Beyond here there be dragons, less than pretty language, and malevolent prose. People of the same sex get frisky with other people of the same sex. Alcohol happens, what happens when alcohol happens (that's violence, if you're not familiar with the phenomenon). That said, there's nothing too graphic in here. And there's a lot of made up stuff that I didn't have time to research - that's why I'm calling it fiction.

Thanks to the finest beta reader a part-time bard could ask for. She's a rockin' beta gal. And thanks to anyone, anywhere who's had anything to do with getting and keeping the show on the air. It's been a hoot.

Creme Brulee: cremebrulee@myrealbox.com

Part 4

Since Saturday and Sunday were busy nights at the restaurant, they decided they'd leave Jason's apartment until Monday. French took Mondays off, so did most chefs. The town was also less populated that night.

In the meantime, Fry was going to pump the local grapevine for information on Bernie and Louisa. Who knew? Maybe something would turn up. This was frustrating business. She felt like they were wandering in the dark and she couldn't shake the feeling that French was sending her off to do busy work while she traced down more important leads. It was probably a small miracle that French had let her get this involved, so she decided to go with it.

She arrived for work ten minutes early as expected by the management and donned her battle dress. This is how she'd come to think of her tie, vest and apron. French called her over as she passed by on her way out to the floor.

"Glad that you were able to fit us into your busy schedule this evening."

"Oh, you know how it is, I was able to move a few things around."

French held out a small piece of toast with something on it. "Try moving this around your mouth, then tell me what you think."

"Not this again?" Fry had hoped it might be a phase.

"Don't tell me what's in it, though you can if you want to. Tell me what you think of it."

Was French looking for an opinion? No. Fry was sure that couldn't be it, not in this lifetime. The chef was up to something else. She nibbled a bit of the rich smelling, creamy spread and was lost in another plane of sensation altogether. Until she felt French poking her in the arm.

"Come on, we don't have all day here Miss Swoony. Focus, think, speak."

"You're so bossy." French could really kill a buzz.

"And that would be why?"

"Oh right, you're the boss. How could I ever forget? It's heavenly."

"Could you be more specific?"

"It's deeply flavorful. Not just rich, but smokey, with an edge."

"Better. Now get out there and do that cheerful thing people seem to like so much."

"Yes ma'am."

The evening raced along. French called her over a couple of times and they repeated the tasting, but the chef asked her a couple of leading questions each time. Helping her compare or contrast the flavors she'd sampled. It was fun. So was the look on Andre's face whenever French was otherwise occupied. Chilli was looking at her funny too, as if she'd wrestled an alligator on the kitchen floor single-handed. Was this respect from the kitchen crew? It felt more like awe, possibly fear.

Then, the very air seemed to change flavor. Fry put it down to that odd quality that existed in Bachanal, the almost sentient atmosphere. She'd just finished plating a table when she saw Barbra seat Mitchell Redmond and three guests in Miguel's section. Nothing went well after that.

French knew it was Mitchell. What else could curdle her mood so thoroughly? When he came into the kitchen with a thin blonde draped on his arm, she was ready for him.

"A wonderful evening as always French. But I must say, my guest was disappointed in your choice of wines." He gave a sad little pout and turned to the woman in question. "Serena dear, this is French."

If French didn't think rolling her eyes would have been overkill, she would have done it and then some. Mitchell's pathetic attempts to make her jealous had always involved underfed blondes that had an eerie resemblance to his mother.

The woman in question spoke for herself. "The selection was perfect, it's the wines that were off. Are you sure they're stored properly? That Antinori Solaia should be more oaky, you may have them warmer than they need to be." For a thin thing, she had an attractively deep purr to her voice.

"I'm sorry if the choice wasn't up to your expectation. I'll be sure to make a note to have the wine rooms checked. Please accept our deepest apologies and a meal on the house for your next visit." If French's teeth hadn't been bone solid and perfect, they may have crushed under the pressure exerted by her jaw as she snapped it shut. She had a funny feeling that if she checked the wine cellar carefully, she'd find a few things that were off. This bitch was good.

