Sunset on Roses

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons is unintentional and strictly coincidental. It contains explicit descriptions of sexual activity with a minor, and anyone offended by such things should read no further. This story describes certain activities that would be illegal in the real world, and it is not the author's intention to condone such behavior or to inspire people who cannot separate fantasy from reality. If reception of this work is illegal due to your age or other repressive local regulations, liability for downloading it is your problem, not mine. This work is intended for the quiet and private enjoyment of adults who enjoy quality erotica.

I have posted here before under different names, and some of you may recognize my style. (For certain professional reasons, I need to remain as anonymous as possible.) This story, like my previous ones, is an attempt to go beyond the usual stroke material. I have tried to create believable, well-rounded characters who have rational motivations for behaving the way they do. Likewise, I have tried to give the overall plot a coherent rationale beyond merely having the characters engage in as much sex as possible. To that end, this work is less sweat-soaked than most you will find in this newsgroup (which is not to say there isn't some explicit sex in it, but here the sex is a means, not an end).

If you missed a chapter, feel free to e-mail me, and I will be happy to supply the missing pieces. Intelligent comments and criticisms will receive appropriate responses. Flames go straight to the recycling bin.

I was thirty-two and six months past a difficult divorce. I worked for a small law firm in Laguna Beach, California, splitting my time between personal injury and criminal defense. My ex-wife and I had sold our house in Irvine and split the proceeds, and I had put my half into a small cottage in Laguna Canyon. I spent most of my time working, gardening, and feeling sorry for myself. During my marriage, like a lot of men, I let my circle of friends dwindle down to the point where "our" friends were essentially her friends, and when we split, she got them all.

That summer, my loneliness finally began to win out over my resentment at anything female, but I was at a loss about what to do. I hit the bars for a few weekends, but I had never been any good at the bar scene when I was single, and I wasn't any better at it after ten years of monogamy. So when this finally happened, I was lonely enough to let it. Karma, I guess. It's funny how these things happen.

My firm frequently hired young kids to work as file clerks to assist the secretaries and attorneys. Almost without exception, they were college students or kids just out of high school, old enough to dream of being lawyers but young enough not to understand the reality of it.

On Monday of the first week in June, the office manager stuck her head in my office, and I noticed a pretty girl with red hair standing just behind her.

"Michael, I'd like you to meet Tracey. She's Marcy's daughter. She's starting today as a file clerk."

I nodded to her as they took a step or two into my office.

"Hi. Nice to meet you."

"Hi."

I noticed as she got closer that she was one of those rarest of creatures, a natural redhead (and I mean red, not just strawberry blonde or orange), with rich, dark copper-toned hair. It was long and straight, about six or eight inches past her shoulders. Her skin was tan, slightly olive-toned and only lightly dusted with freckles, not the fair Celtic skin you often see on redheads, male or female. Her eyes were a pretty hazel-brown, and she was about five-nine with a medium build.

I could sense a few sparks as we looked at each other, but I reminded myself that she seemed a little young. Besides which, her mother Marcy was one of our secretaries, a competent though very free-spirited woman, and that probably put her off limits no matter how old she was.

Tracey left with the office manager, and I didn't see her again until that afternoon, when I went into the library to do some research. She was at the table, surrounded by open files and pleadings that she was punching and placing in the file folders.

"Settling in all right?"

"Yeah. You guys have a lot of files."

"Lawyers don't do anything without making fifteen copies of it and sending to everyone they know."

She laughed.

"What do you do?"

"Personal injury with some criminal defense."

"What kind of people do you defend?"

"Down here it's mainly DUI or petty drug offenses, or domestic violence. Nothing big time. Worst case I ever had was a liquor store robbery with an assault on the clerk."

"Did you win?"

"No. Most of our clients are guilty. My job is really to ensure they get a fair trial, not get them off."

"I want to do criminal defense. Or constitutional law."

"You want to be a lawyer?"

"I think so. I like writing and debating."

"Criminal defense is tough. It's not for everyone and it's definitely not like it is on television. It's one of the hardest and most thankless jobs around."

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'd at least like to try it, I guess."

"Where are you going to school?"

"Corona del Mar."

"High school?"

"Yeah."

I looked down and twirled my pen through my fingers. So much for that, I thought.

"How old are you?"

"Just seventeen. I graduate next year."

"Where are you going to apply?"

"I can't decide. I don't know if I want to go somewhere close, like UCI, or somewhere back East. Where did you go?"

"USC and UCLA."

"Undergrad and law school?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. That's cool. I have some friends who want to go to USC."

"Trojan families?"

"Yeah."

"A lot of them down here."

We went back to work, and I went back to my office a little later. Despite the age difference, I got to be decent friends with her over the next few weeks. Most of the time, we would discuss her ambitions to be a lawyer and her ideas about college. On occasion, I would borrow her from filing for a few case management tasks, such as organizing trial notebooks. Something was developing between us, although at most it seemed like a "big brother" thing to me.

The associates at the firm tended to eat lunch together, while the secretaries and staff, if they didn't eat at their desks, kept to themselves. Few law firms, especially small ones, operate on strict schedules, though, so it wasn't unusual for me to eat lunch by myself.

One day, about a month after Tracey showed up, I came down the building stairs and ran into Tracey coming out of the restroom. Both of us realized we were heading out the door.

"Going to lunch?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Me too."

We fell in together out on the sidewalk.

"Where were you going?" she asked.

"Just to the La Salsa down the street."

We sat together in the patio area.

"I heard you just got divorced."

"Uh, yeah. Last year. It was final just before Christmas."

"I'm sorry. That must have sucked. Do you have kids?"

"No. That was one of the things that contributed to it."

"You wanted them and she didn't? Or something like that?"

"Something like that."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"Are you doing anything for the Fourth of July?"

"I was going up to my Dad's."

"We'll probably go to my grandparents. They live out in Coto de Caza."

"I've never been out there."

"It's nice. Kind of rural, but I like it."

We ate for about a minute before she spoke up again.

"Could I ask you a favor? This will sound weird."

"Shoot."

"Would you mind reading this story I wrote? You write really well, and I'd like to get someone's opinion on it."

"How do you know how I write?"

She glanced away for a second, slightly embarrassed.

"Um, I read a lot of the stuff I file. It keeps it from being too boring. I really like how you write. I thought you could maybe give me some suggestions."

"Sure. I'd be glad to."

"Thanks."

When we got back to the office, she gave me the story, about twenty typed pages entitled "Sunset on Roses," and I started reading it when I got home that night. I take my writing very seriously, and I tend to be a very harsh critic, so I had to keep reminding myself that she was still in high school.

The story was about a girl named Betsy, who lived with her mother in an unidentified beach town in Southern California. Betsy dreamed of going to college back East, but her mother had no money to pay for the tuition. Betsy's idea was to win a scholarship from the state Rosarian Society by growing the finest rose in California.

I could definitely see that Tracey was writing, at least in part, about herself. What struck me, though, was that she had made the leap from simple adolescent fantasizing to drawing on her experiences to create something new and interesting. What was more impressive was that Tracey's story went beyond a mere tale about a young girl growing roses. Instead, she used the rose as a metaphor for Betsy's growth and "blooming" from a hesitant girl to a confident young woman. I did find the choice of theme a little unusual, since most serious rosarians I've met are middle-aged or retired folks who've been gardening their entire lives. Tracey either had some unusual inclinations for a seventeen-year-old girl, or she deliberately wanted to show that Betsy was reaching for something beyond her years.

I was not surprised to see that Betsy won the scholarship in the end. I think Tracey was simply too young (and idealistic, unlike a divorced, thirty-two year old lawyer) to see the dramatic potential in a failed quest. She clearly showed, though, how the process of creating the winning rose was what really qualified Betsy for her scholarship and her future.

The grammar needed some work, and structurally I would have done a few things differently, but overall, I was impressed, and told her so the next day.

"You really think so?"

"Definitely. This is college-level stuff. You might think about including it in your application packet if they let you do it."

"Thanks. I really appreciate this."

"Are you into growing roses?"

"My mom is. So I know a lot about it."

"I have a few rose bushes in my yard, but nothing prize-winning."

"I love roses. My mom has about fifty bushes around the yard."

"She has more spare time than I do. You know, if you have anything else, I'd like to read it."

"Really?"

"Sure."

"I have some other stories. But that's really the best."

"Whatever you're willing to share."

So she gave me several more of her stories. As she said, "Sunset on Roses" was her best stuff, but I could see she definitely had talent. She liked creating two-leveled stories, using some surface element-like the roses-as a metaphor for what she really wanted to say. The mark of true talent, I'd always thought-but then that was how I liked to write.

"Don't go to law school," I told her a few days later. "Major in English and try to become a writer."

"I just don't know if I could support myself doing that."

"That's what everyone thinks, but once you go to law school, it's hard to turn back. If you go to law school, you'll end up like me."

She didn't laugh at my intended joke.

"Do you like to write?"

"Plenty. I've just never been able to sell any of it. I've written a few novels, one of which is essentially dead, another I'm still trying to get represented."

"Well, don't give up. I mean, you're not that old."

I laughed.

"Thanks. I didn't think I was old at all."

"Well, you know what I mean. Could I read your book?"

"Which one?"

"The one you're trying to sell. I promise I won't steal it."

I had to think about that for a moment. This book was-or at least I intended it as-a serious, complex, political/sexual satire, and beyond the fact that it had some explicit sex in it, I was concerned that it might go over her head.

"It's a pretty heavy book. I don't know if it's your sort of thing, based on what you like to write about."

"I like to read a lot of stuff."

I gave it to her the next day, which was Friday, telling her not to feel like she had to read it all at once.

Sunday afternoon, while I was out gardening, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Um, hi, it's Tracey. From work."

"Hi. What's up?"

"I didn't want to bother you on a Sunday, but I just had to call you. I stayed up all night on Friday reading your book, and then I read it again last night. It's one of the best things I've ever read. I mean, I cried at a couple of spots."

"Thanks. I'm glad. What was it that you cried at, just out of curiosity?"

"When John and Brittany broke up, you know, when he found out who she was, and then at the end, when I realized what you were trying to say."

"What did you think it was about?"

"About how our society is so fixated on appearances and stereotypes, and how people who refuse to play along with that get hurt. That's why John and Brittany got back together, right? And why Paul Beaumont lost the race at the end?"

"Yeah. Wow. I'm impressed. I mean, mainly because I was concerned I hadn't done that great a job with the theme."

"It was amazing. You write so well. I felt so stupid when I read it, after I'd given you my own lame stuff to read."

"Your stuff isn't lame. You write a lot better than I did at your age. Just give it time."

"Okay. Um, I was thinking, I could bring the disk by your house today, if you want."

I thought about that for a moment. I mean, the obvious thing would have just been to give it to me tomorrow at work, and surely she knew that.

"If you want to. I'll be here."

I gave her the directions, and she showed up in a little Toyota Tercel about twenty minutes later. She was wearing denim shorts and a white T-shirt that set her hair off brilliantly.

"So, this is your house, huh? This is nice. I love Laguna Canyon."

