I kissed her on the mouth. Then I put my arms around her and held her. She returned the embrace and the kiss for a moment, then she broke off.

“No, Micky, this isn’t right,” she said, still in my arms.

“But it’s not so wrong,” I answered.

“No, it’s not.”

“Alex?” I questioned.

“No, not really.” And she let go of me, pulling away. “Sleeping with you wouldn’t change my love for her.” She looked out the window for an instant, then turned back to me. “I won’t sleep with you because I can’t walk away from you. I like you too much to sleep with you, does that make sense?”

“No, but it’s original. A lot of people have said no, but none of them because they liked me too much.”

“If you ever need someone, really need someone to hold you through the night, I will. I’ll be there for you. Through the night and into the morning. Do you need me now or do you just want me?”

“Want,” I answered, afraid of the morning. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t, couldn’t admit I needed her. If I did.

“Okay, then go put away the dishes.”

“Show me where.” She led the way back into the kitchen. “Oh, and Joanne? That’s the nicest rejection I’ve ever had,” I said.

“It wasn’t a rejection. Pots and pans next to the stove,” she directed.

We had just finished making the kitchen spic-and-span when Ranson’s doorbell rang. The door opened and Alex’s voice called out a hello.

“Good thing we’re doing the dishes,” Ranson commented dryly. Then she went into the living room. I didn’t hear what she said to Alex, but Alex’s reply was, “Oh, I know. But I figured I could only make the two of you safer. What mobster in his right mind would risk harming Bo and Marcia Sayers’ little girl? Football alums are a bigger mob than the mob, and they take their old stars seriously. Besides, my picture was in the paper just last week. I’m too public to be killed easily.”

“Hi, Alex,” I said. “Did you play football?”

Ranson had a look of mixed exasperation and amusement on her face and was shaking her head.

“Micky, you mean you don’t know the star quarterback of the 1947 Tigers was my dad? It never fails, any man I meet over the age of thirty-five always asks if I’m number eleven’s daughter,” Alex explained. “And yes, I play football. I love tackling women.” She flashed a smile at both of us. “Besides, I’m in the mood for a disaster. Better your kitchen than mine.” She had two shopping bags with her, which she handed to Ranson, who handed them to me. “Mexican. Want to make bets on whether it will be edible or not?”

It wasn’t a disaster, it was delicious. Fortunately, neither Ranson nor I had bet on it being inedible.

When Ranson finally commented on how late it was, Alex smiled.

“I’ve brought my pajamas. I’ll go change.”

Ranson started to argue with her about the safety of staying the night.

“It’s not safe leaving you with tall, good-looking women, Joanne, dear,” she answered.

Ranson and I carefully avoided looking at each other.

“Besides,” Alex continued, “I know you silent, butch types. You’ll never eat breakfast and spend the rest of the week ordering pizzas for dinner.”

Ranson relented. After seeing her around Alex for the evening, I finally began to think of her as Joanne, because she seemed more relaxed and informal than I’d ever seen her. There was a companionableness between them that I could only envy.

I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed. When I came back out, most of the lights had been turned off. Alex was standing behind Joanne rubbing her shoulders, then Joanne turned to her and they kissed for a long time. I crept back into the bathroom, not wanting to intrude. After what seemed like a decent interval, I made a noisy exit back out to the living room.

“About time,” Ranson commented. Alex winked at me.

“Mexican food always slows me down,” I said and winked back.

They finished in the bathroom, said good night, and then shut the bedroom door, leaving me on the couch.

They were pretty quiet, but I did hear an occasional noise from beyond the door and I knew they were making love.

I felt like an intruder; I imagined that they were being quiet for my sake. They had waited for a while before they started, probably hoping that I would be asleep.

But I couldn’t sleep. Memories of both Frankie and Barbara were too clear, too sharply etched to allow the blur of sleep to overtake me. It was probably the sharp edge of my senses that allowed me to hear Joanne and Alex make love.

Hearing them only made me sad, not in an envious way, but with a wistfulness for something I never had and probably never would. I knew Joanne meant what she said about holding me in the night if I really needed it, but there is a difference in being held by arms that are close and always there and arms that aren’t.

After their quiet rustlings had stopped and been still for a while, I found my suitcase and the bottle of Scotch. I badly needed to dull my edges. I lay in the dark drinking Scotch out of the bottle.

I heard the bedroom door open. I lay motionless, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice my wakefulness.

It was Alex who walked past me to the bathroom. I put the bottle down on the floor, hoping to make it invisible in the dark.

The door clicked open and Alex came back out, but I didn’t hear her footsteps pass me. I lay still, hoping she would think I was asleep. I heard a soft swish and realized that she was standing next to me.

“I saw the bottle,” she said softly.

Damn it.

“Can I turn on the reading light?” she asked.

I reached up and did it for her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I mumbled.

She picked up the bottle and looked at it.

“Three fingers’ worth,” she said. “Joanne’s parents were alcoholics. She knows all the tricks. She found it earlier.”

“I’m not an alcoholic. I just don’t sleep very well when my friends have been murdered,” I answered back.

“This isn’t the solution,” she said. She was kneeling on the floor next to me.

“Then give me one,” I demanded in a low voice. I didn’t want Ranson to come out here and find me with the bottle.

Alex sighed. “I wish I could,” she said. “I’ve known Joanne for a long time now and held her through a lot of nights, but I can’t make her pain go away. I couldn’t presume to touch yours.”

“Which is?” I wanted to know what Ranson had told her.

“I don’t know. Only you do. Want to talk?”

“No, I’m okay. Just thinking too much. The Scotch helps.”

“For a while.”

“Every bit helps. It’s a distraction.”

“There are better ways to be distracted,” Alex said.

“Not at hand.”

“How about a bedtime story?” she suggested.