"Oh, that won't be necessary. Anything to come to the aid of a colleague. I know how difficult it can be to keep track of a hectic operation. Sometimes the most expert chef can make the most obvious mistake. There's never enough time." The smile that broke over Serena's face was measured and there was a cruel glint in her eye. She was going to enjoy taking out this amazon.

"If you'll excuse us, we're finishing up the evening's rush." French indicated the waitstaff squeezing by on their way out. The fact that she indicated it with her knife wasn't lost on Mitchell.

"Just dropped in to compliment the chef." Mitchell bowed his head slightly and held the door for Serena. That's when Fry was coming through with a tray and not expecting the 'in' door to be quite so crowded. She tried to back pedal, but it was too late. Several glasses tipped on the tray and she felt the balance go. Serena put out a steadying hand that lent a bit of stability to the toppling dishes, but not enough. Mitchell's shirtfront took the brunt of the alcohol and leftovers.

Fry was mortified. Not only had she crashed another tray, she'd done it all over Mitchell Redmond. She knew he was in her way, but she doubted French would be sympathetic to her position. When she saw the smirk on the chef's face, she was given hope that she might live to tell the tale.

Mitchell looked to French for a reaction. She shrugged as if to say, you stand in traffic you'll get hit - asshole.

With the doorway occupied and wide open French had a good view of the two men standing just outside. It wasn't Heckle and Jeckle, the nicknames she'd given Mitchell's usual muscle, Tim and Paul. These were muscle nonetheless. Those guys rarely looked comfortable anywhere but a back alley making some poor bastard's life miserable. The ones who were any good at their jobs. She noticed them looking the room over.

Fry began to wipe at the stains on Mitchell's shirt and jacket.

"Oh, leave it." He snapped and brushed her away. "Let's go."

French was on full alert. And man did it feel good. No two-bit muscle, dyed blonde and mixed up mama's boy were taking her down. Not by a long shot. She welcomed the surge of adrenaline that pulsed through her veins. She'd missed this.

Looking for a killer had given her multifaceted brain something to do, but it was an abstract sort of something. French preferred the tangible. Having something solid to grapple with, or kick in the head. Something was amiss in her new life, and the most prominent things she'd eradicated from her life besides outright evil, were the sex and violence that had been a part of her daily diet for years. Perhaps finding a way to integrate these things by degree, and in a purely positive manner, of course, was the way to go. Or maybe not, because while she truly felt like chasing Mitchell's elegant little party into the parking lot and kicking their asses into the harbor, she didn't want to have sex with any of them.

Recently she'd begun to wonder, could you die from the boredom of goodness? Fry appeared to do alright, but who knew what her life was really like? French hadn't asked.

She pictured Fry in her off time delivering meals on wheels and chatting with the elderly. That would kill French but quick. Maybe she could start giving self-defense classes or something, that way she'd have an excuse to kick some ass. But you probably wouldn't get very far beating up your own students. She could look around for a sparring partner on the island. Weirder things had happened than finding another Wu Shu freak with a black belt on this rock. She'd give it some thought.

Sonny debated telling French anything. She was loco at best and at worst a raving bitch. But she was the chef. And though he wasn't impressed with her management style, he couldn't fault her talent. He was learning from her. Besides, you never knew what might play in your favor. And if she laughed him off and went on a rampage, she'd get what she deserved.

At the end of the evening he approached her office door. This was his last opportunity to debate the pros and cons.

"Sonny, either you come in or get lost. I don't need people lurking around my door!" That was the truth. There'd already been someone lurking around in the store rooms downstairs. She'd gone over them with a fine tooth comb. There'd been someone screwing with her wines alright. This wasn't the kind of thing French was prone to take lightly, or well. Good thing she had a reasonable idea of who it was and was certain that she'd have an opportunity to take it out on them soon.

Sonny sat on the couch and tried to figure out a good way to tell French she'd probably made the worst enemy of her life that evening. It was so easy until you had to face French in person. Being alone with her never seemed like a good idea.

"That woman who came in tonight. She's messed up." He said.