"I like living here, except for the traffic on the road. I'm betting we won't get another El Niņo for another fifteen years so I won't get hit by a landslide. You want something to drink?"

It was hot out, so I figured that was simply polite.

"Sure. Water is fine."

I led her into the kitchen, and she leaned against the sink, looking into my backyard. I tried to keep my eyes off her butt as she bent over, but failed. She had very pretty legs, and I had to force my glance away from them.

"You've got nice rose bushes. Your yard looks like my mom's."

"It runs in the family. You should see my mother's house. Like something out of 'House & Garden.'"

She opened the back door and went out to look. I followed her and gave her the glass of ice water. She took a couple of long swigs as she looked around at the landscaping and the little pond I'd built in the back corner. She knelt down and poked at the fish a few times. Then she stood up, setting her glass down on the stone bench by the pond, and put her hands in her back pockets. She looked around the yard, then at me.

"So. You live here all by yourself?"

"Yeah."

"It looks like you don't go out much. Just garden."

"That's about the size of it."

"I guess it's hard since you just split up."

I had to look away from her a second.

"You're very direct, you know that?"

She shrugged.

"I just think people should deal with stuff instead of trying to hide it."

"Well, in answer to your question, yes. It's hard to meet people around here outside of hitting the bars."

"Oh."

"If you were a little older, I might ask you out," I said, but I regretted it the instant it was out of my mouth.

She looked startled, then smiled, and then started laughing. She put her hands over her mouth to stop herself, with limited success.

I stifled a grin, feeling an embarrassed flush spreading over my face.

"It's not that damned funny."

"No. No." She held her hand over her mouth. "I'm not laughing at you. Or I am, but it's not what you think."

"What do you mean?"

"Are you worried about my mom?"

"For starters."

She laughed again.

"She doesn't care. She thinks you're great. She was joking about my hanging around with you so much just last night."

"Wonderful."

"No, it's cool. So, like, if you want to ask me out, ask me out. It's okay."

My jaw dropped slightly, and I struggled with my surprise and desire for a moment.

"Tracey, this is more tempting than you realize, but it's just not possible. However well we get along, and however much I like you, the fact remains that you're seventeen, and I'm not that much younger than your mother. I realize that eighteen is an arbitrary distinction, but it's one we have to accede to."

She had been frowning as I talked, but a grin suddenly hit her face at the end.

"What?"

"I've never heard anyone actually say that word."

"It's what happens when you go to law school."

But the grin left as quickly as it came.

"Why is it such a big deal? It's not illegal for us just to hang out."

"No, but I'm concerned about what it might lead to."

Her face darkened, and she frowned at me.

"Look. Whatever else happens, if you want to be my friend, don't treat me like a little kid, okay? I may be seventeen, but I'm not a little girl. I'm not some innocent virgin you have to worry about damaging. Lecture me about the law, but don't patronize me."

"Okay."

"My mom is always telling me not to be satisfied with the ordinary, that you have to be willing to look beyond and go beyond what everyone else does if you really want to be happy and fulfilled. I don't care how old you are. You're the sweetest, coolest guy I've ever met."

"Thank you. Believe me, if you were even two or three years older, we wouldn't be having this conversation. We'd be on our way to dinner right now."

"Why should two or three years make that much difference?"

"I don't know. But legally, it does."

She looked around the yard, frustrated.

"Only if, you know, we get to that point. But I really think you're assuming too much right now, okay? I just said I'd go out with you. I didn't say I'd do anything else."

Neither of us said anything for a few seconds.

"Well," I finally said, "we've certainly managed to create a very awkward situation out of what should have been a simple afternoon visit."

She managed a smile, but didn't say anything. I looked around for a few seconds before looking back at her.

"You hungry?"

She smiled.

"Yeah."

"Let's go."

We went down the canyon to PCH, then up a block to a popular Mexican-themed seafood restaurant. It sat on the cliff above Laguna Beach, and was usually jammed with people in the evenings. We got a seat on the patio, and I ordered a drink. The waitress, if she thought anything unusual about our being together, didn't show it. I looked around at the other patrons, then back at Tracey, and decided that she could probably pass for nineteen or twenty if you didn't know how old she was, and were assuming, as I thought people would, that she was older.

"This place is expensive," she said while examining the menu.

"The benefits of dating a lawyer. Get what you want. The grilled ahi is really good."

"What is it?"

"Yellowtail tuna. The meat is red, not like the white stuff you get in the can. They season it with Mexican spices and then grill it rare."

"Like sushi?"

"Sort of. It's really good. Try it."

We spent some time talking about my book, then about her writing. Then we talked about whether she really wanted to be a lawyer, and I tried to make sure she understood just what was involved in the day-to-day practice, that it wasn't all courtroom drama like they made it look on television.

"Do you watch 'Ally McBeal'?"

"Sometimes. But keep in mind that show is a comedy, a satire really. Any real lawyer who behaved like she does would get hauled before the State Bar in a hurry."

"I wonder about that sometimes."

"The guy who created that show, David E. Kelly, is an ex-lawyer, and I think he intends it as way of getting back at everything he hated about practicing law. A lot of lawyers who leave practice to write do that."

"Are you?"

"I have a book in mind. I have about twenty pages of it written, but I'm not going to start on it seriously until I get done with the current one."

"What's it about?"

"It might sound a little silly. Or at least too ambitious."

"I won't laugh, I promise."

"It's going to be a comic allegory, a satire of the legal profession using this young associate as a Christ figure."

"Wow. That is ambitious."

"I know."

"I'd like to read it, when you get done with it."

"I don't know if it will go anywhere, but I'll show you the draft if and when I get it done."

The food came, and she pronounced the grilled ahi to be "bomb." We finished about eight-thirty and walked back to the car.

"Are you okay to drive?"

"Me? Yeah."

She grinned.

"It's just that you talk a lot more when you drink."

"I do?"

"Yes. I could tell. But you're okay?"

"Yeah."

"You should probably get home."

We were standing in my driveway between our cars.

"Thanks for dinner."

Part of me wanted to kiss her, but nothing happened. We parted with a few awkward smiles, and she got into her car and left.

I hadn't expected to keep this a secret-office romances being what they were-but I was still a little surprised when Marcy came in my office Monday morning. Her hair was reddish-brown, maybe what Tracey's would look like in twenty years, and she wore a lot of beads and jewelry over an Indian-patterned sun dress.

"Hi."

"Hey."

"I heard you and Tracey had a good time last night."

"Yeah. We went to Las Brisas."

"She told me. She was impressed."

"I just like that place. The food is good and it's a beautiful spot."

She smiled.

"She probably wouldn't want me to tell you this, but she really likes you. She's been asking me a lot of questions about you."

I tried to stifle a grin.

"Look, I like her too, but I have to ask you this. The age thing doesn't bother you? I mean, I'm about fifteen years older than she is."

She smirked and waved her hand.

"No, not at all. She's seventeen-going-on-twenty-five anyway. Mentally, she's not that much younger than you. All she ever talks about now is going to law school or being a writer."

"I noticed."

"No, I mean I might care if it wasn't someone I knew as well as you, but it's not. Don't worry about it."

Toward the end of the day, Tracey appeared, leaning against my doorframe.

"Are you going to watch 'Ally McBeal' tonight?"

"I might. I hadn't thought about it."

"I thought maybe we could watch it together."

"You wanna come over? Sure."

"Eightish?"

"Or earlier if you want to eat."

She showed up around seven, having changed into shorts and a striped T-shirt.

"What's for dinner?"

"Chicken pesto linguine."

"Wow."

"I haven't cooked for anyone in a while, and this is one of my favorites."

I finished dinner a little while later, and we ate in front of the TV set.

"This is really good."

"Thanks. I love pasta."

"Me too. Are you Italian?"

"No. Not sure where I got it from."

"Ally McBeal" was into summer reruns. It wasn't an episode I had seen before, but Tracey had. She asked me a few lawyer questions during the show, and I tried not to hold forth too much. We spent about two hours together on the couch, and for most of the time, I had been trying to decide whether to do anything besides sit there. When she stretched at the end of the show, I couldn't resist a quick glance at her breasts, which were firm-looking, but not all that big.

"Well, I guess I'm going."

"Okay. See you tomorrow."

I led her to the door, and for a split-second, I almost kissed her. I settled for kissing her on the forehead.

She looked up at me for a second in a smirk, and then, before I could stop her, she put her arms around my neck and pulled me down to kiss her for real, which I did for a few seconds.

"Um. Okay," I said when she let go of me.

"That was for kissing me on the forehead like I was twelve."

"Sorry."

"Just don't do it again. Good night."

We had lunch a couple of times that week, and planned to go out Friday night. I tried to behave normally around the office, the vain hope that we could at least not attract a lot of attention. It didn't work.

I was in the office kitchen Friday morning with Beth, one of the other associates, who was a woman about my age. Beth and I were good friends, but as she lived with someone and I had been married, it had never gone beyond that and wasn't likely to.

"Michael, explain something to me."

"What?"

"Why is it when men get divorced, they immediately start chasing girls half their age?"

I looked over at her, trying not to look too embarrassed.

"Um, I don't know."

"I mean twenty would be one thing, but for God's sake, she's still in high school."

"We're just friends. There's nothing going on."

She snorted.

"That's not how Marcy is telling it."

"What is she saying?"

"Just that you two are dating."

"We went to dinner once. And that was after she came over to my house to drop something off."

She leveled her gaze at me, raising her eyebrows.

"Have you kissed her?"

The question took me by just enough surprise to make lying pointless. Beth rolled her eyes and groaned.

"I knew it."

She started to walk out of the kitchen.

"Just don't do anything stupid, okay? I'd hate to see you lose your license."

Tracey showed up around seven that night, but I could tell immediately that something was wrong.

"I almost didn't come over tonight. I'm really pissed at you."

"What's wrong?" But I had an idea.

She stared at me for a moment.

"Are you embarrassed about me? Because if you are, there's no point in going any further with this. I mean, I like you, but at least when I date guys my own age, I don't have to worry about being someone's secret shame. I could care less what Beth Meyer thinks, but I'm not going to let myself care about some guy who tells people we have nothing going on together."

"I'm sorry. This is just going to take some adjustment on my part. And you know it's going to be like this no matter what we do."

"You shouldn't let other people's opinions dictate your life."

"I have a professional reputation to worry about. I don't have any choice."

She sighed, and looked down at the ground.

"Okay. Fine. Goodbye."

She turned and walked back down the driveway. I watched her leave for two seconds, then went after her.

"Wait."

kept walking.

"For what? You're obviously not comfortable with this. We could have something good here, but you won't make the leap."

She stopped and turned to me, her face darkening.

"And you know what really pisses me off? You write about stuff like this, but you won't do it. John had more balls than you do. Remember what he told Brittany at the end? 'I love you and I don't care what anyone else thinks?'"

"I know, but that's a book."

"Well, that was what really hit me about it. I liked you since I met you, but I figured it was pointless because I was so much younger than you. Then you give me this book about a twenty-eight-year-old guy who falls in love with some sixteen-year-old girl-what the hell was I supposed to think?"

She started walking away from me again, then spun around when she got to her car.

