smile.

“Uh . . . I’m sure I’d have noticed.”

He took in my bare feet, my apron, my location and occupation prior to being swept off my feet, and said, “Well, two out of three! You can’t ask for more than that!” He released his hug but snatched both my hands. Switching gears and speaking with sudden softness, he said, “Truly, Rosie. Sara couldn’t stop talking about you, and I’ve been dying to meet you. Thanks for sharing your lovely home.”

I pressed his hands, a bit overwhelmed by it all. “I’m delighted you came. What would you like to be called?”

“Oh, call me ‘Tara’ by all means. You could call me ‘Bob,’ but this is supposed to be a fun weekend!” He . . . she? . . . released my hands, turned to my bemused bride and said, “Now come on, Sara! Show me that magic, overstuffed wardrobe you promised me! I want to drop the pants and wear something with some swish in it!”

Laughing, they took off down the hallway.

“Well, then,” I said softly in the general direction of the departing duo. “That’ll shake things up!”

By the time Sara wandered back out, all the chopping was done and I’d started the rice. “I can see why you decided this weekend would be fun,” I told her.

“She’s a hoot, isn’t she?”

“You’re going with ‘she?’”

She poured herself some water, which gave her time to consider my question. “Yeeeees. Ask Tara, and she’ll laugh and say she’s just a guy in a gown. Won’t shave, won’t try . . . well, you know. Says it’s no big deal, just an old-fashioned cross-dresser. . . . But, she wants to be called ‘Tara,’ and I can’t help thinking . . . .” She lapsed into silence.

I tried finishing her thought. “That the laugh and the beard and all the rest are just her way of coping?”

“Maybe not ‘just’ a way of coping. But . . . yeah. Maybe that’s part of it.”

“Well, far be it from me to mess with a well-functioning coping mechanism!”

“Right you are,” she said, smiling. “But let’s go with female pronouns, just the same.”

I gave a mock salute. “Roger.”

“Pleased to meet you, Roger. I’m Sara.”

“Among other things. Listen, speaking of coping, I’d best get back to Sharon-Anna. It’s going to take some time to get her ready.”

Sara’s musical laugh was low and confidential. “Anna’s not Sharon Sheralyke. That’s Avery’s pen name.”

“Avery? Oh! I just assumed . . . .” Then it hit me. “No way!”

“Oh, yes! Very much ‘way’!”

“Anna is Rowena?”

“The ‘Gräfin of Gräphic?’ Yup!”

“Wow! I would never have guessed! She’s so shy!”

“Authors are sneaky that way.”

“The things you tell me,” I said dryly. “Well, anyhow . . . I’d best get back to Gräfin Anna. I’m confident that Chris won’t need any help.”

“Tara will be fine, too,” she replied. “And I’ll check on Avery when the rice is done.”

“Great.” I gave her a peck, returned her apron, and went down the hall.

A soft knock on the door got no response, so I eased it open and peaked inside. Anna was standing by the window looking out, wearing a robins’ egg blue robe over a creamy white full-length nightie. So as not to startle her, I said softly, “Hey, Anna – safe to come in?”

She turned slowly. “I . . . .” She thought better of whatever it was she had been about to say. “Yes. Please come in.” Her voice, interestingly, sounded softer.

I came, sat on the bed, and patted the spot beside me. “Sit and chat, girlfriend.”

She gave a fleeting smile at the endearment, then moved to join me.

“How are you feeling?”

She shrugged. “Can I even describe it? I feel foolish – I know how I look.” Before I could say anything, she reached out a tentative hand to stop me. “And I feel wonderful, because I’m here wearing a silky nightie, and you’re here with me, and you aren’t laughing. You can’t know . . . I mean, maybe you can. Anyway – Rosie, no-one’s ever seen me like this in real life. No one who knows my legal name even knows I’m trans. At least, I think I’m trans. For sure, I’ve always wanted to be female . . . .”

I reached over and held her hand, sensing that she was just collecting her thoughts.

She gave my hand a grateful squeeze and took a breath. “And I’m scared. Terrified.” She looked at me, her smile crooked. “Is that enough to work with?”

“Enough to work on, I should think,” I responded. “Let’s start with the last piece. What are you afraid of?”

She dropped her eyes, looking at the hand I had captured. “Have you seen my stuff on BC?”

“Rowena Redmond? I certainly have!” She was looking down, so I made sure she could hear my smile. “You’re not worried that this crowd isn’t going to accept you because of your stories, are you?”

That got a full smile and a head shake. “No, no. Tara, Chris, even Sharon – they all know the kinds of stories I write. When I first started writing on BC, Tara kind of took me under her wing. Gave me pointers and lots of encouragement, even though my stories are about as different from hers as you can get. I’ve tried to do the same for Sharon since she came on two years ago. And Chris and I always read each others’ stuff.”

“Then . . . what is it?”

She got up suddenly, letting go of my hand, and started pacing nervously. “Did you see my profile picture?”

“The blonde bombshell? Oh, yeah!”

“That’s the only image anyone on BC has ever seen. That’s what Rowena Redmond looks like. She’s not . . . .” She stopped in front of the full-length mirror and gestured at the image with disgust. “Old, freakishly tall, and male.”

I stayed seated rather than trying to keep up with her pacing. “I saw lots of profile pics on BC; it was clear most of them weren’t the authors. I’m sure no-one here expects you to look like yours.”

She shook her head. “No; these are my peeps. They know I’m pushing sixty and they know I’ve never transitioned. So they know I can’t look like my pic. But . . . don’t you see? They don’t actually know what I do look like. When they think of Rowena, that’s the only image they’ve got. And that’s the image I want them to have. That’s what I should look like! If I go out there now, they’ll never see me like that again. When they think of me, from here on out, they’ll just see this old guy in drag. It’ll never be the same.”

“What won’t be the same?”

“I’ve been talking – well, communicating! – with Tara and Chris for seven or eight years. With Sharon, more like two. They know who I am in here.” She pointed to her heart. “That’s all they know. They communicate with me as women, to a woman. We’ve shared things . . . deep things. Personal things. Will they still see me? When they know that I’m like this?”

I rose and got in front of her, forcing her to stop. I took both of her hands in mine and looked up into her troubled eyes. “I can tell you now that with my help, you will look like a woman when you walk out there. A tall woman, sure, but I know cis women your height. You won’t look like your profile pic; neither of us are 25 any more. But I think there’s something that’s more important.”

“What?”

“No one in your ‘real’ life sees the woman inside. No one on BC sees you in the flesh. Here’s a chance – maybe one-in-a-lifetime – to just be you. Not hiding one thing or the other. I don’t think you’re likely to find a better, more accepting group. Isn’t that worth some risk?”

That made her pause. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“Think what a relief it was, when you saw that I wasn’t laughing at you. What will it mean to you, to have your friends welcome you?”

It was a good half minute before she replied, her voice a whisper. “Do you really think . . . I can at least manage to look like a woman?”

I want to spend five minutes shouting “Scooooooooooooore!” like a World Cup announcer on Telemundo. Instead, I smiled – big, relieved, and genuine – and said, “Oh, honey! You just wait and see!”

You don’t need the blow-by-blow. Once she committed to try, once she decided the risk was worthwhile, she was able to simply enjoy the experience of being pampered and treated to feminine underwear, clothes and make-up. She was adorable when she picked out a wig, finding one with full, blonde hair, close to her (original) natural color. We went with a long-sleeved top and a loose, flowing micro-pleated cotton skirt. She was not in a position to shave her arms or legs, but between her light (and not very plentiful) body hair, it was unnoticeable under medium-colored hose.

I finally let her look in the mirror. She didn’t squeal with joy, or look delirious, or all of those other great things that happen in . . . well, in Rowena’s stories, among others. But she looked herself over carefully, front, profile, and an over-the-shoulder look at her backside. Her smile was thoughtful and tentative, but she finally nodded and said, “Okay.”

She looked at me and her smile softened. “You did an amazing job, given what you had to work with. I’m no bombshell . . . but you’re right. I look okay. In good light at least, I’d pass for a woman. It’ll do.”

“So, you owe me,” I replied. “And I’m going to collect right now. When you go out there, you’re going to meet your friends – Tara and Chris and Sharon, though Sharon goes by Avery. And I want you to remember, before you step out the door, that they might be feeling just as nervous as you are. Maybe for the same reason. Maybe for different ones. I want you to think, now, before you walk out there, how you can reassure your friends that you still see them. Okay?”

The look I got this time was priceless. “I am so sorry, Rosie! I’ve been so wrapped up in my own drama! I . . . .”

Whatever she’d been about to say was interrupted by a tentative tap on the door. Sara poked her head in and said, “Dinner in ten, Rosie.” She looked at Anna and smiled. “You certainly look ready!” She let herself in and took Anna’s hand in both of hers. “Anna, I’m Sara. Thank you so much for coming!”