"And that's got what to do with me?" An internet search engine couldn't turn up information faster than the restaurant grapevine. She'd bet on it every time.

"I worked at a place in the city where she'd just quit. The guy who ran the kitchen pissed her off. This was a mob operation. I swear to you, even the boss, Micky Dilfano was scared shitless of her. He put twenty-four seven security on the place."

French laughed. "Afraid of fire, was Micky?"

"No. She doesn't do the torching thing. The last place she left had been blown to bits. Nothing left. She's into explosives. Gets off on it too."

French thought, "Aw gee Mitchell, I thought I was your little pyrotechnician..." To Sonny she said, "Well, well, this is fascinating news. Tell me more."

Sonny wasn't sure if he'd heard right. French was clearly intrigued, if not pleased by the news.

As days of the week went, Mondays were unique at Bachanal. Without French, it was almost like another restaurant. But with the experienced crew, no customer, who didn't know not to dine out on a Monday in the first place, would complain. Brian, for all of French's berating and cajoling, was a good sous chef, and a hell of a lot easier to work for.

They'd had a decent day overall. The regattas, arts and music festivals had started and the steady stream of people coming and going from the island kept everyone busy.

The crew was finished up and mingling out back before taking off. Max was trying to convince Barbra to head over to The Dance Bar with some of them.

"I don't know Max, I'm beat and I'm on tomorrow."

"Come on Barbra," Jacqueline started. "You haven't been out with us in a week. Call Michael and tell him to meet us."

"Yeah, right." Barbra snorted. Her ever practical, retiring boyfriend was the last person on the island you'd find in The Dance Bar of a Monday evening. He'd rather stay home and polish his equipment, his firefighting equipment that is. Michael was a full-time math and science teacher at Midstock High, and a volunteer fireman when ever else he possibly could be. Much to Barbra's frequent consternation. "I'll call him and let him know I'll be late."

"Hey, maybe French will show tonight." Chilli's innocent remark cut a hole in the conversation around him. Several of his coworkers looked his way.

"And that would be a good thing?" Max wanted to know.

"Yeah, like we're supposed to kick back, have a good time, and bitch about her while she's breathing down our necks and generally scaring the shit out of us?" Milo chimed in.

"She acts like she's all that, but she doesn't scare me." Jacqueline couldn't stand the way the crew cowered around French, or the amount of attention they gave her when she wasn't there.

"She should." Miguel appeared from around the corner. He'd just finished locking up with Brian. "French isn't your garden variety 'spit in your soup' kind of spiteful, she's the 'check your brakes before you leave the parking lot' kind of frightful. I, for one, am scared senseless of her."

"You're such a Queen Miguel!" Jacqueline admonished him.

"And you are a special brand of stupid if you test her. I kid you not." He replied.

"He's right. But she's been kinda different this summer, ya know?" Chilli asked. The tension in the group had risen since they started on the topic of their formidable employer. Lord knew, the restaurant had ears and Miguel was as good as French's own, but the thing that most increased their discomfort was the subject of French's "change". None had dared to speak of it aloud. And now, they unconsciously fell into hushed tones.

"Like she's tense all the time, but not psycho really." Brian ventured.

"Yes," Juan added. "I have noticed that she will stop and take a breath before screaming at a purveyor. She seems more relaxed. And she is easier to be in the store room with, I do not feel in danger."

"That's it." Chilli agreed. "Like, she's easier to be around." A few heads nodded.

Barbra found this hard to believe. "How can that raving monomaniac be easier to be around?"

"Well," Andre said. "For one thing, she hasn't stabbed anybody this summer."

"Are you telling me that she knifes you guys? Why do you put up with that crap? Why doesn't someone put her away?"

"It's not like they don't deserve it. And she never starts it." Andre said.

"Oh please, she'd goad a saint into a killing frenzy." Barbra was sure of it.

"No, remember Drexel? The hot-shit sautee guy from Chez Asterix in the Hamptons?" Chilli asked. Andre and Brian nodded and laughed. "He leaked French's Hilltop Festival Taste Off menu before she was ready to announce it. It was going to be this big deal. He walks in the kitchen for shift, she grabs him by the jacket, hoists him off the ground and pins him to the wall. With his own knives."