"And what was all that crap about not being afraid to go for what you wanted? 'Don't go to law school just because you're worried about making a living as a writer'? You're the biggest hypocrite I've ever met!"

I walked over to her, having no idea what I would do when I got there. She turned away from me, and I took her arms, turning her around. She remained rigid, glaring up at me.

"I've never dated a feisty redhead before either. This is just going to take some getting used to."

She fought to remain angry, but couldn't do it, finally turning away to keep from smiling.

"Stop it. This is serious."

"I don't want you to leave. But we can't just make this issue go away by announcing that we don't care what anyone else thinks. People's opinions do have an effect on your life. I'm sorry about what happened with Beth today; she just took me by surprise. Everyone is going to know about this soon, and at least at that point, lying about it will be pointless. I think once the novelty wears off, I can deal with this better."

She looked up at me for a moment or two, gaze softening.

"I'm sorry I called you a hypocrite."

"Well, you were right. But remember it took John a while to decide what to do, too."

"Yeah."

Her eyes narrowed, but she smiled.

"Don't make cracks like that about my hair."

"I'm sorry. But you do have a lot of spirit."

"It has nothing to do with the color of my hair."

"I'm not so sure about that."

She jabbed me in the gut, and I backed away, laughing.

We went to dinner and a movie, and got back to my house about eleven o'clock. She came in and flopped on the couch, turning on the TV. I sat down next to her.

"I like your house," she said a few minutes later. "It's a lot nicer than our place."

"Is that your mom's car or yours?"

"It's hers. But she goes out with her boyfriend every weekend anyway, so it doesn't matter."

"What do you think of her boyfriend?"

"He's okay. A little weird, but so is she. They're alike, I guess. She grew up in the '70s, you know, and I don't think she ever got it out of her system. She and Dennis smoke a lot of pot when they get together, which kind of pisses me off. She has some really cool clothes, but the rest of it I could do without."

"Embroidered bellbottoms?"

"A couple pairs."

"I remember those things."

"They were in when you were a kid?"

"When I was maybe eleven or twelve. But I really grew up in the '80s. I got the tail end of disco, and then Punk and New Wave came along."

"I like disco."

"So do I."

She sat up on her feet and leaned closer to me.

"Did you ever go to discos like my mom did?"

"No. I was way too young. But they played songs like 'YMCA' and 'Macho Man' and the whole 'Saturday Night Fever' soundtrack at all the school dances. We thought we were so cool."

"I love that movie. John Travolta is such a babe."

"All the girls back then were in love with him. Your mom has probably told you that."

"Yeah. She said she had posters of him all over her room."

"'He hits my hair! All the time I spend on it, and he hits my hair!'"

She shrieked with laughter, rolling back on the couch, then rolling forward and grabbing my arm. When she caught her breath, she was leaning against the back of the couch, head just next to my shoulder. Our eyes came together, and she stopped laughing.

I looked down at her, and brought my hand up to run it through her long hair.

"Is this an issue with you?"

"My hair?"

"Being a redhead. Does it bother you that I pointed that out?"

"I just don't like being pushed into the stereotype."

"Well, you shouldn't be self-conscious about it. I've met maybe a handful of women in my entire life with hair this color."

"Mom says it won't last. Hers didn't."

"It may not. Fair hair tends to darken as you get older."

"Is it an issue with you?"

"You mean am I attracted to you solely because of your hair?"

"Yeah."

"No. It is very attractive and distinctive. But so is the rest of you."

She smiled.

"Thanks. You're really cute, too."

That was when I kissed her. We lay together on the couch kissing for a while. I wasn't really sure what she expected, and I wasn't sure how much the mores had changed since I was seventeen. I stroked her arm for a few minutes, and then moved my hand to her waist, but she didn't do anything other than move her arm out of the way. Feeling emboldened, I slowly worked my way up to her right breast, and she showed no signs of wanting me to stop. I finally took her breast in my hand, feeling her nipple under the fabric. She was firm and well-shaped, a little short of being a handful. I flicked her nipple with my thumb, feeling it stiffen. I caressed her other breast for a few minutes after that, before leaning back and kissing her nose.

"When do you have to be home?"

She smiled up at me.

"I don't. My mom almost always spends the night with Dennis."

I wanted to say something, but then remembered how mad she got when I patronized her. What would I do if she were nineteen or twenty? Probably try to get her to sleep with me, but I wasn't ready for that yet, whatever she wanted.

She pulled my face back down, and we went back to making out on the couch. I played with her breasts for a few more minutes. Then she stopped kissing me, and pressed her forehead to mine, looking down.

"Do . . . do you want to go back in the bedroom?"

"Tracey-"

"If you say what I think you're going to say, I'm going to kill you."

"Okay."

"I'm going to be eighteen in December. Five months. And I'm not a virgin. We shouldn't be having this discussion. Would you want this if I was older?"

"Yes."

"It's just five goddamned months. If you can't deal with that, I'm walking out that door right now."

I pushed her head back and kissed her.

"You don't need to leave. It's not because you're seventeen. It's because we haven't been dating all that long, and I just got divorced, and I haven't slept with anyone in over a year, and I want to be sure this isn't happening just because I'm feeling lonely."

She pushed herself away from me and stood up.

"Goddamnit, stop doing that!"

"What?"

"Stop trying to protect me! I may not legally be an adult, but I can take care of myself. I like you, and I know you're lonely, and I want to help you feel better. What's wrong with that? You're not taking advantage of me. Shit!"

She put her hand on her forehead and stared at the floor. I stood up and took her in my arms. She leaned against me, sighing.

"I'm sorry I keep yelling at you. But I like you a lot, and you're driving me crazy."

"I just don't want to hurt you. But if you want me to stop worrying about that, I will."

"I can handle myself. I'm not that damn fragile."

I held her for a moment or two.

"Well, in that case, the bedroom is that way."

She looked up at me, smiling. She paused a second, and then backed away, pulling me toward the back of the house.

When we got back to the bedroom, she backed up until she was sitting on the end of the bed.

"Is this the bed you had with your wife?"

"No."

"So I'm the first?"

"Yes."

"Good."

She pulled off her T-shirt, revealing a white satin bra, and scooted backward to the pillows. She kicked off her shoes and leaned back against the wall. I stood at the end and unbuttoned my shirt, dropping it to the floor. I crawled up the bed, and she held out her arms, laying back to let me crawl above her as she embraced me.

I kissed her for a few seconds before reaching around with one hand to unsnap her bra. She started a little and giggled.

"What?"

"I guess you've had a lot of practice at that."

"Yeah."

"I'm used to having guys struggle with it."

She untangled herself from me long enough to get it off, then closed in again. She had small, dark brown nipples that I played with for a few minutes before pulling her above me to suckle them. She straddled my waist, and moved back and forth above my mouth. I took it slowly, wanting to enjoy it after being celibate for so long.

After working on her nipples for a long time, I pulled her back down to kiss her. I unbuttoned her shorts, and she wriggled out of them, panties and all. As soon as she was nude, she reached over and tried to pull off my pants.

"Whoa, slow down."

She let go of me and looked a little embarrassed.

"Okay. What do you want to do?"

"Just relax. There's no rush."

Naked, she was even more of an impressive sight. I had never seen pubic hair the color of hers before, and I spent a while caressing her and looking her over. She smiled at me, amused.

"Am I the first redhead you've slept with?"

"Yes."

She laughed.

"It's not, like, obvious, or anything. God."

I finally pulled off my jeans and kicked them onto the floor. We pulled back the covers and came together on the bed. I kissed her for a few seconds before pulling back to look down at her.

"Am I the first adult you've slept with?"

"Yeah. But you're only the second one, period."

"What happened with number one?"

"We broke up in March. He was sweet, but it wasn't love, or anything."

We resumed kissing and fondling each other, and I worked my way down to her breasts again, reaching down to feel between her legs. I found her wetness, and began stroking her slowly. Then I kissed my way down her abdomen, finally getting face to face with copper-toned sex.

"Um," she said.

"What?"

"No one has ever done this to me before. So, if I go crazy, that's why."

"Okay."

I opened her up with my tongue, working on her gently, and she arched her back as I did.

"Oh God, oh God," she moaned.

She reached down to take my hands in hers and squeezed them tightly. She tasted fresh and clean, and I moved all around her, licking up and down her labia with the tip of my tongue. She seemed to get off enough on that, so I didn't apply any pressure, just used the friction to stimulate her. As she got more into it after several minutes, I sped up, moving my tongue in tight circles over her clitoris. Her hands remained tight on mine, and she was breathing hard, but lay still under me.

All at once, her hands went to fists on mine, she let out a squeak, and her hips began bouncing at my face. I held on, licking her rapidly, and the bouncing slowed until she was holding herself rigid, back arched up off the bed. I could see the tendons standing out on her arms, but she made no move to push me off when she came as my wife always had, so I kept at her. After five or ten seconds, she began to vibrate again, and cried out as if she were in agony.

"Ah! Oh!"

Her entire body was a rigid muscle, and her thighs had wrapped around my neck. She began to convulse-I wasn't sure if this was a third orgasm or the same one from the beginning-and finally pushed me off, gasping for breath. She let go of me and fell back onto the sheets. I stayed where I was, kissing the soft flesh just above her pubic hair.

I waited fifteen or twenty seconds before kissing my way down again. She lay perfectly still, doing nothing when I started licking her again. Then her mouth opened, I sensed her breathing speeding up again.

"Oh. Oh. Oh, God."

Her hands reached for mine again, and I sped my attack. In about a minute or so, her abdomen began to shake, and her hands shot down to grab my head. Her thighs closed on my head, and she curled up toward me, groaning.

"Oh!"

She threw herself back, pushing me off at the same time. Now, I crawled up the bed to lie next to her. She rolled over, snuggling against me. I held her and let her catch her breath.

When she finally stirred, she reached out for me, hugging me tightly.

"No one has ever made me feel like that."

I stroked her head and played with her hair.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked a moment later.

"Whatever you feel like doing."

She slid down my chest, and reached out to caress my penis. She seemed to look at it for a while as she played with it, then took it into her mouth. She appeared to have the general idea, whether or not she had done it before, so I lay back and let her do it.

She didn't do anything fancy, just moved up and down on me, but it felt nice enough. When I felt like I had had enough, I pulled her up. She looked up at me, smiling, and lay back on the bed.

"Hold on a second."

I sat up and tried to swing off the bed, but she stopped me.

"Are you getting a rubber?"

"Yeah."

"I'm on the pill. And my boyfriend and I were both virgins. So you don't really need to if you don't want to. I don't like them, to be honest."

"Okay. Me neither."

I lay back down beside her, rolling over her as she spread her legs under me. I bent down to kiss her, then suck on her nipples briefly, before moving up to kiss her again. I probed forward with my penis, finding her very wet. I slipped into her as she put her arms around me.

"Mmm."

"This may not last very long. It's been a long time for me."

