bantering with their groupies, and Frannie was delightedly reckless and lightheaded. And maybe, still, a little drunk. But unbelievably full of some nameless and magical bliss.
At length, her seatmate stood to stretch, then bent to whisper in her ear.
“I don’t know what I can do to thank you. If the drinks weren’t already free, I’d buy you a drink.” He saw the dealer watching them suspiciously and hurriedly resumed his seat, continuing aloud:
“You’re my lucky charm tonight, but what’s your name? Lady Luck? Whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it right. I’ve never won at cards like this. Never.”
Even his breath was fragrant, thought Frannie. He slid his arm along the back of her stool and squeezed her shoulders. A hug, if she wasn’t mistaken. And then he turned her face to his and kissed her full on the mouth. Blushing and shaken, Frannie looked hurriedly down. It had been so long.
Kiss me again, she silently prayed.
But she answered aloud, “Frannie. My name is Frannie.”
She would never, ever, forget him. Or this night. If it had all been real, if she’d been allowed that priceless second chance, this was the man she knew she would love.
“Frannie,” he laughed aloud. “Canny Frannie! I love you!”
He hugged her hard once more.
A little delighted, a little scared, she gracelessly freed herself.
“Listen. Thanks so much for the offer of the free drink,” she smiled up at him, “but I think I ought to go home now. I’ve had a very big night.”
And casting a bewildered glance around the room, searching for, suddenly … she didn’t know what. “I wish I could tell you what kind of night it’s been.”
“Well how about my night?” he countered. “Thanks to you, I think I’ve won something like …” he clicked expertly through his stacks of chips. “… $22,000. My God.”
Again he stood. “Why not let me walk you to your car, anyway?”
But Frannie was afraid to be alone in the dark with a stranger – even this beautiful, desirable stranger – and when she’d cashed in her own chips, she might have a good bit of cash on her, too.
“No. No thanks. I’ll be just fine.”
Looking pointedly at her watch, she lied. “Someone’s picking me up in a few minutes anyway.”
“I’m so sorry you have to go,” he replied. And swiping at some feathers of downy-white hair, he offered her something that seemed like a bow and almost whispered (she must be imagining this, she thought.) “It’s been totally amazing, Frannie. I’m incredibly lucky you decided to sit beside me.”
“I’ve felt kind of lucky all night, too,” Frannie replied. “Well … almost all night.”
Walking away, she couldn’t help but look back. He was blowing her a kiss.
Giddy, and probably tipsy, she wandered, first, into a dark mini-dining area and then into a vacant private gambling room, until ultimately she found her way to the cashier’s window, cashing out her winnings – $35,640, omigod! – and picking her way through the still-dense crowds to the quiet of the shadowy stairs. Despite the fiasco with Randi – which seemed days ago already – Frannie was euphoric. A beautiful young man had just hugged her, kissed her on the lips and asked her name. Wonderful! Ludicrous!
And she’d won a lot of money as well.
As she made her way to the street, it occurred to her that now, if she wanted to – and, yes, she did – she had more than enough to buy that old painting.
The drive home felt long – so long that all her elation was melting away.
Stanley. Should she tell him? And if she didn’t, how could she possibly explain all this money? She touched the envelope beside her, to be sure it was there. And on top of everything else, there seemed to be a problem with the car: its heater was running uncomfortably hot and the heat was making her itch. Her chest. Her belly. Her thighs. Beneath the sleeves of her good navy coat she felt poison ivy, maybe, or major mosquito bites. But this was March and poison ivy was dormant, so what could have bitten her? Insects weren’t around now. But her scalp and neck were suddenly driving her crazy, too. Crazy enough that at the first stoplight she came to, Frannie tore off her gloves, stuffed them into her tote and scratched herself fiercely all over. She scratched and rubbed until it hurt, but none of it seemed to help. She’d need to get that heater checked tomorrow. Maybe some kind of mold in the vents? She turned the heater off and accelerated. She wanted to get home. But still, she felt queer. Too close to the steering wheel, for one thing. And so, on Washington Avenue, right near Tucker, Frannie pulled the little car to the curb because her shoes were also hurting her madly and she needed to kick them off her feet, right away. In the weird green glare of the overhead streetlight, she leaned down to yank off one pump, but straightened up so fast her head banged the steering wheel hard. Her right foot was huge! She leaned down to feel it again. Her stocking was torn, in fact, and it seemed her long second toe was gone! But wait, Frannie said to herself: it was dark down there on the floor. She had to be wrong. Bending to remove her other shoe, she noticed her sleeves. Her wrists stuck out well beyond them. Frannie grabbed at the hem of her skirt and pulled it up off her thighs. Then she swung both legs over to the passenger seat and turned on the roof light.
Long, long legs. Long, long legs with slender ankles and incredibly narrow feet. No long second toes. Vomit rose in her throat. She threw the money in back and examined these legs and those feet. They were slim and lean and there, on the inside of that left ankle, she could almost make out a sort of mark. A mole? Something small and very odd. Frannie scrabbled again in her purse, found her glasses, jiggled them on. But now everything got blurry, so she jerked them off and, crossing her left leg over her other knee, she examined that ankle up close.
It was a tattoo.
She didn’t need glasses to see what it was.
A small red pitchfork.
Frannie tore out of the car and now, barefoot, stood on the cold, prickly grass of the verge. By resting her arms on the roof of the car and bending a little at the knees, she was able to lay her forehead against the driver’s-side window. Her ragged breath was fogging the glass. Did she belong – not to Randi now – but she couldn’t remember that other, peculiar, name? Mrs. Someone? Had she actually sold her soul? My God.
She needed to get home.
Closing the front door softly, Frannie crept into the hall. No lights. No TV. Stanley seemed to have found his way to bed.
She paused inside the bedroom door to listen for his chesty breathing before feeling her way around both their beds and into the bathroom. Once there, in the dark, she quietly stripped off her clothes and pulled the door behind her, turning on the light. Her heart hammered hard in her chest as she turned to the bathroom mirror.
She was someone else.
Someone with a wavy mass of coppery hair who had to bend her knees to see it all, because this … person … was extraordinarily tall. She had an oval face, small ears, and hazel eyes (not the familiar brown). Her nose was straight and fine, her mouth was full, and her neck was, yes – Frannie allowed herself the word – swanlike.
A flawless face on the perfect body of a very young woman looked back at her.
Frannie took in the broad, smooth shoulders, the incandescent skin. And the breasts! Her breasts! They were pinkly-nippled and sitting high and heavy on a long slender torso bisected by – she could just make it out, the vertical shadow of trim, sound, muscle. And her stomach. She touched it. Porcelain-white and flat, it swelled ever so gently before disappearing into a wild russet growth of pubic hair. Turning her back to the mirror, she could see – over her shoulder – the buttocks of a Callipygian Venus.
Omigod. Omigod.
She