"Oh my god! Didn't anyone call the police?" Barbra was horrified.

"She didn't stab him, just hung him from his jacket. Looked like a scarecrow. He didn't show again, I think he got the hint. What an asshole." Chilli had hated Drexel. He was a flashy son of a bitch. But it was all for show, his moves and knife work were crap.

"She stabbed Jim Unger when he tried to jump her in the back hall." Andre reminded them. "Just kept on walking to her office, called the ambulance, got whatever it was she went back there for and finished shift. Cool as a cucumber."

"Oh." Barbra knew Jim Unger. He was a big guy with a good reputation in the kitchen, unless he was drunk, in which case he was a meanspirited jerk. He'd harassed a few of her friends in various kitchens over the years. She'd never liked him. "Why'd she have a knife on her if she was going out back?"

"French is always armed." Andre informed her in a tone that asked, "Didn't you know?"

"Of course she is, why did I ask? So, it's like she's more bark than bite this summer?"

"Yeah, but I'd still watch it if I were you Sonny." Andre warned.

"Yeah, yeah. I got the message. I'm not stupid."

"Well," Jacqueline said. "I think women are her soft spot." She'd noticed that French hadn't barely raised her voice at Fry, even when the little townie had deserved it.

"You wouldn't say that if you'd known Dierdre Brenner. She may not be immune to the charms of women, but she ain't undone by them either." Milo assured her.

"What'd she do?" Barbra was finding this bull session extremely informative, if disturbing.

"Dierdre slept with French and got the wrong idea, like maybe it mattered or something. French usually has a plaything or two on the staff each summer. Anyway, Dierdre got more and more pissed off when French started ignoring her. That's standard operating procedure when French has moved on. Most people take the hint and back off, or quit. One night French went home with Ken. When Dierdre found out, she lost it and confronted French during the dinner rush. She had this fit and started throwing things. French just stood there and watched her, kinda bored looking. Then Dierdre picked up one of French's knives. It was over in the blink of an eye. Dierdre had a concussion and had to eat from a straw for a couple of weeks."

"Again, I ask, why hasn't anyone locked her up?"

"French is too smart. She waits until someone else makes a wrong move. She could make a snake blink." Milo was sure of it.

"No doubt." So was Barbra.

Across town another conversation was taking place between members of the Bachanal outfit. Not that French considered herself a member of anything, but in this case she was definitely one of two people involved in an undertaking that was the other side of legal.

"Would you hurry up?" She prompted Fry in an impatient whisper.

"I am hurrying, Pushy Pete. It's a longer climb up for me, that's all."

"How do you figure the climb's any longer for you than me?"

"You started off a good three rungs higher than me. Not to mention the last few you skipped when you hoisted yourself through the top. Show off." Fry's head broke even with the platform and she carefully maneuvered herself onto it. The landing was tiny and she held onto the railing as she adjusted to the height and tried to look as casual as French who was sitting next to a window she'd jimmied open. They were around the back of a house. Jason lived on the second floor of a triple decker and conveniently enough, there was a small fire escape that led directly to one of the windows. Fry wasn't comfortable with heights over fifteen feet. She was stretching her limit here.

"Why didn't you mention that you don't like heights?" Fry's stiff movements and the white glow emanating from her knuckles as she gripped the bars of the small landing tipped French off to her discomfort.

"And give you the perfect excuse to leave me down there? I don't think so."

"I could have opened the door for you." French explained. Fry could be so defensive.

"Oh. Well, could we continue this chat in there? I'd appreciate it." She didn't want to rush French. While the chef hadn't displayed much of a sense of humor, Fry guessed that she'd have the slightly cruel, teasing kind. And pointing out weaknesses to people like that got you nothing but trouble. She repeated her mantra that pain and suffering were illusions. However, the physical sensation she was experiencing from an irrational anxiety felt as though it might suffocate her.

As it was, French didn't consider it cruelty, just good, honest fun to poke at someone's soft spots, metaphorically speaking. But the prospect of a frightened and upset Fry didn't give her a lift, so she pushed the window up enough for Fry to slip through and followed on her heels.