She didn't answer me; she just pulled me down to kiss her. I moved in her slowly, luxuriating in her tight, silky, wetness. I pushed into her as far as I could get, pulling the base of my penis up over her clitoris. She moaned, arching her back. I pulled myself up further, working on her like that, and she pushed herself up at me. After a few thrusts, I lifted up and looked down to where I was thrusting into her red-fringed sex. She saw me and started laughing in embarrassment.

"Is it that exciting?"

"Yes." I thrust up at her again, making her convulse. Her hands gripped my waist tightly, and I sped up. I lowered myself and kissed her again, and she moved her arms around my back. As I rubbed myself against her, she began whimpering in my ear.

"It's so good, oh God, you're so good."

She started to shake under me, and that was it for me. With a few more deep thrusts, I spurted off helpless inside her, but I could tell from the way she dug her nails into my back that she was getting off as well.

I lay on top of her, and inside her, for several minutes. I nuzzled her face with my nose, and she lifted up to kiss me gently. Finally, I rolled off her, and she curled up next to me.

"There's a lot more to sex than I realized," she said a few minutes later.

I couldn't help laughing.

"Is there?"

"I knew there was stuff I hadn't done yet, but I thought I had the basics down. I don't know. I don't know quite how to express this."

"It's okay."

"It's not that I didn't come with him. I did, though not always. This was just, I don't know, so much more sensuous."

"It lasted longer?"

"Definitely. I'm used to about five minutes for the whole thing. But that's not all of it. There were a few times when we spent a couple of hours in bed together."

"Sex is more than just intercourse. That's the culmination, not the whole point of it. Once you figure that out, it can be a lot better."

"Yeah. I think that's it. Ninety percent of what I did with him was just doing it. We would make out for a few minutes, then have sex."

"That style has never really appealed to me."

"I guess not. I like this way a lot more."

I picked up a strand of her hair and inspected it. She started laughing.

"What is the deal with my hair?"

"I love it. The color is just so unique."

She hugged me.

"This last hour was the best hour of my life. I mean it."

"Me too."

"You don't have to say that. It's enough that you enjoyed it."

"I did."

"Do you feel better now?"

"Yes. Thanks."

"You know, you talk a lot," I said a while later.

"I do? You mean during sex?"

"Yeah. I like it."

"I wasn't doing it deliberately. I couldn't help it."

"I know. You're just a very expressive person. If you've got a thought, out it comes."

"My mom is like that. I guess I get it from her."

"I'm not. I've always been better expressing myself in writing than in person."

She didn't say anything for a moment.

"Who is Brittany?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is she anyone you knew? Or maybe your fantasy woman? Or just someone you made up?"

"A little of each. I used to know someone like her, in temperament though not looks. I used to like short girls until I got married. Don't read too much into it. She was mainly a metaphor."

"But you'd like someone like Brittany. You wrote about her too passionately not to."

"I don't know how I would deal with meeting Brittany in person."

She turned around to face me, setting her chin on her arm as she lay across my chest. She stared at me for a few moments.

"But the piercings, and her being bisexual?"

"Were supposed to represent how she was willing to change herself to make John happy. The substance was unimportant, only the appearance. Brittany was supposed to represent a political candidate like her father."

"So you're not really into that stuff?"

"Not really. Fantasy maybe, but I have a hard time imagining really doing what John and Brittany did."

"But there was something about her that got you off. I know that much."

"Maybe it was the way she was so in touch with her sexuality. Shameless, for lack of a better word. She didn't have any hang-ups about what she wanted out of life."

She laid her head back down on my chest.

"That's a lot to expect out of someone who's just sixteen."

"I know. She was supposed to be unusual."

"Okay."

"Don't think you have to become Brittany, okay? I like you the way you are."

We made love again after that, and it lasted a lot longer. We both started to get tired toward the end, but I could tell she was happy. Then we went to sleep. About four a.m., I woke up to her snuggling and caressing me, and very slowly, we did it a third time in the pitch dark of my room.

"Is it any different when you can't see my hair?" she asked afterward.

I started laughing.

"Yes. But definitely no worse."

We got up about nine, and I made her breakfast. She put on one of my sweatshirts, and walked around the house looking at my stuff as I cooked. Then she came in and leaned on the counter.

"This is weird. I feel so grown up."

"Spending the night here, you mean?"

"And waking up with you and wearing your clothes and having you cook for me. And then I remember that I'm still in high school, and it feels so bizarre. Like I'm so close to getting on with my life and being an adult, but it's just out of reach."

"Don't be in such a hurry to grow up. One day you wake up and think 'I'm too young to be this old.'"

She smiled.

"I-"

But whatever she was about to say caught in her throat, and she looked away from me. I had a feeling what it was, and went back to making breakfast.

"Should you call your mother?"

"She won't be home. But I guess I should check the voice mail."

She picked up the phone and dialed the number. She listened for a few seconds before starting.

"Um, hi, it's me."

She looked up at me with a worried expression on her face. For a second or two, my whole career flashed before my face.

"I'm at Michael's . . . yeah."

She closed her eyes and sighed.

"Yes, mother . . . I don't know. I might hang around here. Is that okay? . . . Okay, thanks . . . I love you, too. Bye."

She hung up.

"God. She must have come home early."

"Is she all right?"

"Yeah. She asked if I spent the night here. Then she asked if I was 'being responsible.'"

"That was the 'Yes, mother'?"

"Yeah. But forget my mother, okay? Don't let this ruin it."

"Okay."

She came around the counter and hugged me from behind.

"Can we just hang out today? Pretend we have a normal relationship?"

"Yeah. No problem."

We ate breakfast, and she did the dishes. I sat in the living room watching her. She had nothing on under the sweatshirt, and I was repeatedly treated to views of her naked behind. She saw me looking at her and smiled.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, shit. I know what you're looking at."

She finished the dishes and came over to sit on my lap. She shook out her hair behind her and then flipped it into my face and over my head.

"There. Happy now?"

"Yes."

I put my hands on her waist and pulled her closer. She leaned in and kissed me.

"Wanna go back to bed?"

"You may have worn me out, but I'll give it a try."

I reached down to hold her butt, and stood up as she wrapped herself around me. I carried her into the bedroom and laid her down on the bed. She pulled off my sweatshirt and scooted back on the bed. I stood there and just looked at her for a moment. She looked down at herself, then back at me.

"Do I really look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like what I always see in your eyes."

"I see a beautiful woman."

She smiled.

"With red hair."

"With red hair. But the rest of you is very nice, too."

I pulled off my T-shirt and sweatpants, and climbed into bed with her. We kissed and nibbled on each other for a minute.

"You make me feel very sexy," she whispered. "And I love that you love my hair. Whatever makes you happy is fine with me."

"You do."

I suckled her breasts for a few minutes until they were stiff and swollen. She pulled me up, reaching down to pull on my penis. Then I rolled on top of her and slipped inside her. I knew I was going to have difficulty getting off, so I just tried to pleasure her. I let her get on top after a few minutes, and she held herself up on my shoulders, hanging her hair down in my face and laughing.

She stayed on top until she got tired, and I rolled her over, slipping out of her. When she realized I wasn't going to go any further, she looked up at me.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not going to come. Too much last night."

"Do you want me to do it?"

"You don't have to."

"I don't mind."

"Help yourself, then."

She went to work on me with her mouth and hands, and was able to get me off in a few minutes. I saw her shudder slightly after I came in her mouth, but then she lay back down beside me.

"How was that?"

"Very nice. Thanks."

"It was my first."

"I couldn't tell."

We lay together for a while, and I finally dozed off. I woke up to her stretching and sitting up next to me.

"Michael?"

"Hmm?"

"I need to say something."

"Okay."

"Now that we've done this, we have to have some kind of commitment. I don't just mean monogamy and all that. I mean the whole age thing. It really hurt me yesterday when you told Beth Meyer that we didn't have anything. I went back to the library and cried."

"I'm sorry."

"If we're going to be together, we have to decide that we're going to deal with this, not hide it. I really don't care how old you are, my mother doesn't care, and if you can just stand your ground about it with people, I know we can make it work. I'm not stupid; I know people will gossip about this, but we shouldn't let that destroy what we have here."

"I'll do my best."

"Do you promise me? Because when you do that, it basically says to me that I'm not worth it to you. And that really hurts."

"I won't. I promise."

She put on some of my clothes, and we spent a few hours working around my yard. She gave me a few tips about things her mother did, and when we got done, on a whim, I clipped a rose off one of the bushes and gave it to her. She sniffed it and smiled at me.

"Thanks. That's sweet."

We walked down to the beach and had lunch. As much as I knew the age thing was going to be a problem, I knew something serious was developing here. If I spent much more time with Tracey, I could see myself falling in love with her. And where that would lead, I wasn't sure.

She spent the night with me again, and finally went home Sunday afternoon.

Tuesday morning, Beth and I both had hearings to go to in Santa Ana, and we drove over together. She had been kind of quiet that morning, but as we sat in traffic on the 55, she finally spoke up.

"You slept with her, didn't you?"

I groaned, and looked away from her.

"Don't give me that. I know that look on a woman's face when I see it."

"And it's what, to you, exactly?"

"It's that you're my friend, and you're a good lawyer, and I don't want to see you get suspended from practice for something this stupid."

"Marcy doesn't care, and she'll be eighteen in a few months."

"A few months is a long time at that age. What if you break up, and she decides she hates you, and turns you in out of spite? All she has to do is swear under oath that she slept with you, and that's the ball game."

"She won't do that."

"Do you know that? And whether she would or not, you do know that a statutory rape conviction will make you a sex offender, with all that implies."

"I know."

quot;And forgetting all that, do you care how pathetic this looks? You're thirty-two, divorced, and dating a seventeen-year-old. Are you going to start wearing gold chains and telling everyone she makes you feel young again? Are you going to take her to the Prom when school starts?"

"Drop it, okay?"

"Okay. But just don't ever say I didn't warn you."

Beth wasn't the only who had noticed what was going on. The office gossip got kind of harsh for a week or two, but as I had hoped, once the novelty wore off, people stopped talking about it, although the atmosphere had definitely changed. The secretaries, with the exception of Marcy, were noticeably more distant with me. The male associates gave me a ration of ribbing about it, but it got old soon enough.

Over the next few weeks, Tracey and I developed a few habits. She would come over every Monday night to watch "Ally McBeal" with me, although we rarely did anything besides kiss good night. On the weekends, though, she came over Friday afternoon, and wouldn't leave until Sunday night. According to her, Marcy was fine with this, as it got Tracey out of her hair for a few days and allowed her to spend more time with her boyfriend. After a couple of weeks of it, I let her leave some clothes and personal items in my closet. We often worked together in my garden or reviewed each other's writing. I let her read some of my other stuff, and she started writing stories for me during the week to read that weekend. We had discovered that we were both into snow skiing, and we talked about going skiing together that winter, although I had my doubts that this would last that long.

Saturday morning in early August, I woke up and came out of the bedroom to find her looking through a box of my old stuff in the hall closet. She looked up at me, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. I was looking for something else. I didn't mean to snoop."

"It's okay."

"What is all this?"

"I keep all my old letters and cards. I've always felt guilty throwing out a personal letter. I've been doing it since I was your age."

She held up a picture.

"Is this your wife? Or ex-wife, I mean."