Anna had frozen slightly when Sara entered, but Sara’s warmth had its usual effect. She visibly relaxed. Returning Sara’s smile, she replied, “Thank you – both of you! – for inviting me. I’m sorry if I’ve been so much trouble.”

“You’ve been great, and it’s been a pleasure helping you,” I said firmly. “But now, I think it’s time to meet your friends.”

She took a steadying breath. “Okay. Ready or not!”

“You’ll be fine,” Sara promised. “Really.” Looking at me, she said, “You’ve got a couple minutes to change.”

“I will, but I’ll come with Anna for the ice breaking.”

Anna gave me a grateful look. “Thank-you! For everything.”

Tara, Chris and Avery were standing around the island in the kitchen with wine glasses in their hands. As soon as we emerged, Tara put her glass down, spread her arms wide, and positively squealed, “Roweeeeeena!” She bounded over and gave Anna a huge hug.

Anna, to her credit, looked nothing but overjoyed at being jumped by a burly, red-bearded person in a dress that could reasonably be described as “swishy.” Nor, interestingly, did Anna have any doubt who had grabbed her. “Tara! Oh, my God! I finally get to give you a hug!”

Tara released her, beaming, and dragged her to the island. I was relieved to see that both Chris and Avery looked delighted as well. Both gave greetings that were every bit as warm as Tara’s, if perhaps less bone-crushingly exuberant.

I looked at Sara, who gave me a smile and a wink and made a shoo-ing motion with both hands. All was well.

I popped back into our bedroom and changed from the capris and shirt I had been wearing. I had noticed that none of our guests were wearing pants of any sort; Chris was wearing a short, stretchy black skirt with a loose top that ended just inches above the skirt’s hemline, and Avery had chosen a denim skirt and a gauzy white shirt over a camisole. So I dressed to fit in, selecting a loose, calf-length cotton print skirt and a tight-fitting sleeveless knit top.

The discussion was already lively by the time I got back, and they were all gathered around the island watching Sara do her magic with the stir-fry. I checked the table to make sure everything was where it needed to be, then lit some candles and dimmed the lights.

“Aaaaand, we’re done!” Sara looked pleased, as she should. The stir-fry smelled heavenly. Sara tipped the wok and scooped the contents into a large ceramic serving bowl we’d picked up on a trip through Burlington, and I brought it to the table.

After everyone was seated, Sara tapped her knife against her wine glass, then said, “First, thank you for coming. I’m really excited to get to meet all of you, and I hope you enjoy the weekend as much as I’m sure I will. Second, let me give you a toast.” She raised her glass and said, “To old friends and new adventures!”

I was seated at one end of the table, with Sara at the other. Interestingly, Sara had seated everyone so that she was between the two guests I had welcomed, and I was between Avery and Tara.

They picked up a conversation they had been having just before we’d paused to get everything served. Tara asked Avery, “So . . . six months in on HRT? What do you think?”

“I guess I didn’t know what to expect. I mean, I know what I was hoping for, obviously.” Avery grinned. “Perfect skin, gorgeous hair, and an instant hourglass figure! I knew that was all fantasy, but I really didn’t know . . . . Well, anyway. My emotions have been a bit more of a rollercoaster, for sure. I definitely see improvement with my skin, and maybe a bit of improvement with my shape. Not much yet, though.”

“You look terrific,” I told her, and it was true. She had looked fairly androgynous when she arrived, but she’d done a nice job with a face-framing hairstyle and subtle but very well-done make-up. She’d almost certainly made use of the padding we made available, both top and bottom. Nuttin’ wrong with that!!!

Tara added in her own praise. “You do, Honey! That’s got to help with the day-to-day as well?”

Avery smiled shyly at the words of praise. “Work’s been okay. We’ve had unisex bathrooms for a long time in my office, so that source of friction isn’t there. Some people are still a bit uncomfortable, but my immediate supervisor has been great. He hasn’t treated me any different than he did before. We weren’t close, and we aren’t now, but he’s one hundred percent professional and focused on getting the work done. I appreciate that.”

“Are you accepted by the women in the office?” I asked.

“It’s a mixed bag. Some yes, some no. And there aren’t any patterns. Some of the secretaries have been really nice, some not; some other architects have been warm, some cold. It’s . . . well. People, right?”

Tara said, “I really admire you for transitioning in place, if you know what I mean. It must be harder, with people who already have established relationships with the ‘old’ you, and are trying to figure out how to relate to the ‘new’ you.”

“Not much choice,” Avery said. “It’s all about the insurance. Our firm’s got a good plan and they’re covering my treatment at 80 percent. There’s no way I could have swung it otherwise.”

Chris, sitting on Tara’s other side, chimed in. “Same for me, Tara, as you know. I had no choice but to stick it out at my old company, even though my boss was a stone-cold bitch about the whole thing. I just gritted my teeth for close to three years and got through it. After I was fully recovered from my last surgery, I said ‘hasta la vista!’ and was out of there like a shot.”

“Talk about golden hand-cuffs,” I said.

Anna smiled evilly. “Hand-cuffs? Hmmm. Sounds kinky!”

Tara guffawed loudly. “Gurl, your mind is never far from the gutter, is it?”

I was delighted to see that Anna wasn’t remotely distressed about the ribbing. Her grin just got wider. “Nope! Admit it – you read every single salacious word!”

“Oh, I do! I do! And, unlike the timid, I leave not only kudos, but comments with my name on them, too!”

“You all do,” Anna said, suddenly serious. “And I want you to know, I love you for it.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Is leaving comments a big deal or something?”

Tara raised both hands imploringly. “No! Please, no! Let’s not talk about this crazy subject – at least not on our first night!” She was clearly kidding – and also, not kidding.

Recognizing the latter, I chose to laugh and say, “I withdraw my question! Uncle! Or ‘aunt,’ or whatever!”

Tara talked a bit about her work, which was in construction. After she was done with one of her crazy tales – the process of putting up buildings is a lot more humorous than I ever thought – I shook my head and said, “You know, some people might say, ‘Wow! A foreman at a construction site is trans!’ But me . . . I say, ‘wow! A foreman at a construction site devours early twentieth century murder mysteries!’”

Tara smiled broadly. “Yup! People are just so much more interesting than their jobs. All the time, people pigeon-hole other folks on the basis of education, or job status, or religion, or whatever, and just miss all the fun parts!”

Sara leaned back. “Tell me about it – that one’s a software engineer, if you can believe it.” She pointed her wine glass at me.

“Really! I never would have guessed that!” Anna beamed at me, which I thought was strange until she added, “Now I don’t feel so bad: Respected forensic accountant by day; writer of erotic trans fiction by night!”

“Forensic accounting?” Anna was full of surprises.

“Yep. About as far from who I am inside as you can get . . . but it’s a living, and I’m good at it. I’m able to provide for my family, put the kids through college, pay for my daughter’s crazy-ass destination wedding . . . . You know. Life.”

Tara’s smile was soft. “Yeah. I know. . . . But, I can at least talk to my wife about what's inside. It made it a lot easier than you’ve had it, Anna.”

Anna shrugged, sadly. “It is what it is.” Deliberately changing the subject, she turned to Avery and said, “Hey . . . I wanted to ask you – where did you come up with the idea for your latest series? Why the 17th Century, and why Venice?”

Avery’s eyes were filled with compassion for her older friend, but she helped the only way she could. “Oh, the usual. I was watching some James Bond movie where they were having a high-speed boat chase through the canals of Venice, and I thought, ‘huh! Venice!’ Then I started doing a little research, and found that things were pretty interesting there back in the day. A lot of gender-bending around all of the old carnival traditions . . . . Anyhow, next thing you know . . . .”

“You’re off to the races,” Tara finished. “I love your versatility. I tend to stick with what I know.”

“You know a lot of people who’ve been murdered?” Chris asked innocently.

“Not to mention, minor British nobles,” Anna added.

“Oh, yes,” Tara said blithely. “Entire villages just littered with the bodies of minor nobility. . . . But seriously, it’s hard to explain what an outlet it is for me. I mean, Sayers’ characters are witty and charming. Peter Whimsy is urbane, civilized, clever . . . . I don’t get to live in that world, except when I’m writing. My company runs on blunt, Anglo-Saxon words of two syllables or less. Usually less!”

Chris nodded, and said softly, “We don’t get to live in a world where people like us are accepted, either. So I write about it. I imagine it. I write stories full of love and acceptance . . . even admiration . . . I guess it’s my candle against the darkness.”

Tara covered Chris’ hand with her own. “And thank God you do, honey. I know a lot of people in our community find comfort in your stories.”

Avery said, “I know I have, Chris. All the time. . . . I guess maybe I haven’t found my voice, that way. I’m just skipping along from rock to rock, writing about whatever strikes my fancy.”

Anna shook her head. “I disagree – as you know! I think your voice is in writing characters, so the genre’s less important.”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” Avery responded with a smile. “I’m actually concerned that I might be writing the same characters.”