It was dark in there. Fry could barely make anything out by the light filtering in from the windows. No one was home in the house, probably all out partying. Jason lived alone, but the building he lived in had a few apartments, all let out to younger people who were either vacationing for the summer and partying, or working for the summer and partying.

There wasn't enough light to help her find a lamp or switch. She reached into her pocket to try her mini light when she heard a loud snickering noise. She was reasonably sure it wasn't French, who was somewhere behind her.

"Fry?" French hadn't liked the sound of that, not one bit. Then she doubled over from the force of something hard smacking into her abdomen.

"Son of a bitch!" She simultaneously wheezed and ground the words out through clenched teeth as she latched onto the appendage, an arm, she was sure, and twisted it. A satisfactory crunch was followed by a shout of pain. French kneed whoever it was in the chest and stilled her movement as the body slumped to the floor.

"Fry?" She tried to locate the waitress. Her flashlight had fallen to the floor when she'd been hit. She'd have to go on hearing alone. She knew there was another person in the room, but they were playing hard to get.

So was Fry, whose automatic reaction to being grabbed from behind was to go limp. It's what you do in a protest. And it had worked here too in the dark. For some strange reason, she'd also rolled herself out of the way. It was one of those mental aberrations that happens in moments of extreme fear, she'd confused tuck and roll with limp and unhelpful. But it had worked, no one had grabbed after her once she'd slid to the floor and started rolling.

"French," she warned from her new position on the floor. "I'm here." Wherever that was, she had no clue in the dark. "Watch out for the big guy."

"Yeah, the big guy." A deep voice startled French from behind. She couldn't believe she'd let him get so close. As he reached out to grab her she stepped back sharply and snapped her head back further. She'd always assumed the back of her head reached about to Tim's nose. Seemed she was right. He bellowed and grabbed at the body part in question. If there'd been light, they'd have seen the blood rush down onto his mouth and chin. Tim was a bleeder.

French had no time to congratulate herself on a job well done. Tim, while being a bleeder, and slightly jumpy, was also practically impervious to pain. He'd recovered quickly and was pissed. But that was okay with French because she'd had time to back up and was in the process of spin kicking the bottom of her foot into Tim's chest. He grunted as he flew backward, then crashed into something hard.

As she made for what she was sure was the door and a light switch, she paused briefly to knee Paul in the head as he tried to regain his feet.

There was no light switch. There was a lamp, and it wasn't in a convenient spot, which is why Fry hadn't located it. The sound of sirens in the neighborhood gave her an extra incentive to grab Fry and get the hell out of there. She flicked on the light and as her eyes adjusted she was alarmed to find no trace of her. "Where the hell are you?"

"Oh, I guess I'm under the bed." Fry could now understand why she hadn't been able to get up and help the chef. She pushed off the bed frame to maneuver herself out from under it and felt something that didn't belong there.

"Hurry it up. I hear sirens. My bet is Heckle and Jeckle here came in the front and weren't too subtle about it. Let's go before we're hauled in by Dil and his friends."

"Just a sec." Fry was busy peeling tape off of what felt like a small metal box.

"What the hell are you doing under there? Matching socks? Move it, they're on the block." Fry had just gotten the box free when French dragged her out from under the bed by her ankles.

"Oh my gosh!" Fry saw the room for the first time. There were two large men sprawled in various states of disarray and damage on the floor. They were both wearing goggles. Those creepy night vision things.

"Yeah, yeah. They'll be out of it for a while." French was pushing her toward the window.

"But French, he's bleeding!" She protested as she tried to change course. The guy's head should have been tipped back or he'd lose a lot of blood.

Just when you thought you had a handle on the logic spinning out of Fry's head, she lost you. Entirely. "I'm sure there's a band-aid in the cop car. Move it!" French dragged her through the window.

They made it down the ladder and into the neighbor's yard just as a police officer rounded the back of the house and shined a light up the fire escape. Fry led her over a couple of back fences and through the window of a garage. Home field advantage was knowing where the good hiding places were. French begrudged Fry that single point.