"Yeah."

"She's really pretty."

"She was."

She put the picture back into the box and put the top back on.

"I'm sorry. I just don't know all that much about you, and I couldn't help it."

"It's okay. You can look through it all if you want. Half the reason I keep that stuff is to help me remember. It's ancient history anyway."

"Are you sure?"

"Go ahead."

There was stuff in that box going back to when I joined the Navy before college, and it took her a while to get through it. I read the newspaper as she did.

"What happened to all these people?" she finally asked.

"I've lost touch with most of them. I got lazy about it while I was married."

"That's kind of sad."

"I know."

She stood and curled up next to me on the couch.

"I feel like I know you better now."

"Good."

"You've done so much more than I have."

"Does that bother you?"

"I don't know. I guess it just emphasizes that we have differences."

"And we have a lot of similarities. But this gives me an idea."

"What?"

"Let's drive up to Santa Barbara. Get a room on the beach and go out tonight."

She pursed her lips, and I could see she wasn't quite sure what to make of the idea.

"I'm just thinking that you won't feel as weird about that box if you've done stuff like that too."

She didn't answer me right away.

"You mean if we have more of a history together."

"Exactly."

"So we would go some place fancy?"

"If you want."

"I don't have anything that nice to wear."

"So we'll go shopping when we get there. Santa Barbara is full of boutiques. We can get whatever you want."

"Okay. I think I'd like that. Let's do it."

We packed up some clothes and hit the road. We got there just after one, and I got us a room in a vintage hotel near the city center. Then we went for a walk up State Street and window-shopped. The town was full of kids from UCSB preparing for the fall semester, and no one gave us a second glance. Tracey spotted a dress she liked in a display window, and we went inside to try it on. The saleslady gave me a clever look but said nothing, most likely assuming Tracey was a college student.

Tracey tried on a few dresses before settling on a little knee-length silk number in emerald green.

"This goes just wonderfully with your hair," the saleslady said, and Tracey starting laughing. She glanced at me, then back at the saleslady, who looked confused.

"Thank you. It does. It's just a little joke with us."

"Of course."

"Could you give us a second?"

"Certainly."

When the saleslady was out of earshot, she looked over at me.

"I love this. But it's way too expensive."

I looked at the tag and saw that it was $345.

"Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She hugged me.

"Thank you. Could you wait outside? I want to get some other stuff."

"Okay."

I gave her my Amex card.

"Just get me when its time to sign out."

She walked over to the saleslady, and started talking to her, glancing back at me as I walked out. I waited outside on a bench for about twenty minutes before Tracey came to get me, having changed back to street clothes.

"Okay. We're done. The damage isn't too bad."

"It's no problem. I enjoy this."

She leaned in to peck me on the lips.

"Thanks. You're great."

I followed her back in to where the saleslady was waiting for us with a credit card slip. Whatever else Tracey had gotten had added about a hundred and fifty bucks to the tab. All of it was wrapped up and bagged. The saleslady gave me a knowing smile as I signed the slip.

"Thank you so much. Have a wonderful time tonight."

"Thanks," Tracey said. "Bye."

"Good bye."

Once out on the street, we walked back toward the hotel.

"I just told her we were going out to a fancy restaurant tonight, and I needed to dress up. She was so nice."

"It's her job to sell you things, not judge you."

She stopped and caught her reflection in a store window, playing with her hair.

"Um."

"What?"

"I know you've spent too much money on me already, but would you mind if maybe I got my nails done, or my hair?"

Tracey had always been casual about her looks, probably getting the attitude from her mother. She rarely wore much noticeable makeup, and I had never seen her with painted nails.

"What brought this on?"

"That dress is so nice. I just feel like if we're dressing up, I should do it."

"Well, we're on an outing, why not? Get it all done."

She smiled.

"Okay."

We found a salon near the hotel, and I sat in the waiting area for about two hours reading magazines. When they were done with her, it was a major transformation. The stylist had taken about an inch off her hair and feathered it around her face. Her nails were deep red, close to her hair but different enough to take advantage of the contrast. She didn't have that much makeup on, but it was certainly more than usual. She did not look seventeen anymore.

"Wow."

"Do you like it?"

"Very much."

I paid the tab, and we went back to the hotel.

"I feel like a different person," she said when we got back to the room. She examined her reflection in the mirror, arranging small strands of her hair.

"I like you just the way you are, but it's fun to try stuff like this now and then."

We had about an hour before our reservations, so we each took quick showers and then Tracey shut herself in the bathroom with all her new clothes. I put on my slacks and a sport jacket and waited for her.

She came out after about twenty minutes. She was wearing nylons and green pumps, which I assumed she had gotten while I was outside the boutique. She had also gotten a small black purse that she now held.

"What do you think?"

"You're beautiful. Just beautiful."

We went to dinner at a dressy restaurant up the street. I ordered a bottle of wine, and the waiter didn't give Tracey a second glance. We talked quietly all through dinner, and Tracey had two glasses of wine.

"Careful," I said when she finished the second.

She giggled.

"I've been drunk before. And we're out of town."

"Okay."

We had dessert and coffee, and walked back to the room. She held my hand and leaned against me. When we got into the elevator, she put her arms around my neck and kissed me. I held her and kissed her back until the door opened.

When we got into the room, I hung my jacket over a chair. She kicked off her pumps and walked up to me, grabbing my tie and pulling it off. I put my arms around her again and kissed her again. When I reached up to unzip her dress, she stopped kissing me, trying to stifle a giggle.

"What?"

"You'll see in a second. Keep going."

I unzipped the dress all the way, and she let it fall off her. I saw then what she had really sent me out of the boutique to buy-a fancy matching bra, panty and garter belt combination in black lace and burgundy satin. I had to catch my breath for a second.

"I just thought that if I was dressing up, I shouldn't stop at the dress."

"I love it."

She commenced undressing me, being bolder than usual, probably because of the wine. I let her do it, and lay back on the bed. She posed for me, pretending to examine her nails.

"I am the Goddess of Love. Worship me."

"You're drunk, is what you are."

She laughed, and then looked at me, jaw vibrating.

"I love you."

"I love you, too. Come here."

She climbed onto the bed, and I pulled her to me. I peeled the lingerie off her piece by piece, kissing and nibbling each square inch of flesh as I exposed it. Last to come off were her panties, and I lowered myself to lick at that deep red sex of hers. She held my hands as she usually did, writhing on the bed.

"I love you," she moaned, almost crying. "I love you so much."

I kept at her, watching for the little twitches and squirms I had gotten used to. She moved herself against me, moaning. When she came, she almost seemed to be in pain, clawing at my hands and thrashing on the bed. I didn't stop, continuing to lick her until she came a second, then a third time before pushing me off in exhaustion.

She curled around to take my penis in her mouth, sucking me hard and bobbing rapidly until I was aching. Then she lay back, pulling me on top of her, and I thrust up into her in one quick movement. She wrapped herself around me, biting at my shoulder.

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you," I gasped, " I love you. I love you."

She groaned, thrusting herself at me repeatedly as I drove into her. We had lost control by this point, both closing in on our release. She clawed at my back, trying to pull me deeply into her every time I withdrew.

Her breath started to rush through her nostrils.

"I'm coming."

That did it for me, and as she spiked herself up at me, I thrust up at her, squirting off inside her. We ground ourselves at each other for a few seconds before collapsing back onto the bed.

"Did you like that?"

"Yes."

"When I announced myself at the end?"

"Yes. You know I like when you talk like that."

"I don't think about it. It just happens. You make me feel so good, and I just have to express it."

We lay together for a while.

"I can't believe I have to start school again in two weeks."

"Things will be different then."

"I know. My friends are being a little weird about this, too. They joke about my being your pampered mistress or something."

"After this weekend, it's not entirely inapt."

She looked up at me.

"I had fun with this, but you know it's not really me. I don't think I can be like this all the time."

"I don't want you to be. The person I love isn't the one with all the makeup and lingerie. She's the one with mud all over her face after we've been digging in my backyard."

She hugged me and wiped a tear out of her eye.

"You make me so happy."

"So do you. I wouldn't trade this summer with you for anything."

We went to sleep, and made love again in the morning. Then we drove home and got back around two.

She hung up her new dress in my closet.

"I'm going to leave this here, okay? I don't know how my mom would react to it."

"It's fine."

That week was Tracey's last at the firm, and when she left, the atmosphere was noticeably less tense. She started school again a week after that. I half expected the "Ally McBeal" nights to come to an end at that point, but she just rearranged her study schedule to spend the evening with me. The weekends together didn't stop either. In fact, she usually came straight to my house after school on Friday, and I finally gave her a key so she could get in without waiting for me to get off work.

Saturday morning a couple of weeks into September, she came out to the backyard where I was weeding.

"Is it okay if have one of my friends over? Just to hang out?"

"Sure. Now?"

"A little later. I thought we'd go walk around the beach or something."

"The three of us? Or just you two?"

"Whatever. It doesn't matter."

Her friend, a pretty blonde-haired girl named Rachel, showed up around eleven. She regarded me warily as Tracey introduced us. Tracey showed her around the house as I went back to work in the yard. The two of them emerged a few minutes later.

"You guys work out here a lot?" Rachel asked.

"Yeah."

"We planted all these flowers." Tracey indicated the rows of stargazers and Lily of the Nile we had planted along one side of the yard.

Rachel inspected the pond in the back.

"Did you build this?"

"Yeah."

"It's neat. I like it."

"I repotted the water lilies," Tracey said.

Rachel looked at me and then back at Tracey, laughing just a little nervously.

"You guys are like, living together, practically."

Tracey looked at me with concern.

"I just come over a lot on the weekends."

She looked back at Rachel.

"So, what do you think? Want to go down to the beach?"

Rachel glanced at me.

"I guess."

"Are you going to come?" she asked me.

"You guys go. I have more to do, and I'm a mess anyway."

I could see the conflict in her face, but she didn't say anything else. They left a few minutes later.

Tracey came back alone around three. I was watching TV, and she sat next to me on the couch.

"Why didn't you want to come with us?"

"Because it was painfully obvious that Rachel didn't want me to come along."

She sighed, and looked down at her hands.

"She was going on about us the whole time. I finally just told her to shut up about it."

"What was she saying?"

"Oh, just stuff like, 'He's cute but he's so old,' and 'Are you going to move in with him?' and 'How could you bring him to the Prom?'"

"I was thinking about that myself."

"I don't care about the fucking Prom. I probably couldn't bring you without causing a scene, and I don't care that much about it anyway."

"This is what I went through at work."

"I know."

She laid her head on my lap and took my hand between hers.

"This just sucks so hard. Why can't people accept that we love each other and not judge us?"

"It upsets their sense of how the world should be. That makes it a lot harder for them to understand."

She stayed on my lap for a while.

Sunday morning, I had to go in to work for a few hours, and I left Tracey behind to do what she wanted. I got back around two, and as I pulled up to my house, I noticed a car parked behind Tracey's Toyota. I recognized the make and model, and realized a split-second later who it belonged to-my ex-wife.