“Well, your protagonists are all strong, principled people, but I wouldn’t say they were the same,” Tara countered.

Anna agreed. “Right . . . I mean, you might as well say all of my protagonists are the same, just because they are all – let’s be honest here! – smokin’ hot, and more than a bit oversexed.”

“They don’t all start out that way,” Chris objected.

“But they all get there!” Tara cackled.

They got into the weeds on the issue, with verve and good humor, and the discussion carried over until everyone was done eating. Apparently, I was the only person at the table who’d never heard of Mary Sue and Gary Stu. I learned a lot about them.

After dinner we played Apples to Apples, which Sara and I like as an ice-breaker since you win by guessing what someone else will associate with a word. This group didn’t need the ice broken – not after they got comfortable around each other's skins – but the game was an even bigger hit precisely because the four of them knew each other already and selected potential matches based on what they knew.

“Alright,” Anna said when it was her turn. “Do I have everyone’s cards?” Seeing nods all around, she said, “As a reminder, the Green Card is ‘Exciting,’ defined as ‘thrilling, breathtaking . . . arousing.’” Her voice lingered on the last word and she licked her lips. “Your suggestions are . . . . ‘High School Reunions’ – okay. Could be, I guess. ‘Leather.’ Oooh!!! Naughty, naughty! ‘The YMCA!’ Oh, now! Just because somebody read The Wanderer!! ‘Firefighters.’ You’re a devil, Tara Watt! I know you put that one in there! And . . . agggggh!!!” She dissolved into uproarious laughter. “Sorry, Tara!” she gasped. “We have a winner! ‘Power tools!’”

The room erupted and Chris waved her hand gleefully. “Mine, mine! I win that one!”

“Damn,” Tara said, laughing. “I thought I had that one in the bag!”

“Sometimes, fate gives you just the right card,” Chris replied. She brought her lips together and made a noise like a purring cat.

Or a vibrator, I suppose.

There was lots of raunchy good humor, especially directed toward Anna, who thought it was hysterical. There were plenty of sweet moments, too, though a rare somber moment occurred when Chris actually pulled “sweet” as the subject card. One of the suggested matches was “my dreams;” Chris briefly grimaced and said, “no,” putting that card down and turning to the next. Her selection for the match, appropriately, was “puppies.”

After the game, I served chocolates and a night-cap. I sent Sara off to bed with the promise that I’d join her shortly, and the girls helped me do a quick clean-up of the dishes and the kitchen. There were hugs all around, and we all called it a night.

Sara was in bed, but still awake. “What do you think?” she asked as I changed into my nightgown.

I visibly pondered as I dropped my dirties in the hamper, then slid in next to her. “I think . . . “ I paused to nibble on her earlobe. “ . . . that Java is preferable to C++.”

“I could throw things at you.”

“Decent chance I could catch them. What did you think?”

“Good people. Good women. Even Tara, who tries to pretend she isn’t.”

“Or maybe, tries to make us think she doesn’t think she’s a woman.”

She crossed her eyes, then refocused on me. “Okay, that sentence – really horribly constructed as it was – might actually make sense. And you know what that means.”

“That you married well?”

“No, silly. It means I need to sleep. Next thing you know, you’ll be babbling about Moka Java or some such and it’ll make sense to me.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

“Of course I do. I’m a professional.”

“Good night, Sara.”

“Good night, Rosie.” She rolled above me and gave me a long, lingering, kiss – the kind I feel from my curls to my cuticles. “Thank you for everything you did for this weekend. Especially for calming Anna down. I like these women.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

* * * * *

I’m almost always a sound sleeper, but something caused me to wake up around 1:30. I lay in bed, listening for a repeat of whatever noise had disturbed me. Nothing.

I tried to go back to sleep, but my mind stubbornly refused to cooperate. Finally I gave up, slipped out of bed, put on a dressing gown and slippers, and went out into the main room.

There was a figure standing by the windows looking out, her back to me. She was completely back-lit, so all I could see was a shadow. But only one of our guests was that petite.

I walked toward her, being careful to make just enough noise that she would know I was coming. As I got closer, I could see that her hands were tightly clenched in fists, and her entire stance seemed tense. When I was maybe eight feet away, I stopped, and said softly, “Chris?”

I could almost see the effort it took her to relax the tension in her shoulders; to unball her fists. When she was ready, she turned to face me. “Rosie.” It came out quietly, a choked and distressed sound.

I closed the distance and wrapped my arms around her. For an instant she stiffened, but she immediately began to relax. Again, it was clearly an effort of will. Slowly, hesitantly, she brought her arms up and lay her palms on my back.

After five minutes, I brought a hand up and began to stroke her fine, dark hair. She relaxed further. I felt the dampness of her tears through the thin fabric of my dressing gown. Still, I didn’t say anything. I thought of her stories. Not the beautiful ones, but the others. The two I hadn’t been able to get out of my head. What did they do to you, child?

We must have stood like that for ten minutes, communicating without words. As close as we were, I could feel her breathing return to normal, the pounding of her heart slow. The tears stopped.

When her body was fully her own again, she tightened her arms to give me a grateful hug, holding it for maybe half a minute before she released and stepped back.

I kept my hands loose on her shoulders. “Will you be alright?”

Her smile was touched with heartbreaking sadness. “Somehow, I always am.”

“Would it help to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “I’ve talked it out. With friends. With therapists. But it’ll always be with me.”

“Is there anything – anything at all – we can do to help?”

This time, her smile was warm. “You already have. And I thank you for it. Go back to sleep. I’ll be okay now.”

“I can stay with you.”

“Not forever, you can’t. I’ll need to find my own Rosie! But I’ll be able to sleep now.”

“You sure?”

“Not my first episode, I’m afraid. So I know the drill.”

“Okay, Sweetie. You know where to find me, though.”

She stepped forward, kissed my cheek, and said, “I know.” Then she gave me a final smile and went back to her room, closing the door softly behind her.

I took her place at the window and stared at the stars, bright in the dark hours after the moon had set, clear and cold in an inky sky. Her stories haunted me. The Fist, and The Back of His Hand. All the torments she had endured.

I’m a programmer. A problem-solver. I had used my analytical skills and my logical mind to help lots of our guests over the years. Including my boss, Helene. I had used those same skills, coupled with my perfectionism – my OCD, as Sara sometimes called it – to reprogram my own life and become both a woman and a wife. But none of those skills could help Chris. I had nothing to give her, beyond the human warmth of a hug. And what was that, compared to the pain she held inside?

I felt the tears course down my cheeks, silent, hot, and useless.

To be continued. . . .

SOFTWARE UPDATE
By Emma Anne Tate, continuing a story by Ricky
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CHAPTER THREE
May 27, 2023

When we have company, I curb my normal desire to sleep in. Sara was still up first, but I wasn’t that far behind her. When I was dressed, I followed the sound of low conversation, and found Sara and Avery sitting on the sun porch.

“Good morning,” Sara said. “What had you up at all hours?”

“Just a touch of insomnia.” I gave her a look that said, “later.” “What are you two drinking, and would you like a refill?”

Avery rose. “I’m drinking some of your Darjeeling Tea, but don’t worry about it. I prevailed on Sara to let me get breakfast underway, so I’ll refill my own.”

Sara stood as well. “Avery says breakfast is her specialty.”

“Great! I assume you made a pot?”

“Addict,” Sara replied fondly. “Of course I did.”

I poured myself a cup of coffee and got a refill for Sara, and we chatted with Avery as she nosed around the kitchen seeing what she had to work with.

“I had a boyfriend in college who was a real foodie. Miguel. I learned a lot from him. My folks are more grab-and-go kind of people, so it was an eye-opening experience.”

“From the sounds of it, Miguel’s not in the picture anymore?” Sara put just a hint of a query in her words.

“No.” Avery shook her head, while continuing to hunt through our cupboards. “I had a series of boyfriends – Miguel was early on! – but somehow they never worked out. Peter, my last boyfriend, was the one who helped me realize that I’m not a gay man, like I’d always thought.”

“And Peter wasn’t interested in a hetero transwoman?” I surmised.

“Nope. But he was sweet about it. And honestly, I owe him a lot.” She emerged from the pantry with some cans of black beans, looking very pleased with herself. “Tell me you have tortillas.”

“We have tortillas,” I said automatically.

Sara, who knows me too well, rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. You have no idea.”

“Avery asked me to tell her something, so I did. She didn’t ask if we have tortillas.”

Sara appealed to Avery. “See what I have to live with?”

“I feel your pain!” Avery laughed.

“Humph!” I said. “Well – not that you asked or anything – but we actually do have tortillas. Which I actually do know, ’cuz I did the shopping.”

Avery started rummaging in the fridge. “Anyhow, I’ve avoided romantic entanglements for the past couple years while I sorted myself out. And I figure, I might be better off getting through transition before I try again.”

“A bit lonely,” I ventured.

