Inhale . . . Expanding ribs and stomach, feeling the muscles around her diaphragm pulling for even more

air . . . Don't raise your shoulders. Exhale . . . muscles working reverse, letting the air go as slowly as possible, but all of it go out in the end to make all possible room for fresh. Inhale. . . exhale.

Just above a whisper she vocalized a round "ah" at middle C and holding, then increased volume to full voice. C became D, whisper to full voice and back again. She worked her lower range first, pushing on the D below middle C to keep it accessible. There were not a lot of women who could hit and hold a note that low. All warmed up, her throat was a musi¬cal instrument that ran scales, flipped between upper-and lower-range notes and slid two octaves like butter. It sounded as good at nearly forty as it had at nineteen. Heck, it sounded better.

She forgot all about Trish in the lush beauty of the B-flat that opened a short French art song. Love, flowers, blue skies all ended at that B-flat again. The world was her voice.

She flipped on an accompaniment recorded on a CD and ran through several standards she always had ready: "Rainy Days and Mondays," "Love for Sale," "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" "The Air That I Breathe." She spent another half hour trying out a new song, "When She Believed in Me," for the jazz festival where she would perform with David Benoit. It would be great exposure, and she owed the gig to Naomi's perseverance with the recording label that represented Benoit. It was possible the live gig would lead to another recording chance, even if it was on someone else's project. The song originally had been written for and recorded by Kenny Loggins, but she pushed the memory of his voice out of her ear and found her own inflections.

Singing jazz for a week in New York had made her lax with her phrasing. It always did. Phrasing mat¬tered less with jazz, where the rhythm and harmonies were what the other musicians counted on. She made her vocal muscles remember better habits by running thrbugh some lengthy pieces, including Sting's "Fields of Gold" and Loreena McKennitt's "Lady of Shalott." They both required concentration on phrasing and memory. When she finished she felt back to normal. Her voice was still her rock. Nothing could bother her now.

Fuck you, Trish.

Replenished with a bottle of water and a bagel slathered with cream cheese, she headed for the office and discovered a series of faxes waiting — various waivers and forms to close or restrict accounts. She also discovered an e-mail from Trish saying that closing off her access to the checking account had been breach of contract since fees were due her for work Rett had performed.

Rett sent back a short missive. At her earliest convenience, Naomi will account for your unpaid per¬centage from which she'll deduct the funds and cash advances you withdrew yesterday. Please keep her informed as to your location since this e-mail address will go away tomorrow. She didn't add that the credit cards were all canceled. Let Trish find that out for herself, and please, Goddess of Retribution on Faith¬less Lovers, let it be in the most embarrassing setting possible.

The thought of credit card bills made her realize the mail was due. She found Mrs. Bernstein in the lobby trying to ferry her groceries from the parking garage to the elevator. Mrs. Bernstein wouldn't admit

to being a day over seventy, but Rett suspected eighty was closer to the truth.

"I'll carry those if you'll get the mail," Rett bar¬gained. Mrs. Bernstein treasured her independence.

"I must admit they seem uncommonly heavy today. Thank you, dear." Once Rett had taken the bags, Mrs. Bernstein removed her gloves and tucked them into the matching leather bag.

"Of course I might insist on a cup of your coffee." The delicious Viennese blend would lift her spirits con¬siderably.

"You won't have to twist my arm. I have some ginger cookies my granddaughter made me if you're so inclined."

The elevator chugged its way upward while Mrs. Bernstein talked about the weather and the smog. She would discuss nothing personal until she was inside her four walls, where, as she had once told Rett with a sour glance at her neighbor's door, she knew no one was listening to her private business.

Once inside Mrs. Bernstein made deliberate haste to the kitchen. "I'll make us both a cup, dear. Here's your mail. Looks like something nice is right on top. I'll have nothing but bills."

The "something nice" was a hand-addressed gray envelope — no doubt an invitation of some sort. There was no return address on the front, so she turned it over.

Time shivered to a halt.

She had not thought about Cinny Keilor con¬sciously for years, although her fantasies had been known to include a lissome blonde with tanned legs and a tight sweater — pink and fluffy. Cinny Keilor.