They sat there for a while catching their breath. They doubted the police would chase them once they spotted Tim and Paul.

"Mind telling me what was so fascinating under the bed?"

"Look." Fry held out the box and shined her mini light on it. "It was taped to the frame under there."

"Great, probably his bookie receipts."

"I don't think Jason gambles, but I don't know him all that well. What happened back there? Why were those guys in there?"

"'Those guys' were in there, because we were in there. You took so long getting up that ladder they had plenty of time to come through the house and wait for us. This is one of the reasons I didn't want you involved. I'm having a minor relationship problem."

Fry didn't want to know what a major relationship problem looked like if two men lurking in the shadows was a minor one. She also didn't want to be blamed for something so not her fault. "So if I'd been quicker, that wouldn't have happened?"

"Don't be so literal, I'm just telling you why they were there." Picky, picky was Miss Spark this evening.

It didn't make any sense to Fry that anyone would choose such an unlikely place for an ambush, but making sense didn't seem to be a priority in the lives of the people she'd been working with this summer. Fry had heard so many outlandish stories about French up to this point, anything was possible. "So are they your boyfriends or something? You said it was a relationship problem."

"Ha! No!" French was adamant. "Those are Mitchell's goons, Tim and Paul. Sent to give me a message no doubt, before, during and after they pummeled me senseless. It's one of their specialties, talking and hitting at the same time."

"That's awful! What's the problem in your relationship that Mitchell would do such a thing?"

"The problem is ending it. He's a mite possessive. Doesn't think I ought to give up on him just now."

"He's got an odd way of showing it. You can't stay with him French. That's not healthy. We should go to the police. He can't get away with that kind of thing."

"He does. All of the time. I used to help him. And now, I know how to handle him, so you shouldn't worry about it. Mitchell likes to play contact sports indirectly, as soon as he's hit, he takes his ball and goes home. He just needs to be reminded of that."

"Don't play into it French, he sounds dangerous. My mother knows some people you could talk to, get some help from."

"Thanks, but I know what I'm doing. Let's look in your box and see what kind of kink Jason's into." She was tired of talking about Mitchell. She'd much rather save her energy for action in that regard. And the less Fry knew, the better.

Fry wasn't going to force the issue. She made a mental note to bring a couple of pamphlets in for French to look at. "It's papers, and some keys. Oh wow, speaking of Mitchell, isn't Darflock Inc. one of the Redmond's corporate subsidiaries?" Fry had unfolded one of the papers that was a form of some kind.

"Yeah." French took it from her. Fry hadn't volunteered it. "How'd you know that?"

"When you're organizing a boycott, there's a lot of research involved. The Redmonds owned Collegiate Textiles, up until recently. Finding out who Collegiate's parent company was, was nothing short of torture. Along the way I found Darflock and eventually another business that I knew the Redmond's owned because Skyler Redmond mentioned it to Bobby once. So that's how."

"I should have known." So Bobby, the beach boy, was a do-gooder too.

"They sold Collegiate just after the boycott started. What a pain that was, let me tell you."

"No really, that's okay. I get the picture." What the hell was she doing crammed in the back of a smelly garage talking about corporate protests with a social activist? But it was amusing to know that Fry may have been a flea on Mitchell's back at one point.

"What else we got in there?"

"More of these forms and some keys."

The keys didn't have any definitive markings on them. It would have been convenient if there'd been a note attached saying, 'To locker 106 at the airport that contains a file with the full explanation to this whole business including why you two losers can't seem to tell your ass from your elbows.' French was getting tired of fumbling in the dark. Literally. "Let's get out of here."

They were out of Jason's neighborhood and walking toward the restaurant. French had a feeling she ought to be spending extra time on the premises for a while.

"So, you and Bobby do the do-gooder thing together?" She was sick of rehashing loose threads that led nowhere and couldn't think of anything else to talk about.

As French had said 'together', she'd done that annoying suggestive thing with her eyebrows. "We've worked on some projects together, but we're... Bobby and I are... I've been meaning to tell you..." Fry took a breath to get her thoughts in order. Now was looking like a good time to have a gender identity chat.