“Yes . . . but it’s actually been good for me. I needed to stop hiding from my problems, or looking to other people to make them better. And besides . . . I found BC. That’s really been a game-changer for me.”

Sara looked intrigued. “Writing? The community?”

“Both, absolutely. I enjoy writing, for sure. And it helps me work out problems. Think through things. I put my characters in situations, and see how they react to them.”

“You make it sound like you're an observer, rather than the prime mover,” I said.

“Sometimes I feel like an observer. Once the characters have gotten developed a bit, they seem to have minds of their own.” She pulled the eggs and a block of cheese out of the fridge and closed the door. “Grater?”

I got the cheese grater from the drawer where it’s kept. “Let me handle this part for you.”

“By all means!” She presented me with the block of cheddar before returning to her point. “Anyway. The writing’s definitely part of it, but the community’s the real draw for me. I knew it, when I started reading the stories other people posted, and exchanging comments and messages. These are my people. I belong. I’d never felt that before. Not anywhere.”

“I definitely saw that,” I responded. “It’s a special place.”

“So, you checked it out?”

“Sara asked me to read all of your stories, so I did.”

“Ha! That explains it! I saw on the author’s tab for my stories that every one of my old posts was getting read. You didn’t leave any comments, though.”

“I don’t have an account. Didn’t seem to need it, for what I was doing.”

“Oh! Yeah, we call that ‘lurking.’ Don’t worry; I did it too after I first ran across the site. I was just enjoying reading TG fiction – it was a real revelation to me. Then one day I had this crazy idea for a story. I’d never done anything like that. So I came up with a pen name, signed up and posted it. And people were so nice to me.”

“Was that Mister Butterfly?” I asked.

“Right!” To Sara, she explained, “It was this quirky solo using Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream idea, except the man dreamed he was a woman, and couldn’t figure out which was real life and which was dream.”

She leaned her palms on the counter and smiled at the memory. “Anyhow, it hadn’t been up for more than ten minutes when I had this lovely comment, welcoming me to BC and raving about my silly story. And it was from Rowena Redmond! I’d read some of her stories when I was lurking. And, I mean . . . damn! I, um. Well. You’ve read them, so you know! They were hot! I couldn’t imagine that she would have been interested in my scribbles . . . but she was.”

Anna chose that moment to wander out, dressed in the blue dressing gown, a towel turbanned on her head. “Do I hear my pen name being taken in vain?”

Avery grinned. “Would I do such a thing, you crazy bitch!”

“You? Never!” She smiled sweetly at Avery, then looked my way. “Rosie, I hate to ask, but despite your best efforts trying to teach me yesterday, I’m lost.”

I was delighted to see that Anna was relaxed, and apparently unconcerned that any of us, including her friend Avery, were seeing her without any makeup or padding. Yesterday had clearly done wonders for her. “Of course! If I can persuade Sara to cut the cheese?”

“Oh, just grate,” Sara growled.

I laughed, came round the island and slipped an arm around Anna’s waist. “Come on, girlfriend, let’s get you ready.”

She giggled. Girlishly.

I helped her with her breast forms, her wig and her makeup, keeping the latter light since Debbi was coming to do a salon for them all later in the morning. While I had her seated at the vanity, I asked, “So . . . was it worth the risk?”

“It was the most amazing evening of my life.” Her voice was hushed, filled with wonder. “I’ve never felt so comfortable. Like I was living in one of Chris’s beautiful stories!”

“Good! Close your eyes, now.” As I applied some eye shadow, I said, “Anna? You knew Tara without any introduction. You must have known what she looks like?”

“In general terms.”

“Okay, you can open your eyes.”

She did, and she gave me a questioning look.

Thinking back to her nerves the prior evening, I said, “You never had any trouble communicating with Tara woman-to-woman, knowing what she looks like. Why were you worried that things would change when everyone saw you?”

“It’s the damned profile pic, Rosie. Chris and Avery use their own pictures. Tara doesn’t have a picture at all. Mine, though . . . mine’s just a fantasy. A wish. I planted that image in people’s minds. Meeting them all, face-to-face . . . I felt like I’d been lying to them.”

I turned her head back and forth, and decided the makeup was good. “Even though you knew that they knew that you don’t look like the picture?”

“I know,” she sighed. “Kind of messed up, isn’t it?”

“It’s been my observation, over the years, that writers think too much.”

She giggled, and the giggle burbled into a full-blown laugh. “Ya think?!”

I managed to get her to sit still long enough to get her wig on. “Okay, girl. Salon this morning, so don’t go too fancy!”

She grew quiet, then said, “Rosie . . . I’m really looking forward to the salon, but . . . I’m going to guess that Tara isn’t. I don’t want her to feel left out.”

“I think I’ve got an idea for Tara,” I assured her. “So enjoy the salon, and don’t be feeling guilty, okay?”

“Okay.” She rose and, to my surprise, gave me a tender and very heart-felt hug. “Thank you.”

I squeezed her back, then left her to get dressed. The shower was going in Chris’ room, and I heard Tara’s voice coming from the kitchen.

Debbi had arrived – we don’t ask her to do her salon magic without feeding her – and it appeared that Avery had decided to make Huevos Rancheros.

“Top o’ the marnin’ to ya, Rosie me darlin’!” Debbi said, rolling out her faux Irish brogue. “And how’r those sweet strawberry curls of yours lookin’?”

“Probably got another three weeks left in them.” I gave her a welcome hug.

“Two, girl. Trust me!”

“Two, then,” I laughed.

She patted my cheek like a mother hen – ironic, since I’ve got a few years on her. “There’s me duck!”

“I’m liking the Irish, Debbi,” Tara chimed in. “But your Spanglish was maybe more in keeping with this morning’s feast.”

“Oh, sí, sí, Señora,” Debbi purred. “You are mucho correct. Mucho wise!” Her accent was actually pretty good, though her grammar was appalling.

“Exhausted your Spanish, haven’t we?” Sara inquired sweetly.

“Nonsense, Doña Sara!”

“I thought buona sera was Italian?” I asked plaintively.

“And anyway, it’s morning,” Sara said reprovingly.

“You know, both of you entrust me with your hair. Bad things could happen . . . . Just sayin’!”

We started getting the table set for breakfast and everyone was zipping around like mosquitoes in proximity to mammals. Anna emerged, wearing a crepe top in a light turquoise and – to my surprise - skinny jeans and sandals. But with the wig, the make-up, the padding, and the bra visible through the light fabric of the top, the overall look was still very feminine. Anna would never be a model, but she looked like she’d made peace with all that.

Chris was the last to emerge. She looked fresh, with no shadow of her hard night. Her short shorts and thin, ribbed top in a stretchy fabric emphasized every one of her hard-won curves. As we made our way to the table for breakfast, she touched my arm lightly and gave me a smile that contained a whole lot more gratitude than I deserved.

Breakfast was superb, and we all badgered Avery for her recipe. “That was one hundred percent Miguel,” she said. “He told me it was his grandmother’s recipe. He might even have been telling the truth, though that was the sort of thing he liked to make up.”

“Well, wherever he got it, it’s absolutely a keeper,” I said enthusiastically. I couldn’t afford to eat anything like that very often, but as a treat – as something to make when we had a houseful of guests – it was fantastic.

As we all got up to clear away the dishes, I pulled Tara aside. “Grab your coffee,” I said. “Something I want to show you.”

I took her out the back entrance, where there was a bit of a porch with what I always thought of as a snuggling swing.

She gave me a friendly smile. “Whatcha got?”

“I wasn’t sure how you felt about the whole salon thing. Obviously, if you want to participate, Debbi can do whatever your heart desires. Or you can hang out while she does her magic on the other girls.”

“I thought I might get my nails done, just for fun, but that’s it. I have the sense you had an alternative to propose, though?”

“It’s a lovely day, and we do have some nice walking trails. I don’t need to get anything done today, so I was wondering if you might like to join me for a ramble.”

Her smile softened. “It’s sweet of you to think of me, Rosie. If you're sure you aren’t needed here, I’d love to take a walk with you.”

“Fantastic! I recommend pants or shorts rather than skirts, but sneakers are fine. That work for you?”

“Absolutely. I’ll get changed up as soon as we’re done clearing breakfast.”

We went back in and found that many hands had already taken care of the mess from breakfast, so both Tara and I went to get changed. I went with a skort, a tank top and a floppy hat, while Tara wore regular guy-style jeans, but with a peasant blouse over a camisole.

“I love to walk,” she said cheerfully, “but I’m not going to miss a moment of my girly time. And, just for the record, my panties look like something Anna would design!”

The kitchen and dining room were already smelling as bad as a munitions factory when we took off, and all of the girls were chit-chatting excitedly. It was good to see Anna looking so relaxed and happy in the midst of all of the fluffing.

Fifteen minutes later, the house was gone from sight, sound and smell. The trail wound through woods and wildflowers, sometimes climbing, sometimes slipping down into a narrow valley. I got Tara talking about her work and her life. She was good company.