I almost drove past my house without stopping. Then I slammed on the brakes at the last second, and pulled into the driveway. I had to gather myself up for a few seconds before getting out of the car.

I walked up to the house, and saw the two of them sitting in the living room. I opened the door, and both of them looked over to me. Tracey looked very stressed, but Madeline looked, if anything, amused. I hadn't seen her in about nine or ten months, since our divorce was finalized, and it affected me more than I had expected. You can't get someone out of your system in just a year after being with them for over ten. She was a tall, statuesque blonde, and even at thirty-three, she hadn't lost any of her considerable beauty.

"Hi."

"Hi. I, um, I just stopped by to see how you were doing."

"I'm fine. How are you?"

"Great. I got a job at UCI. I'm working in the Sociology Department. How is work?"

"Not bad. Nothing new, really. Still doing the same thing."

She stood up, and walked toward the door.

"Tracey, would you excuse us for a second?"

I saw Tracey swallow before answering her.

"Sure."

Madeline went outside, and I followed her. She stopped, putting her hand to her mouth and looking down, smiling.

"The yard looks nice."

"Thanks."

She paused for a second, trying to keep from laughing.

"I'm not even going to say it, because I'm sure you know what I'm thinking."

"Probably."

"I'll just say that this doesn't surprise me all that much. I mean, all the times you wanted to pretend we were teenagers when we made love, the pigtails every now and then. Was that coming from the same place as this?"

"I don't know."

"She's nice, I'll say that for her. I just think you might have waited until she was old enough to drink."

She finally turned to me and kissed me on the cheek.

quot;Good bye, Michael. Have fun."

I watched her drive off, and then went into the house. Tracey was where we had left her, sitting sadly in the chair by the couch, wiping the tears out of her eyes.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded.

"She just knocks on the door and asks if you're home. She's looking at me like something is so funny, and I'm wondering, 'Who the hell is this?' Then she goes, 'I'm Madeline, his ex-wife. And you are?'"

"I'm sorry. If had known she was coming over, I wouldn't have left. I haven't seen her in almost a year. I had no idea."

"She was so amused by this, you know?" She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "When I let her in, she goes, 'I'm sorry, I have to ask. How old are you, exactly?'"

"What did you tell her?"

"I said eighteen. It's not that far off. Then she asked if I was living here."

"How long was she here?"

"About ten minutes. I thought I was going to die. It was so horrible. She was asking me all these stupid questions about how we met and what you had been doing."

"She was picking on you?"

"No, she was being polite. But just having to answer her questions was bad enough."

I pulled her out of the chair and sat down on the couch to hug her. She leaned against me and sniffled.

"You make me feel so wonderful. Then things like this happen, and it's like the whole world thinks what we have, this incredible love I have for you, is so wrong and perverted. I want to run away somewhere where no one cares about it."

"So do I, sometimes. But we can't do it. It won't be like this forever. In a few years, it will be no big deal."

"That's so far away."

"I'm sorry."

I held her and waited for her to calm down.

"She's so beautiful," she said a few minutes later. "Why did you guys get divorced?"

"It takes more than that. We just grew apart. The thing about having kids was what finally threw it all into the open."

"She's so much prettier than me."

"Come on, don't start doing that. She's not, and I have a lot of things with you that I never had with her."

"Like what?"

"She was never into gardening at all. Once in a very long while, she would help me with it, and all we ever did was fight about what we were going to do. She was always too busy to read the stuff I wrote. And I could never get her on a pair of skis no matter how many times we went."

"I like gardening with you."

I hugged her.

"I know. So do I."

She got up a bit later, and managed a smile.

"I'll be okay."

"I'm sorry this happened."

"I'm sorry about Rachel."

"We'll get through it somehow."

I had been concerned about Tracey losing interest in this thing once she got seriously back into school, but she didn't. If anything, it got more intense. I could tell that she loved me with that frantic, desperate passion that only teenagers can manage, and to be honest, I was getting very used to having her around. The age issue didn't go away, though, and we had a few more difficult encounters like that weekend in September. But she began to cheer up as her eighteenth birthday approached in December.

"I will be so happy when I am legal."

We were watching "Ally McBeal" on my couch.

"One more week."

"I know."

"You're still not interested in a party?"

"No. Dinner is enough. I'm going invite Rachel and Melissa. You, them, Mom and Dennis are plenty."

Melissa was another of her friends, whom I met once or twice. Rachel had gotten somewhat used to me, but the distance between us remained. I had also since met Dennis a few times. He was an aging hippie, and he joked about my being a lawyer, but clearly couldn't care less about my dating Tracey. He actually told me one night, after he'd emptied his bong, how great it was that Tracey and I hadn't let "society's hang-up's" get in the way of our love.

We went to Wolfgang Puck's at the Irvine Spectrum, a local mall/theater complex, on Tracey's birthday. She had gone to the DMV that day to get her "adult" driver's license, one that would remove the "Under 18 until 199_" from the face. She and her girlfriends had a good time during the dinner, and I stayed out of it, talking to Marcy and Dennis.

When dessert came, and the waiters all sang "Happy Birthday," we brought out the presents. Rachel and Melissa both got her random clothes, a couple of nice tops and a skirt. Marcy and Dennis got her a silver and turquoise bracelet, turquoise being her birthstone.

"We had that made special for you," Dennis said. "I know the artist; he gave me a good deal on it."

Marcy jabbed him in the ribs, but Tracey beamed.

"I love it. It's beautiful. Thanks."

Then I gave her my gift, which was a thick envelope. She regarded it warily, then opened it up. She pulled a folded piece of paper out of it, read the first few lines, and gasped. She threw her hand over her mouth and began squealing and bouncing in her chair. Then she threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly.

The paper she was holding was the itinerary for a ski trip to Park City over Christmas Break. I had cleared it with Marcy, who thought it was a wonderful idea, beforehand.

"Thank you. Oh, my God."

She turned around and excitedly showed it to Rachel and Melissa, who both shot jealous glances in my direction. But they seemed happy for her, and were soon back into the teenage chatter.

That was a Monday night, so she went home with her mother, though she kissed and hugged me repeatedly on the way out.

Wednesday morning, Marcy stuck her head into my office.

"Do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure."

She came in and shut the door behind her, then sat down in one of my chairs.

"I have an idea, which I need to discuss with you."

"Okay."

"I want you to know this is just an idea right now, which may not work out, but I wanted to see what you thought before we did anything."

"All right."

"Dennis and I are thinking of moving in together. You know he lives in Huntington Beach."

"Right."

"I don't want to make Tracey change schools this late, not when she's about to graduate."

I suddenly saw where this was going, and I wasn't sure how I felt about it.

"And I was thinking, since she spends half the week at your house anyway, that she could just move in with you until she graduates. After that, who knows? It would just be for school, you know? You wouldn't have to keep her once she starts college."

"Have you mentioned this to her?"

"No. She doesn't know a thing. I couldn't decide who to ask about it first, but I decided I should bounce it off you. I didn't want to get her all excited and confused only to have you shoot the idea down."

"Okay. I have to give this some thought."

"I understand. No pressure. Dennis and I can wait if it comes to that."

"If we decide to do this, I think it would be best if you didn't mention to her that we talked about it beforehand. She's very sensitive about being treated like a kid."

"I know, I agree. I'll just propose it to her and let her decide."

"Okay."

She stood up and reached out to squeeze my hand.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to her, you know? She just loves you to death."

"I know."

I had difficulty concentrating the rest of the day as I pondered this development. On the one hand, I wasn't sure I was ready to move in with anyone, Tracey or not. That was a level of commitment I hadn't expected to get back to this soon. On the other hand, as Marcy pointed out, Tracey was practically living with me already. She slept at my house two or three nights out of the week, and when she was gone, I tended to sit around wishing she were there. And if I-or she-turned out to be not ready for that kind of commitment, the fact was that Tracey was only eighteen and would be heading off to college within a year anyway. She had applied only to places in Orange County, but it would be a big change. It would give us a reasonable out if the situation just wasn't working.

I went and found Marcy.

"I thought about it, and you can go ahead with it. Let her decide, but I'm okay with it."

She smiled.

"Great. This is such a big help."

"I know. When are you going to bring it up?"

"I don't know. I need to talk to Dennis some more."

"Okay. Just give me some warning if you can."

The warning came the next day. Friday night, when I got home from work, I found Tracey stewing on the couch.

I leaned down to kiss her.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

She was quiet the rest of the evening, even when she made dinner.

"You've been a little distant tonight," I said when we were done eating.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's not you."

I felt guilty about having deceived her, so I didn't push it any further.

"Anything I can do?"

"No."

We went to watch TV, and she was still quiet.

"Do you like having me over here so much?" she asked in the middle of a commercial.

"What do you mean? Of course I do."

"I mean, this little domestic routine we go through every weekend, I make dinner for you, sleep over, we garden on Saturday, go out Saturday night, and blob around on Sunday, you're fine with all that?"

"Absolutely."

I could tell she was stressing out over this, and I wanted to relieve the pressure, but there wasn't anything I could do besides play along.

She took a deep breath.

"My mom wants to move in with Dennis. She doesn't want to take me out of school the last semester, and I have no intention of changing schools this late anyway. Which basically means I either commute with her, which would be a royal pain in the ass . . . or I stay here. Which I can't do, unless . . ."

"You move in with me?"

She looked at me, pain in her face.

"Yeah."

I tried to put on a look of thinking hard about it.

"Don't feel like you're being pressured, or anything," she said. "It's totally up to you."

"Do you want to do this? I mean, you're here half the week as it is, but I don't want you to do this just because your mom is moving."

"I know."

"If you're okay with this, if you feel up to it, you're welcome to stay here. I'd love to have you around more often."

"You would?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I? Living alone sucks. And I love you. I just want you to be sure you're ready for this. I lived with someone for ten years, so I know what's involved, but you're pretty young to be doing this. I don't want to screw up what we have just because your mother is moving in with her boyfriend."

"I don't want to live with Dennis. He's okay, but . . ."

"Yeah."

"I love you so much, but this is such a big step."

"Think about it. You don't have to decide tonight."

She leaned over and hugged me.

"Thanks. You're the most wonderful guy in the world."

"No problem."

She sat back, took another deep breath, and smiled.

"And now, since I'm eighteen, and we can do this without breaking the law, I want you take me to bed this instant."

She didn't have to ask me twice.

"That felt different somehow," she said afterward. "I don't know how, but it did."

She rolled over onto my chest.

"No more looking over your shoulder."

"Or yours," she said smiling. "Most of the time, I'm looking over your shoulder when we do it."

She sighed.

"I'm going to do this. I want to move in with you."

"Okay. You're here. There's only one condition."

"What?"

"If you're moving in here, it's as my girlfriend, not my daughter. That means you have to behave like an adult and carry your end of the household stuff. Don't make me have to remind you of things you should know on your own. I know we haven't ever had any problems like that, but I don't want to start now."

"I'll try. I understand."

Beth and I were working in the library Monday morning. Our friendship had gotten a little strained that fall, but she had started being friendlier with me lately.

"So, I hear you're legal now."

"Yeah."

"Well, congratulations on dodging the bullet."