“You mentioned last night you were out to your wife,” I said. “I assume not at work?”

“No. I don’t dress outside the house, except when I go to a trans conference. And those are usually both discreet and far out-of-town.”

“Maybe not too discreet, in the era of cell phones, cameras and social media.”

She shrugged. “If it happens, it happens. My life’s simpler the way it is, but I can deal with it if it gets out. Laugh it off, mostly. The advantage of being ugly that people will laugh. No-one’s going to think I was trying to pass!

“Tough humor,” I said.

“It works. Long as Sally’s with me, the rest of the world can hang if it comes to that.”

“Has she always known about your dressing?”

“Yup. She was pretty shocked when I first told her about it, twenty-five odd years ago. Needed a couple weeks to really mull it over. I don’t mean that she wasn’t speaking to me. Just . . . you know. She’d get quiet . . . thoughtful. And maybe ask a question or two, then change the subject. But after a bit, she kind of shrugged her shoulders and said she didn’t care. And, near as I can tell, she doesn’t.”

“You don’t have kids?”

She was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “We had a little boy . . . but he got a crazy childhood disease and died when he was five.”

I stopped. “Oh, my God! Tara, I’m so sorry!”

She looked away and her eyes turned inward, searching for what could only be seen in memory. “He was a sweet boy. Never got old enough to be real trouble, you know? There were times I didn’t think Sally and I would make it, after Ben died. But we did. I learned a lot about love, that year.”

“About love?” I must have sounded stupid.

“I was hurting so bad. Sally too. And we couldn’t heal ourselves, or each other. We were just spiraling down – and apart. That was me, mostly. But I learned that sometimes, love means just being there. Even when that’s all you can do. Being there, facing it together. And that’s what we did. What we still do. Every day.”

“I don’t have that kind of wisdom,” I confessed, thinking about my prior night’s vigil.

She looked at me then, and her voice was gentle. “I hope you never need it.”

We were standing in a clearing filled with tall grasses and purple flowers. I took her hand and led her to the banks of a stream bubbled through the middle of it. “I always stop here; I love to feel the stream flowing over my feet.” I slipped out of my shoes and stepped into the water. It was still, in late May, bracingly cold, but after a moment it felt soothing. “Join me?”

Tara pulled off her shoes and rolled up the bottoms of her jeans, exposing muscular legs covered with bristly red hair.

We waded into the stream and stood together, feeling the pure, clear water flow over our toes, our feet and our ankles. High up in the light air, three raptors were riding thermals, looking for their next meal. After a bit, we adjourned to the banks of the stream, where some kind soul had put a bench. We sat, plunging our toes into the sand.

“Tara,” I said finally, “You describe yourself as a crossdresser, but you just feel so female to me. Like you’re everyone’s mother. Or, sometimes, their crazy aunt!”

She wiggled her toes. “That’s a nice thing to say.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

She smiled crookedly. “I’m absolutely convinced that it’s a nice thing to say! I love women, so I think it’s a compliment.”

“Do you feel like a woman?”

“It’s hard to, when I look like this. But it’s not just the looks. Construction is a man’s world, and I’ve never felt uncomfortable in it. And when I make love to Sally, I don’t feel like I’m a lesbian. So, there’s all that. . . . On the other hand, there’s just always been a part of me that’s been drawn to feminine things. I love the feel of womens’ clothes and always have. They make me feel alive. A little naughty. Sexy.”

She gave me a wink. “And that’s why I call myself a cross-dresser, and part of the reason I just have fun with it.”

I sensed there were things she wasn’t saying, so I tried just a tiny bit of a push. “But . . . ?”

She paused, thinking about my question. “It is more than just the clothes. I love the company of women, the conversations women have among themselves. I love the way that women care . . . the way that they love. All of that – it’s what I feel inside as well. The person I am, when I’m my best self. I know in my heart that my marriage wouldn’t have survived Ben’s death, if I hadn’t learned to love like Sally loves.”

“Your friends back at the house certainly relate to you as a woman.”

That made her smile. “They’ve been such a lifeline for me. All of them. Whenever I start to get caught up in my own pain, they help pull me back. But they’ve also been through a lot. Every one of them. We’re able to be there for each other. And every time I’m there for one of them, my own soul feels lighter.”

“Anna was petrified that none of you would be able to relate to her as a woman, once you saw her in person. But she knew – generally, anyway – what you look like. It never even occurred to her not to treat you like a woman.”

“She’s a softy, that one.” Tara grinned. “For all her characters are sex-crazed vixens!”

“Earthy sorts.”

“Is that what they call it?”

“Well, I don’t know. Who’s they?”

“Good point!” Seizing the mood change, she said, “Well, come on, darlin’, let’s see what other wonders your trails have to offer!”

We put our shoes back on and rambled some more.

As we hiked, Tara got a bit of my story, and Sara’s. “Quite the second courtship you two had,” she said.

“I guess it is a bit unusual that she only wanted me back in her bed once I’d learned to let my inner woman out.”

“‘Unusual.’ That’s a good word.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Was it a relief for you?”

“Nooooo,” I said slowly. “It was a process. Once she convinced me to dress as a woman and try to connect with my feminine side, I wanted to do it right. I’m a programmer; I can’t stand half-assed jobs. So I really worked on learning how to dress properly, do my makeup right. Debbi styled my hair. When I did all that, it really started to click. It felt right. Suddenly, I was much more comfortable presenting as female than as male.”

I smiled, savoring the memory. “I didn’t want to stop. Instead, I wanted to have my own curves. I took hormones, then had a little surgery here and there. Chest. Fanny and hips. Then it was the nose . . . then the voice . . . . One day, I woke up and said, ‘Rosie, what the hell are you waiting for? You wouldn’t have gone this far if you weren’t going to finish it.’ So I did. After talking to Sara, naturally.”

“You never saw your feminine side before then?” She sounded amazed.

“I can’t say I did. Sara saw it even when we were in school, but I was oblivious, I guess.”

“No regrets?”

“None. This is who I am. Who I’m meant to be.”

“It’s just amazing to me, given how certain you are – and thoroughly feminine you are! – that you didn’t have a clue until seven years ago!”

I thought about that for a moment, and a realization struck me hard. Shook me. “God, wasn’t that a blessing. Talk about ignorance being blissful.” My voice was low, and far harsher than I intended.

Tara looked startled. “Rosie?”

“You obviously know Chris’s story.”

Her expression immediately turned bleak. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Right. I was spared all that. I didn’t have a horrible childhood; I wasn’t all that different from anyone else. My parents didn’t reject me, or torment me . . . I had plenty of geeky, nerdy friends . . . I never hated my body, or wanted to end everything.”

I found that I had stopped walking, and the world around me was reduced to a golden blur. I could barely recognize my voice. “I just came up here when I was out of work and at my wit’s end, and a wonderful woman took me by the hand and showed me a better way to be myself!”

Tara was an indistinct figure surrounded by a crystal halo. “Rosie. Don’t feel guilty for being blessed.”

“It’s just so wrong!”

“I know, honey.” She pulled me in and hugged me, and her tears joined mine. My programmer’s mind understood that our tears fixed nothing. Changed nothing.

Did they need to?

* * * * *

Eventually we resumed our hike, and talked about subjects that were less emotionally fraught. We got back to the house a couple hours later, and Debbi insisted that Tara go and wash her smelly feet, then get a mani-pedi. Tara was jovial and funny about it, and professed herself delighted with her nails.

Debbi left after joining us for a light lunch and Sara laid out the programme for the rest of the day. While Saturday afternoons are usually free time on our weekend retreats, this time they were going to talk about writing, seriously and in depth. At 5:00, everyone was going back to their rooms to rest, refresh, and get dolled up for a fancy dress dinner. “And after that, ladies, we’re going to do some dancing!”

The house is open concept, and so I necessarily heard much of their discussion about writing, since I was in the kitchen doing prep work for dinner. I even contributed an opinion here and there, when asked to. And got some gentle ribbing when I confessed to my “lurking.”

Yet the high secrets of their craft I shall not divulge, nor shall I share their thoughts about the frustrations writers face. On their own, beyond the supervision of the ever-vigilant Peredhel, they let down their hair (both natural and artificial). On one or two occasions – brief and inconsequential, to be sure – their comments might be judged to have fallen a bit short of the strictest interpretation of BC’s three golden rules.

All things considered, though, the discussion was both productive and focused on ways to improve their work. Where do you begin a story, and how do you know you picked the wrong place? How do you nail the ending without “happily ever after?” How do you prevent sag in the middle of a story? Pluses and minuses of different narrative styles. How to improve dialogue. While Sara’s expertise received a great deal of deference, she was equally keen with her own questions. The give-and-take was fascinating, and – amazingly – no-one’s ego got bent out of shape.

Dinner was coq-au-vin, and I pretty much had it all under control by 5:00 when, with great reluctance, they wrapped up. Sara spelled me in the kitchen, and I joined Anna in her room to help her get ready.

Courtesy of Debbi, Anna’s make-up was sublime and only needed minor repairs. Her nails had been painted a striking shade of royal blue, and her eye shadow brought out similar tones.

We went through the closet together and she fell in love with a full-length silver A-line gown with sheer, translucent sleeves and a crew neck. The embroidered bodice was tight and required that she use a corset. Naturally, we had a classic whale-bone style; the notion of wearing such a garment made Raunchy Rowena positively squeal with delight. She squealed again when I tightened the laces. Especially the third time.

I’m sure that was from delight, too.

After seeing how the dress looked with her narrowed waist, we swapped out her padded panties for something slightly more substantial, and changed her breast forms from a C cup to a D. The girl is 6’2” in her stocking feet; I knew she could pull it off!

We also decided to change her wig, so her hair was styled in an elaborate up-do that did a nice job accentuating her neck. Fortunately, she had a neck that could withstand scrutiny! A pair of two-inch heels (it’s the principle of the thing!), a couple sparkly rings, and she looked perfect.

She gave me a huge smile and said, “Now run along and get dressed, Rosie. I’ll just practice walking in these beautiful heels!”

“And checking yourself out in the mirror!”

“Yeah,” she said with a goofy grin. “That, too. Now scoot!”

I scooted.

Dinner was lovely. We sparkled – we really did! Sara, trim, fit, and without an ounce of sag on her, can still pull off a slip dress and look stunning. The lady in red. I wore an emerald green body con dress because, after HRT and surgery and diet and exercise, I bloody well can. Tara wore a loose-fitting gold gown with flowing sleeves, which she carried off with a devil-may-care smile. Chris styled in a backless black dress with a pencil skirt, while Avery went with a jewel-tone blue satin dress with a calf-length asymmetrical skirt. Debbi had put soft, honey-gold highlights in Avery's medium brown hair, transforming it into a wavy, curly, sensual banner.

Before we could begin, Tara tapped on her glass. “My turn to propose a toast. To Sara and Rosie, the perfect couple and the perfect hostesses.” Our guests drank our health, then they all rapped utensils on their glasses like drunken guests at a wedding, until Sara, laughing, came round to my side of the table and gave me a kiss that was worth buying tickets to see.

I fluttered my mascara-laden lashes and gave a breathy, “Oh, my!” when I finally came up for air, sounding just like Annie Davoy. At least, I tried to.

The chicken was perfect, the white burgundy paired beautifully and flowed plentifully, and the conversation was merry and bright. Tara led with Peter Whimsy’s wit and charm, Anna parried with sultry asides and double entendre, Chris was a font of kindness and Avery was a character. From the head of the table, her eyes sparkling in the warm candle light, my wife beamed with pleasure.

We cleared the dishes but left them in the kitchen, both to spare our finery and to get to the main event. We had cleared the coffee table from the living room before everyone went off to get changed, so we had ample room for dancing. Sara is, naturally, an excellent dancer and has ensured that I’m competent. Chris was the least experienced of our guests, and Avery and Tara both had somewhat more enthusiasm than skill. Anna, surprisingly, turned out to be accomplished and graceful.

Sara started us with goofy line dances – dances that are popular, in part, because women are much more willing to dance than men and thus want dances that don't require partners. Acting as the “dance motivator,” she demonstrated how the simple elements of a dance like the Macarena can be sexy as hell when they are executed with style, and with that specific intent. The way she placed one hand, then the other, on her ass cheeks would have earned at least an “R” rating from the motion picture academy!

Of course, we all followed along, feet turning, hips swaying, arms beckoning, laughing our hearts out.

After that, we did some swing dances, with Sarah, Anna and I each pairing up with one of our less experienced friends. We did the sort of fast, free-form contemporary dances that everyone knew. We did slow dances, switching up partners. We took breaks and had cake and champagne, then went back and danced some more. It was low lights and music, the swirl of colorful dresses, the percussion of heels and the rustle of skirts. It was perfume and smiles and laughter.

It was marvelous.

At 11:30, Sara stopped the music. “All of you – this has been so much fun! I want to say, like Eliza Doolittle, that I could dance all night and still beg for more. But I’m not twenty any more!”

“Here, here!” said Anna. Tara gave her two thumbs up.

Sara continued, “Here’s my suggestion. Go hang up your finery, get dressed for bed, but put on slippers and a robe, and let’s take care of the kitchen. With the six of us it’ll be quick, and we won’t have to wake up to a mess!”

There are probably few things that are more of a quintessential female bonding experience than taking care of the kitchen together, dressed for bed. Everyone was chatting happily, still excited, still filled with the magic of the evening.

On top of which, we got the kitchen spotless.

After everyone retired, I went down the hall and tapped quietly on Chris’s door. She said something indistinct, so I opened it and poked my head in. “Got a sec?”

She was already in bed, looking as tiny as a child. “Of course! Come on in.” She patted her bed.

I sat and took her hand. “Will you be okay, tonight?”

Her smile was warm. “I’d like to say ‘of course,’ but the truth is, I never know.”

“I wish I knew how to help.”

“You can’t fix this, Rosie. But I’m surrounded by love in this house.”

“And even with that, we can’t keep the darkness out.”

“Of course you can’t; I bring it with me. My shadow. But love helps me deal with it. Does that make sense?”

“Why do I feel like you're the one who’s giving comfort?”

“Because right now, you’re the one who needs it.”

I squeezed her hand and rose. “Rest you gentle, Chris.”

“Good night, Rosie.
.
.
.
.
.

CHAPTER FOUR
May 28, 2023

I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night this time, but the sound of Sara’s shower brought me back from the land of nod. I decided to start the day with a commendable spasm of virtue, so I hopped out of bed, got my dressing gown and slippers on, and went off to make my darling some coffee. I would, of course, make myself some as well, but that was just a coincidental effect. It would have been wasteful, after all, not to take advantage of efficiencies of scale.

I was surprised to find Avery awake – it was just past 6:00. She was, certainly without knowing it, sitting where Sara sits most mornings, a laptop open on a small table in front of her. I heard her muttering to herself and smiled. Her behavior was completely normal in our house, and I knew not to interrupt it.

I went into the kitchen, got the kettle going, and fished out both the ground coffee beans and the tea bags. While the kettle was heating, I put a bag of Darjeeling into a stoneware mug and put coffee into the French Press. Everything was ready in minutes.

I brought the tea to Avery and set it on the table next to her laptop, saying nothing, but touching her shoulder gently. She reached up and pressed my fingers in gratitude, but continued muttering at her screen.

I pushed the plunger on the French Press, poured mugs for Sara and me, then took them back to our bedroom. Sara was standing in the middle of our bedroom wrapped in a delightfully small towel; she beamed when I showed up appropriately encumbered.

I paused to appreciate the show. “Pretty dress!”

“Coffee first. Talky second,” she replied, grinning.

I gave her one of the mugs and got a light kiss in return. When she’d had a couple sips, she said, “Thanks, Sweetie. You’re up early!”

“Turns out not. I’m third at best, which puts me in the middle of the pack.”

“Really? Who else is up?”

“Avery. Looking and sounding suspiciously like my favorite author.”

“I hope you didn’t inadvertently rip her clothes off.”

“That’s something that pretty much has to be done advertently.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It happens in probably sixty percent of your novels!”

“Closer to eighty percent, I’d guess. Still doesn’t mean I’ve ever tried to do it.”

“Then, you should definitely defer to my expertise. I do recall doing it on at least one occasion.”

“Really? Was I present?”

“I thought it was you. But perhaps, as you suggest, it was another author.”

“I love the sound of persiflage in the morning!” She inhaled exuberantly, straining the tuck of her towel. “It reminds me of . . . coffee!” So reminded, she took a long pull, then set her cup down on her bedside table. “So Avery is writing?”

“Open laptop, fierce concentration, muttering.”

“All the classic symptoms, certainly. I concur with your diagnosis. I assume you got her tea?”

“I did.” I set my cup down and took Sara in my arms. “Was it what you hoped for?”

“The weekend? Absolutely. I mean, the salon’s a pretty set piece – though I thought Anna was too cute for words. But the afternoon and evening were amazing.”

I kissed her lightly. “I love to dance with you.”

“Yeah.”

She was softened up enough, so I gave a sharp tug and dispensed with her little towel.

“Crazy girl.”

I ran my hands lovingly over her soft, smooth skin. “Guilty.”

She gave me another kiss, then a longer one, before breaking away. “Later, I’m afraid. Duty calls us both.”

“I’m sure it’s a wrong number.”

“Go on, now,” she said fondly. “Into the shower with you. You can fill me in on your talk with Tara while we get dressed.”

With great reluctance, I went and got cleaned up. I told her about my talk with Tara, as well as my encounter with Chris Friday night, and my discussion with her before bed Saturday.