I gave her a brief look, but didn't say anything.

"Um, I was thinking, would the two of you like to come over for dinner on Friday?"

It took me a second or two to respond to that.

"At your place?"

"With me and Rick. Just something casual."

"This is something of a change."

"I know. I was just starting to feel bad about giving you so much crap about this. It's none of my business who you date. It's not like you dumped your wife for her or anything."

"Well, I'll mention it to Tracey."

"Okay. It's just an idea."

"You know I can't stand Beth Meyer."

"It's an olive branch. She feels bad about razzing me about this so much this fall. Be an adult and take it."

Silence came over the line for a few seconds.

"Okay. But if she makes a single crack about my age, I'm walking out the door."

"Just try to get along with her. I have work with her, remember."

"I'll try. For you."

I came home that Friday to find her in the bedroom with a pile of clothes on my bed.

"I'm just moving some of my clothes over here," came the voice from the closet. "So I have more to wear, like for tonight."

She wasn't going to move in completely until just before Christmas, since her mother wasn't moving in with Dennis until the end of the month, but my closet was half-empty, so it hardly mattered.

"Have you mentioned this to any of your friends?"

"Have you?"

"No. But as far as work goes, I didn't figure it was really their business."

"Well, I told Rachel and Melissa. Rachel is getting more normal about this, and was like, 'Oh. Okay.' But Melissa told me her mom is really getting on her about hanging out with me. Like I'm a bad influence or something."

"I'm sorry."

She came out of the closet and flopped onto the bed.

"I can deal. Don't worry about it."

I leaned over and kissed her. She rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

"I was thinking, don't take this the wrong way, but this place is kind of dull. I want to liven it up a little, decorate, you know?"

I started laughing.

"I knew this was going to happen."

"Do you mind? I mean, you walk in here, and it practically shouts, 'Some guy lives here by himself.' It is totally too masculine. It wouldn't kill you to get some softer colors in here."

"Okay. Just don't get carried away with it."

I kissed her again, and she put her arms around me.

"When do we have to be at Beth's?" she asked a minute later.

"Seven or thereabouts."

She glanced at the clock. It was just after six.

"You'll have to wait until afterward. I have to get ready."

She got off the bed, and I lay back against the pillows to watch her dress. She stripped out of her jeans and sweater and went into the bathroom in her bra and panties. She brushed out her hair and washed her face, watching me in the mirror watching her.

"You know one of the reasons I fell in love with you?" she asked about ten minutes later as she poked around the closet.

"What?"

"Patience. You can sit there watching me walk around in my underwear without getting an enormous hard-on and attacking me. No guy my age could do that."

I laughed.

"Half of it is age. I don't have quite the hormones I did at eighteen. But you develop an appreciation for things like this. I like watching pretty girls in their underwear."

"Well, but that's just it. You can enjoy this without having it become overtly sexual."

She pulled on some nylons, and then a knee-length skirt and a red sweater. She went back into the bathroom and finished up in a few minutes.

I kissed her on the nose when she was done.

"Beautiful as always."

She took a deep breath.

"Promise me this won't be awful."

"I'm sure Beth has good intentions. She wouldn't set this up just to do something nasty. She's not like that."

"Okay. I'll do my best to be nice to her."

We got into my car and drove up the canyon to Irvine, where Beth shared a townhouse with her boyfriend. She met us at the door with Rick, whom I had met a couple of times before during office get-togethers. He was a stockbroker in his thirties who worked in Newport Beach.

"Hi, come on in."

She shut the door behind us. The townhouse was only a few years old, decorated with the sort of trendy, young professional-type furniture that I had once co-owned with my ex-wife.

"Tracey, I guess you don't know Rick."

"Hi."

They shook hands.

"Nice to meet you," he said.

"How have you been?" Beth asked. "I guess I haven't seen you since this summer."

"I'm okay."

"What would you guys like to drink? We have everything. Beer, wine, whatever."

"A beer is fine," I said.

"I'll have some wine," Tracey said.

Beth glanced at me for second, but didn't say anything.

"Okay. Sure."

She went into the kitchen, and we followed Rick into the living room.

"How's the stock world?" I asked him.

"Insane, as usual. The market just seems to get more unpredictable ever year. Especially with Asia the way it is, no one really knows what's going to happen."

"I guess it's gone beyond the point where domestic issues dictate everything."

"Totally. I mean, between the EU and Asia, what comes out of Washington these days just doesn't have the same effect anymore. It used to be the market would bounce around every time Alan Greenspan hitched up his pants, but it's just not like that now. There's so much more money out there."

I glanced at Tracey, who looked a little distressed, and patted her on the leg.

Beth came out with our drinks, and sat down next to Rick. Tracey took a small sip from her glass and set it down.

"So, Tracey, are you still interested in becoming a lawyer, or did you wise up after working with us this summer?"

"I don't know. Michael was trying to talk me out of it, too. It's a long way off."

"I told her she should concentrate on her writing and make that decision later."

"Do you like to write?"

She nodded.

"I'm probably going to major in English."

"Well, that's a good start. Where are you applying?"

Tracey glanced at me, and I could see the tension in her face.

"UCI and Cal State Fullerton. I decided I didn't want to move too far away."

"Well, UCI is a great school. I'm sure you'll get in."

"One of the guys I work with went to UCI," Rick said. "It's changed a lot in the last ten years, though."

"All of Orange County has," I said. "The airport, if they ever build it, is going to change things even more."

"Oh, I lie awake at night praying that won't happen," Beth said. "It's just going to ruin the whole quality of life down here."

"The Marine F-18's are bad enough. They turn into their approach pattern not too far from my house. They're pretty damn loud."

We got to talking about Orange County politics after that, and Tracey said nothing unless Beth or Rick asked her a question. After about twenty minutes, the dinner was almost ready, and we moved into the kitchen. Beth had poached some halibut in wine and lemon juice, with asparagus and wild rice on the side.

"So, how is your mom?" Beth asked Tracey. "I see her at work, but I don't get to talk to her that much."

"She's moving in with her boyfriend at the end of the month. In Huntington Beach."

My teeth went on edge, realizing where this was going.

"Oh. I've never met him. Is he nice?"

"He's okay. He's a lot like her."

"You won't mind living with him, then?"

Tracey glanced at me, and I nodded slightly. No use denying it.

"I'm not going with her."

"You're not?" She looked at me for a second. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm moving in with Michael. Just through the end of school. After that, we'll see."

Beth tried to hide her surprise, but couldn't quite do it.

"Oh. Well. I guess that will be nice."

"Yeah."

Beth served the dinner, and we sat down out at the table. She tried to make some small talk, but the tension remained. We finally got into a conversation about the 2000 presidential race, but Tracey was as uncharacteristically quiet as she had been earlier.

When dinner was over, I helped Beth with the dishes, and Tracey went to the restroom.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I guess she doesn't really like me. It's my fault."

"Don't worry about it. You did your best. It's nobody's fault."

"She's really moving in with you?"

"Yeah. It was the thing with Marcy that precipitated it. But I think it will work."

"She's nice. You guys do make a cute couple."

"Thanks."

We left a little while later.

"I'm sorry this was so difficult."

"I'm okay."

She looked out at the Canyon as we drove home.

"It wasn't Beth. I could tell she was trying to be nice to me."

"What was it, then?"

"I felt like such a fifth wheel. I didn't understand half the stuff you guys were talking about. I wanted to participate, I just had no idea what to say. And when I thought I did know what was going on, I was afraid of saying something stupid."

I sighed.

"I don't know what the solution is."

"And you know, if we went out with my friends, the few I have left, I know you would feel the same way. Do you think you could name the Hanson brothers if your life depended on it?"

"No."

"I love you, I can't imagine my life without you, but this is a problem."

"We do have a lot in common."

"I know. But is gardening and writing enough? I mean, it's great we both like 'Dawson's Creek,' but you're always laughing at stuff that isn't supposed to be funny."

"I can't help it."

"And to be perfectly honest, I've always thought it a little weird that you like that show."

"Why is it weird?"

"I don't understand what you get out of it."

"The writing is good, and the characters are interesting."

"Why are they interesting? You have absolutely zero in common with any of them."

"I don't know. Maybe it just makes me remember how it was when I was that age."

She was silent a few moments.

"Do you get off on the fact that I'm only eighteen?"

I took a deep breath.

"Maybe in the beginning. But I see you as a whole person now, and I love you."

She turned and stared at me.

"Do you mean that? I mean, the hair thing I can deal with, it's funny, but this is something else."

"Why is it something else? Do you get off on the fact that I'm thirty-two? I mean, it's never quite escaped my notice that you haven't seen your father since you were ten."

"Oh. That is so out of line. Take that back right now."

"Come on. You practically accused me of being a pedophile five seconds ago."

"That is not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

She turned away from me and wiped her eyes.

"Okay. So, maybe, just a little, I'm transferring the fact that I miss my dad onto you. I do get some things from you that I never got from him. But I do not see you as my father. That is so sick."

"That isn't what I meant either."

"Well, that's my explanation. What's yours?"

I sighed.

"This is hard to explain. I wouldn't have understood it when I was your age. When I was twenty, I broke up with a girl who was sixteen, even though she was cute and nuts about me, because I thought she was too young for me."

"Jennifer?"

I shot my head around.

"How-"

"You kept her letters. They were in that box. I always wondered about that."

"Well, yes, that was her. It's just that you grow up always thinking you're going to be young, thinking of yourself that way, and identifying with the idea of youth, and then you wake up one morning, and you're married, you have a steady job and a house and a lot of responsibilities, and you wonder where all the time went. I had a very dull adolescence. I didn't date at all. Now I look back on it all, and realize all the stupid things I did and all the opportunities I missed, and I wish I could get it back."

"Michael, adolescence isn't like 'Dawson's Creek' any more than lawyering is like 'Ally McBeal.' Nobody lives like that. I love that show, but sometimes I wonder where the hell the ideas and dialogue are coming from."

"I realize that."

"I don't think you do. Do you really think any of us have a clue what we're doing, any more than you did at our age? God, half the reason I love you is because you give me some direction in life. Because you know who you are and where you want to go. Why the hell would you want to be seventeen again? Being seventeen sucks. I know. I just left it behind and God knows I never want to go back. You probably felt the same way at eighteen, you just don't remember it."

"Actually, I do."

"So, what's the problem? You're not old. Fifty is old, and you won't hit that for twenty years."

She took my hand and squeezed it.

"It's all right if I make you feel young again, however stupid that sounds. You make me feel about twenty-five half the time I'm with you. I'm sorry about tonight. I know we can make this work. We just have to meet in the middle somewhere."

"I have an idea."

"What?"

"We could devote an hour or two a week to trying to bridge this gap. You can explain to me what the deal is with Hanson, and I can explain to you who Alan Greenspan is."

"Okay. That's a good idea. Let's do it."

She pulled my hand into her lap, and leaned against my shoulder. When I got to the house, I thought, I live here with her. This is our place now. It felt better than I expected.

We made love, and then she put her sweater back on and walked out the kitchen to get box of crackers. She came back to bed and I switched on the TV. HBO was rerunning "Saturday Night Fever," and we watched it as she munched on Triscuits.