“So you were right about those two stories,” she said.

“Yeah. I mean, not exactly autobiographical, since Andy commits suicide at the end of The Back of His Hand. But a lot of the horrid details are clearly real and personal.”

“That poor woman!” Sara put a comforting hand on my bare shoulder. “It’s really weighing on you, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “It is. Chris . . . Tara . . . even Anna, with all of her angst. They are sweet, lovely people, and they are dealing with so much.”

“And you want to help?”

“Yeah. But I’ve got nothing.”

She turned me around and hugged me gently. “I think they would disagree, Sweetie. While you were off with Tara yesterday, Anna and Chris both made a point of getting me alone to tell me how wonderful you are. I didn’t ask for details, since I figured they’d tell me what they were comfortable telling me. But whatever you did meant a lot to them.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Sara brushed my cheek with the back of her fingers. “Rosie, my love, your programmer’s mind and fixer instinct are invaluable. I lean on you for that all the time, and you know it. . . . But under that fine mind, you have a tender, loving heart, and you need to value it. Being present, opening your heart – there are times where it’s the only thing that matters.”

“It feels useless.” My voice was barely a whisper. “And it hurts!”

“I know, Sweetie. I know.” She stroked my hair soothingly. “And I can’t fix that. But I’ll always be here for you.”

I chewed that over, trying to get my supposedly “fine mind” to help. It did matter to me – made all the difference in the world! – knowing that Sara was here and loved me. Unless my reaction was unique, and I had no reason to believe it was, it followed logically that other people derive the same comfort from a loving, caring, presence. Tara and Chris had each, in their own way, said the same thing. Moreover, all four of our guests affirmed that BC offered them a community of caring that had helped them get through dark times and difficulties. Ergo.

I was forced to conclude that the idea had merit.

It still hurt. “Software makes more sense.”

“If you say so.”

“Okay,” I sighed. “Well, I’d better get out there. If presence is all I can offer, I’d damned well better be present.”

“That’s you. A regular Christmas Present.”

“Or the ghost thereof.”

“Scarcely.” She handed me a colorful blouse. “Let’s get you properly wrapped.”

“I’d rather you finished getting me unwrapped.”

“Later. I promise.” She kissed me again and said softly, “I’ll be right there with you, girlfriend.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah. That.”

We finished getting dressed and left our sanctuary. Avery was still typing and muttering, and the kitchen had been commandeered again, this time by Tara.

“Morning, sleepyheads! Or is it lovebirds?” She gave us a cheerful grin and she swirled a whisk in a bowl of batter.

“I’ll have you know I was already in here, making coffee!” I said with mock asperity.

“Ah. So, it’s lovebirds, then. Cool!” She laughed at my blush, then shook the whisk at me. “But you didn’t leave any coffee for me, and I’m certain that whatever is in Avery’s mug is either gone or gone cold.”

“I am suitably reproved,” I said gravely. “Now scoot over and let me get at the kettle!”

Sara wandered over to where Avery was sitting and retrieved her mug. Based on how Sara was holding it, Avery had remembered to drink it. She took a brief look over Avery’s shoulder at her screen, smiled, and came back to the kitchen.

“I’m guessing a refill is in order,” she said, handing me the empty mug.

“And for you as well?”

“Well . . . yes. But not that tea stuff.”

“Why should this morning be different from every other morning?” I turned to Tara. “Coffee? Tea? A Bloody Mary?”

“Don’t tempt me, woman!” Tara replied, her eyes dancing. “Coffee, white and sweet if you would.”

“Coming up.”

Sara asked our impromptu chef if she’d heard either Anna or Chris stirring.

“Oh, they’re both awake,” Tara said. “Though they’re still in their jammies. Well, Chris is in her jammies. Anna, naturally, is in something more scandalous and less fabric-ous.” She pointed out the window that faced toward the back porch.

Sara and I went to the window and had a look. They were both sitting on the snuggle swing; the petite Chris was tucked into Anna’s shoulder, and Anna’s cheek was resting on the top of her head.

“Oh!” Sara said.

I looked at the two of them thoughtfully, considering my interactions with each of them. Chris’s PTSD; Anna’s closeted angst. “Yeah,” I said softly.

I felt Tara’s hand on my shoulder. “I thought so too,” she said. “They’ve been virtual friends for years now, and they’re good for each other. I’m glad they’re talking.”

“Well,” Sara said, smiling softly, “they can get dressed after breakfast.”

I pointed at the oblivious Avery. “That one, too. It’ll be like a sleep-over!”

“Don’t tell me you did sleep-overs!”

“Of course not,” I replied. “But I’ve read about them.”

“You. Reading! My little girl’s all grown up!”

I laughed and took care of the tea and coffee, while Sara set the table.

Tara had bacon and eggs going on the stovetop, and started pouring batter on the electric griddle. “About ten minutes,” she told me.

I gave Chris and Anna a couple minutes longer, then wandered out to get them. “Good morning, you two!” I said in a low voice as I stepped onto the porch.

Anna’s posture, her body language, and her expression all communicated a flood of love, care and tenderness. Her eyes were red and her cheeks wet with tears. Chris, her head on Anna’s chest, had her eyes closed.

Anna planted a soft kiss on the top of Chris’s head. “Come to fetch us?”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” I assured her. “But Tara’s got some lovely pancakes ready for us, and I doubt you’d want to miss them.”

Chris opened her eyes and smiled up at me without moving. “Good morning, Rosie! We’ll be right there.”

“Did you sleep okay?” I asked her.

“I did,” she confirmed. “I slept straight through, so I was able to get up early and spend some time with the crazy lady here.”

“I’m crazy?” Anna sounded amused.

“Anna,” she explained patiently, “one of your protagonists fellated the entire offensive line of her college’s varsity football team. At the same party, and very much of her own free will. Of course you’re crazy.”

Anna sighed dramatically. “Well, if you put it that way . . . .” She smiled down at Chris, kissed her feathery black hair again, and rose. “Come on, girl. Let’s see what Tara can do in the kitchen.”

Chris got herself up. “Thanks, woman. Plenty of nights, virtual hugs from you and Tara were all that kept me going. But there’s nothing like the real thing.”

Anna just smiled and nodded, clearly too choked up to speak.

Inside, Avery had finally been pried from her writing and was helping get all the food to the table.

Tara set down a plate of pancakes and waved us all over. “Come and get it!”

We complied with commendable alacrity.

“Damn! My pancakes don’t taste like this!” I said, impressed.

“I’m not really much of a cook,” Tara said apologetically. “But Sally’s not much of a morning person, and anyone in construction has to be. So I learned the basics.”

Anna leaned forward, her mischievous smile ameliorating her still-red eyes. “Okay, Avery! Dish! We all saw you were muse-bitten this morning!”

Avery giggled. “Just a little frolic. Honest!”

“Can you tell us? Or is it too soon?” Chris had a bit of a wheedle in her voice.

“Well . . . the idea is solid, I think. And you know the way my bitchy muse works. I’ll write it ’cuz I’ll get no peace otherwise. But I might not post it.”

Sara looked intrigued. “Do you do that often?”

“Never. Well, not so far! I’m usually willing to throw anything out there and see what people think.”

“But this one’s different?” I asked.

Avery’s smile was lopsided. “Yeah . . . it’s about some trans authors getting together for a weekend.”

Tara whooped. “That’s hysterical!”

Chris was laughing as hard as Tara.

Anna chuckled, then said, “Names changed to protect the innocent?”

“More like, to protect the guilty!” Tara quipped.

“Well, them, too, I suppose,” Anna said primly. “I mean, everyone knows Rowena Redmond is innocent and chaste. Can’t speak for the rest of you!”

Avery laughed along with everyone else. But she reached over and gave Anna a squeeze. “Honestly – all the characters are fictional. Completely. You won’t recognize any of them.”

“Awwww,” Tara pouted. “You’re no fun!”

“It’s right up your alley,” I said. “Characters, right?”

“Exactly!” Avery was suddenly excited, lost in her new story. “But also . . . I mean, think about it. Almost all of the characters in almost all of our stories are cisgendered and straight.”

“I’ve kind of noticed the same thing about the big, bad world,” I cautioned.

“Of course,” Avery said, nodding sharply. “But our dynamic this weekend was special. Sara’s the only one of us who is solidly cisgendered, and she’s married to a transwoman. I’ve literally never had an experience like this. So, just this once, I wanted to write about transwomen together, rather than alone. Relating to each other, not to the rest of the world.”

The table was suddenly quiet, digesting that radical idea.

Finally, though, Tara broke the silence with a chuckle. “Avery, you know I love your writing. The people, the dialog, the emotion – you really have a gift. But I am convinced that your greatest talent, bar none, is ferreting out the smallest sliver in our already tiny niche market to mine. Your whole audience might fit around this table!”

“I don’t care about that.” Avery smiled softly. “So long as it includes the five of you!”

”Awwwww!” Chris said. “Can I borrow that line?”

“You sticking with first person?” Sara asked, getting technical.

“Yeah. I mean, I tried third person. And the story was just fighting me, tooth and nail. I wasted three hours trying to write it in third person.”

“All that, huh?” Sara looked amused. Sometimes she deep-sixed months of work, though in fairness it was her day job. “When did you start this?”

“Oh, I woke up at 1:00 a.m. The idea was right there, you know?”

“Writers,” I muttered.

“So, your narrator.” Sara was smiling. “Just out of curiosity . . . is she smart? Caring? Sexy?”

Avery giggled and gave me a sideways glance. “Yeah.” Her eyes went unfocused, and she said, dreamily, “I think I’ll call her ‘Mary Sue.’”

Things kind of went downhill from there, and there were lots of suggestions, lots of ribbing, and lots of laughter. But Avery promised to let all of us beta test the story before she posted it.

“If only to scrub my character clean of all identifying traces,” Tara joked.

After we cleaned up from breakfast, Tara and Sara went out to the sun porch to chat, while the rest of our guests got dressed. I went back to give Anna a hand with her makeup and wig.

“Looked like you and Chris had quite the talk this morning,” I said as I smoothed a bit of foundation on her face.

“We did,” she agreed. “Except that we didn’t say anything.”

I remembered her red eyes – and my own, from Friday night. “Are you alright?”

She nodded. “More than alright. I’ve got my own problems, for sure, but . . . God, I’m lucky.”

“I know how you feel,” I said fervently. “I just wish . . . .” I lapsed into silence, knowing that thought just ended up in a cul-de-sac.

Anna understood. “Yeah. Me, too.”

Once her hair and make-up were set, I left her to make her own clothing selections. It was her last opportunity, and I was curious to see what she chose.

Avery came out, bringing her bag with her and setting it down by the front door before coming out to join us on the sun porch.

“I don’t want the weekend to be over,” she said, taking a seat. “Thank you both so much . . . I have never, in my whole life, felt such a sense of belonging.”

Sara smiled, warm and friendly. “I’m so glad you could come! When I had dinner with Tara and Chris back in February, I was sure that it would be a great experience. For all of us.”

Chris came out next; like Avery, she was dressed for traveling, though Chris was catching a flight and Avery had a long drive. Anna came out last, dressed in a light, flowing, floral-patterned cotton dress with a full calf-length skirt. It had three-quarter sleeves and she hadn’t bothered with tights or hose; presumably, she’d decided not to worry about her fairly sparse and extremely pale leg- and arm- hairs.

We all walked Chris and Avery out to their cars. Anna lingered with Avery a few minutes, talking quietly, while Tara wrapped Chris in a final, wordless, hug. Then they were off.

Tara put an arm around Anna’s waist and walked her back to the house, while Sara and I followed. Back in the living room, we sat and Anna said, “It’s going to be so hard, going back. But it’s a fabulous memory.”

Tara smiled at her. “You look good. Really. But even if you didn’t, did you really think we wouldn’t see the woman we’ve always known?”

Anna looked sheepish. “Is it so crazy?”

“You’re asking me?” Tara giggled.

“I wish I had your self-assurance,” Anna confessed. “You just aren’t bothered by it.”

“Oh, honey! It doesn’t work like that! Of course it bothers me. But I’m so hopeless physically, at least as far as passing is concerned, that my choices are pretty limited. Basically, I can laugh, or I can cry.”

“And so you laugh,” I said, making it a statement.

Her smile was fleeting. “I’m all cried out, Rosie. Laughing’s all I’ve got.”

Anna gave her hand a squeeze, and the conversation moved to easier topics. We sat and talked the morning away. Anna and Tara had known each other the longest of our four guests, and their friendship clearly ran deep.

They were also fiercely protective of their younger friends. And, in an odd way, in awe of them. “It’s just amazing to me,” Tara said. “They figured out who they were, and marched in and got the help they needed. It wasn’t easy, but they did it.”

I wasn’t seeing the big deal. “It seems like a pretty logical response to gender dysphoria.”

Tara laughed, uproariously. “Rosie, you are so funny! Of course it’s logical. But you know the world doesn’t see it that way.”

“Some of this is generational, too,” Anna said. “Though I’d guess you’re pretty close to Tara’s age. Still, I’ve got twelve years on all of you. The fact that those twelve years matter so much gives you an idea of how far we’ve come, and how fast.”

“Given the anti-trans hysteria we’re seeing right now, it doesn’t feel like progress,” Tara said, shaking her head.

Anna was less gloomy. “I don’t want to sound like Pollyanna. Especially not when I think of stories like Chris’s, and she’s far from alone. But change creates reaction. The bigger the change, the bigger the reaction. You’re all old enough to remember 2004, when Karl Rove had the bright idea of getting gay marriage bans on the ballots in as many states as possible, to goose conservative turnout in the election.”

Sara grimaced. “Yeah. Bastard.”

“It worked, too.” Tara said, sounding sour.

Anna nodded. “Sure, in the short term. Which is all Rove cared about. Might have put W over the top; the election was a squeaker. But my point is, the reaction didn’t last. Barely more than a decade later, the politics were completely reversed. Gay marriage is the law of the land, and it’s so popular that it wouldn’t change even if the Supreme Court changed its mind.”

“You think that will happen for transgender issues too?” Tara sounded skeptical.

“Think?” Anna waggled a hand. “That might be too strong. But I hope so. Listen, I know trans people have been around forever. You know it. But our society made them invisible. Even our language hedged us out. When I was a kid, I knew I wanted to be with the girls, not with the boys. But I had no words to even describe what I was feeling. I just thought I was a freak.”

Tara stretched out a hand and gave Anna’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Never. But I know what you mean.”

“When I was older, I learned about people like Christine Jorgensen, but . . . you had to really hunt for information . . . and I grew up before the internet. Now, it’s everywhere. People are only just starting to adjust.”

“I hope you’re right,” Sara said. “I worry that reaction does win, sometimes.”

“At least trans people don’t have to feel so alone anymore.” Anna smiled crookedly. “Think of it this way. Erin started BigCloset in, what, 2004? Something like that? Avery would have been in high school; Chris would have been in grade school. I was forty. It’s a completely different world.”

Tara touched her arm again. “Born just a bit too early, were you?”

“No regrets, Hon. I have a good life, and I love my family. And, I have a community where I can be open about my gender issues, and good friends who enjoy my raunchy sense of fun.” Anna smiled warmly.

“I’m thinking . . . .” I paused, suddenly uncertain.

“Does it hurt?” Tara asked.

“Don’t let us stop you!” Anna giggled.

Sara looked at them approvingly. “I knew I liked you two!”

“A big, beautiful raspberry to the lot of you!” I threw up my hands, laughing. “I was just thinking, maybe I should join BC too. But, I can’t write.”

Tara laughed “It’s not just for authors! Somebody has to actually read our stuff.” With a sly grin, she added, “You could even drop a comment, now and then!”

Anna rolled her eyes, then gave me a very direct look. “Seriously, Rosie. You should. Stop lurking. Be part of our community. We’d love to have you. And I think you’d like it there.”

I felt a lump in my throat. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

We had a pleasant lunch, just the four of us, then it was time for them both to change for travel. Unlike Chris and Avery, they had to depart presenting as males. I got up to help Anna, but Tara waved me off. “We both need to do some grieving in the process, and we might as well do it together.”

The better part of an hour later, they came down the hall together, the barrel-chested man with the red beard, and the tall, older man with mostly silver hair. Anna looked subdued.

Tara worked to preserve a bluff front. “Will you be in Denver for the conference in November?” she asked Sara.

“Still up in the air,” my wife replied. “How about you?”

“God willin’ and the creek don’t rise! I hope I’ll see you there – both of you.” She gave me a grin.

I said to Anna, “I wish we could see you, too.”

Even presenting as male, the smile was pure Anna. “You know where to find Rowena, you naughty girl!”

We walked them to their cars, there were hugs and kisses all around, and we waved until they were out of sight.

“What great people,” Sara said. “We should have a writers’ weekend every year!”

“I’d like that.”

“Are you really thinking of joining BC?”

“I liked the four of them . . . a lot. I want to stay in touch.”

“I’m glad to hear it – but you’ve never been much of a joiner.”

“All of you made me think about this idea of being present . . . I mean, I get it, I guess. Like, I got the packet, you know? But it conflicts with a lot of my original programming. It’ll take me a while to work out all the bugs.”

“Geek!”

“Guilty. But I’m not even sorry about it, ’cuz it’s ‘Take Your Geek to Bed’ Day.”

“I’ve never heard of that one.”

“The Goddess of Geekastan just decreed it.”

“Really? You get to do that?”

I smiled. “Remember when you promised you’d unwrap me?”

“In the middle of the day? Good heavens! I think Rowena has corrupted you!”

“I certainly hope so!”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

“Know it? Sara, I depend on it! ”

The End

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