"I don't like to fight with you like that."

"Fighting is communication. It's better that we fight now and then than never fight at all. My wife and I didn't fight all that much, and we got divorced."

"We always seem to have better sex after we fight."

"That's not that unusual either. Fighting gets your emotions all charged up. You're a lot more fun when you get excited."

"And, just for the record, that has nothing to do with my hair, right?"

I kissed her head.

"Whatever you say."

Instead of gardening the next morning, we went out shopping. I had intended to limit it to a few knick-knacks, but we ended up redecorating half the house. She bought new pillows and slipcovers for the living room, new sheets for the bed, and a bunch of assorted pictures and junk to hang on the walls. Then she talked me into repainting the kitchen from its basic white into a pastel gingerbread scheme in yellow and mint green. We spent the rest of the weekend sanding, taping, and painting.

"There," she said when we were done. "That's a kitchen I can live with."

"I guess you're planning on being here a while."

She turned to hug me.

"You're not getting rid of me, sorry."

She moved in just before Christmas, and Marcy and Dennis helped us out. She had already moved most of her stuff over, so much of it was a formality. When we were done, we ordered a pizza for dinner.

On the way out, Marcy started crying and hugging Tracey.

"You're just growing up too fast for me."

"Mom, jeez. I won't be that far away."

"You promise you'll call me every night? At least until I get adjusted to this?"

"Yes, Mom."

Then she hugged me.

"You take care of her, you hear?"

"I'll try. If she lets me."

They got into Dennis's car and drove off as Tracey and I stood and waved. When they were out of sight, she turned around and looked at the house.

"I remember the first time I came over here. I was thinking, 'What am I doing? Why am I flirting with some guy who's fifteen years older than me?' Then I saw this cute little house and everything you'd done with it, and I thought, 'Wow, this is great. I wouldn't mind living here.' Never would have thought it was actually going to happen."

"Me neither."

I hugged her from behind, and she held my arms, leaning back against me. She was quiet for a moment.

"I'm scared."

"What of?"

"This is such a big step. I don't want to ruin what we have."

"It will only happen if we let it."

"Okay."

We went inside, and she wandered back to the bedroom.

"Can we put those new sheets on the bed?"

"Sure."

She dug the bag of new linen out of the closet, and we unwrapped everything. Then we stripped the old sheets off and stretched out the new. She ran her hands over the crisp cotton, feeling the creases. Then she leaned back and began pulling off her clothes.

I almost started laughing.

"What are you doing?"

"I love new sheets. I want to feel them. Come on."

I undressed with her, and we crawled under the covers. She snuggled against me, giggling and writhing against the new fabric.

"Mmm."

She kissed and nibbled on me.

"We have to christen them. Our sheets."

"Our bed."

"Our house."

It's funny how sappy that looks in black and white, huh?

We left for Park City the day after Christmas. Tracey had skied with her parents before her father skipped town with a topless dancer, and had gone up to Big Bear with her friends most winters since then. I had skied almost since I could walk, although there had been about a ten-year hiatus when my family lived in the South. I had gone quite often since then, and my firm went up to Utah on a ski trip every year.

We had to fly out of LAX, which still wasn't enough to change my mind about the proposed airport at El Toro, but we got a direct flight. We got in about seven, and I took a few minutes to savor the clean, icy air as we waited for the hotel shuttle.

Tracey was bundled up in her ski jacket and a scarf, and looked good enough to eat. What is it about ski clothes that makes women look so sexy?

"Rachel was drooling about this whole thing. I think she's finally decided that she's jealous."

"What did she think of those earrings?"

She smiled and played with garnet and diamond earrings I'd given her for Christmas.

"I didn't show them to her. I didn't want to rub it in."

The shuttle arrived, and we rode it into town to the hotel. We had a suite at one of the most expensive hotels in town, but that was mainly because I had thought up this idea too late in the season to have much choice of accommodations. I would be paying this trip off for a few months, but I didn't really mind.

We skied ourselves half to death for three days before deciding to take a break. We walked around town and bought a few souvenirs. Tracey had been complaining about her boots, so I splurged and bought her a new pair of Salomons. That necessitated readjusting her battered six-year-old skis, and before I knew it, I had bought her a new pair of those, too.

"I feel like such the kept woman," she said that night.

"I like buying stuff for you."

"I guess I can't break up with you now. Not until I've worked all this stuff off."

"Nope."

She rolled over on top of me and pinned me down on the bed. She leaned down and rubbed noses with me.

"How do you think Eskimos do it when it's this cold?"

"Igloos can get pretty warm from what I hear. I guess they wrap themselves in bearskins beforehand."

She kissed me for a few seconds.

"Wanna find out?"

"What do you mean?"

"Let's go out in the snow."

"You'll freeze to death."

"No, I won't. I'm very hot right now. Isn't this the sort of feisty thing redheads are supposed to do?"

"I don't know. I've only dated one of them, and she's not usually this adventurous."

"Well, her boyfriend has thoroughly corrupted her. Let's go."

She got a blanket from the room closet and rolled it up tightly enough to fit her backpack. Then, holding hands, we walked out of the hotel and down the street. It took us a while to find an appropriate spot, and we had to walk up into the ski area before lying down behind a snow drift under some trees.

"God, it's cold," she giggled.

"Keep your clothes on."

"That may be difficult."

The blanket was king-sized, so we were able to arrange it so we had something to lie on and still cover us up. We wriggled around, giggling and fondling each other under our clothes. It was quiet and crisp, and the moon was out, so I could see her breath fogging the air. She worked her ski pants off, and pulled open my jeans.

"Come on. My butt is freezing."

I freed myself and rolled on top of her. However cold it was, she was hot as could be inside. I drove myself into her rapidly, and she clawed at my buttocks. She grunted and thrashed under me, then we rolled over, and I let her get on top. The blanket fell back a little, and I arranged it around us as she rode me. I opened her jacket and fondled her breasts over her turtleneck.

She shuddered in orgasm after a few minutes, and fell back, rolling over and pulling me on top of her. I came only a minute later, but it was still enough time for her to get off again. As soon as it was over, she struggled back into her clothes.

"Worth it?"

"Yes. But now I'm freezing."

We walked slowly back to the hotel.

"We've been together for almost six months now," she said.

"And I still like you."

"It seems like six years. So much has happened."

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's good. Just amazing, though."

"Yeah."

"You know, I'll tell you something," I said a few minutes later, "and try not to take this the wrong way."

"Okay."

"The longer we're together, the more I worry about the future."

"Why?"

"When we started going out, I didn't think I was looking for something long term. I had just gotten divorced; I hurt a lot on the inside; I was ready to enjoy some freedom for a change. And I thought, she's nice, I bet we'll have fun, but odds are we'll probably break up after a few months, at the very least when she goes off to college. Back then, I thought that would probably be the best for both of us, even if it might hurt a little."

Her forehead was creased, and her lips were pressed tightly together.

"I figured that was okay, because like I said, I wasn't looking for long term. But now, I've gotten so into you that I think about having you around for a long time. I don't want to break up with you. I like having you with me. I love you. And I worry a great deal what's going to happen after you graduate."

She stopped and took my hands, staring up into my face. She squeezed them and took a deep breath.

"I worry about that, too. And you know what? I worry all the time that this may suddenly evaporate, and that you'll wake up one day and realize you want a woman your own age. I feel like there's so much I can't give you because I'm not even out of high school yet. I don't want to lose you because of that."

"I don't think that's likely to happen."

"But we don't know, right? We don't know what's going to happen, just like I don't know what will happen when I go off to school. I mean, I have no intention of breaking up when I graduate; why else do you think I only applied to places in Orange County?"

"I know that."

"But I don't know what will happen to me in college, if I'll change somehow, like you're always telling me how much you changed during those years. That scares me to death. I love you like I never thought I could love anyone. You think I don't want to spend my life with you? I do. I wouldn't have moved in with you otherwise. I just don't know what's going to happen."

"Okay. I'm sorry I brought this up."

"No, no, it's good to get this out in the open. I feel the same way you do. All I can tell you is that I will try my hardest to make this work, no matter what happens."

"So will I."

"Okay. Let's go to bed. I'm tired."

We went back to the slopes the next day, and Tracey broke in her new equipment. The weather was perfect, not too cold, and utterly, brilliantly, clear as it only can get up in the mountains. She had been quiet the most of the morning, and I noticed her giving me a lot of long looks as we skied around.

Near lunchtime, we rode the lift to the top of the mountain, intending to eat at the lodge at the top. I stopped when we got off the chair and looked down at the valley and Salt Lake City far below. We were just above the tree line, or at least they had cut the trees down at this level, and I could see about a hundred miles away.

Tracey skied up next to me and looked out as well.

"It's pretty."

"Almost as beautiful as you."

She stared at me for a moment, and then took a deep breath.

"Marry me," she said softly.

I don't think I'd ever been as shocked in my entire life. I got a little light-headed, and couldn't answer her for about five seconds.

"Don't say that unless you mean it," I gasped.

"I'm totally serious. I've been thinking about this since last night. The next few years are going to be very difficult for us. The only way we can be certain we'll stay together is if we make a serious commitment. Just promising to work at it isn't enough. Anyone can do that. Words alone are worth jack."

"I know."

"And I know you're worried about getting divorced again because I might meet someone in college or get liberated or God knows what else might happen. This is the most I can do to promise you that I want to stay with you. There isn't anything else I can do. It's a promise to myself as much as to you. It's a promise that I'm not going to let the best thing that ever happened to me get out of my life just because I may have some maturing left to do."

I tried to catch my breath.

"I can see you've thought this through."

"Do you want to marry me? Forget about what I'm going to do."

"Yes. More than you know."

"I was up a long time last night. The idea popped into my head after our discussion. Believe me, it shocked me as much as it did you. But I know in my heart it's the right thing to do. You're the one I want to spend the rest of my life with."

I looked around at the mountain, and the other skiers. No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to us.

"I wonder if anyone has ever gotten engaged up here before."

"Probably. It's such a beautiful spot."

"Tracey, listen to me. Getting divorced was the worst experience of my life. I do not want to go through that again. If we do this, it's for good. You will not get rid of me."

"What can I say to you besides what I already have? I want to marry you. What else is there?"

"Okay. Let's do it, then."

She said she had thought hard about it, but I'm not sure the reality of it hit her until that moment. Joy battled nervousness on her face for a second or two; then she smiled and hugged me as tightly as she could on her skis. I was still dizzy, and I wanted desperately to believe this wasn't a mistake. But she was been right. We couldn't know what would happen. All we could do was commit ourselves to working on it.

When she let me go, she was crying and laughing at the same time.

"Oh, God. I can't believe we're doing this."

"Everyone we know will freak."

"Except my mom. I have a feeling she saw this coming."

"You think so?"

"She's like that. Not a lot surprises her."

I looked downhill.

"Well, it looks like we have some more shopping to do."

She gripped her poles tightly.

"Oh God, oh God. Okay. Let's go."

We schussed off, straight down the hill, black diamonds leading to white.