To French it looked like Fry was tongue tied and she had this guilty look on her face. "Is it a secret? Is he your best friend's husband or something?" On second thought maybe she didn't want to know about Fry's personal life. "You don't have to tell me anything. We can keep this all cut and dry. No problem."

"No! I mean...I'm a..."

"Oh for cryin' out loud Fry, you have sex, there's no shame in it. You're a big girl, he's your boyfriend. The fact that he's also your best friend's husband is a tad off color, but we're not in the Dark Ages." She'd realized that Fry was on the modest side, but a prude too? If she was doing her best friend's husband, she may as well own up to it.

"That's not it at all, we're just..."

"Friends?" French gave her a salacious look. Leaving no doubt in Fry's mind what she thought that meant.

"Yes! And what's your problem? Is that so impossible for you to believe?"

French had little patience for a lot of things, but prudishness ranked right up there with poor knife work. "What's the big deal? Does your friend know? Is that it? You're afraid I'm going to out you? There's nothing I can stand less than small town prudery. I would've thought you'd be less prone to it, having gone to college and all."

"What's college got to do with it? And who's calling who a prude? You were the one who went green about the gills over Jason and Louisa possibly having an affair. Wait! We must be getting close to the restaurant because all rational thought is being sucked from the very air we're breathing. You're not making any sense!"

As first attempts at a personal conversation went, this sucked. Fry had tried to tell her something about herself and for the life of her, French hadn't been able to figure out what it was. She knew she wasn't overly interested in Fry's personal life, well, not that part of her personal life. The last thing she wanted to get wound up in was someone else's sex life when her own was nonexistent. Maybe they ought to stick to discussing food and murder.

That's exactly what she'd do, once this was settled. Fry's feathers were ruffled. She could tell because Fry was glaring at her and looked like she might pop if she didn't take a breath.

"So you were saying, about you and Bobby?" French reasoned that if she picked up the conversation at an earlier point she could in effect bend time and try this whole thing over again.

Fry was having none of it. "I was right. We're in the Bachanal Zone, where nothing makes sense to me, but you people seem to thrive. Forget it. I have no idea why I even bothered to try."

"Oh, don't be such a spoil sport." What she'd meant was 'don't be such a pain in the ass', but it hadn't come out that way. For some reason she'd started using these juvenile expressions whenever she was with Fry.

"No, you're right. We should keep this as impersonal as possible. After all, I'm just an employee and you don't want me to get the wrong idea, like maybe you might give a... well... a darn about who you're spending your time with." Fry hadn't outright cursed in years, but if anyone could drive her to it, it must be French.

French shrugged and walked off. She'd try again, but not tonight. Fry was starting to piss her off and she figured it'd be a good idea if she were to leave, before she said something memorable like, "Listen you obnoxious waitron, I don't give a shit what you think. Now what the hell was it you wanted to tell me?"

Fry wasn't prepared for French's sudden departure. But she was darned if she'd run after her like some limp noodle, trying to unravel the twisted byways that were the chef's perspective on the world and their last conversation in particular. All she'd wanted to say was, "French, I'm as queer as a three dollar bill, so you might want to stop assuming that I'm going out with Bobby when it's Alyssa that I'm dating." Or she would be dating, as of tomorrow, because for some obtuse reason she'd been putting her off. Not anymore. She turned and headed for home.

The following day was a mite awkward in the kitchens at Bachanal. A pall fell over the bustle that filled the overflowing rooms. Something wasn't right. And French was damned if she could figure it out. Well, she knew it had a something to do with the fractious waitress who was giving her the silent treatment, but beyond that, it was anybody's guess.

She got the feeling Fry was waiting for something. French hoped she wasn't holding her breath.

Fry couldn't believe that an internationally renowned business woman and chef was acting like such a baby. But this summer was a learning experience all over. French was screaming her way through shift and had even hissed at a famous actor who'd come to the kitchen to pay his respects. He took it pretty well, saying that she reminded him of a director he'd worked with a couple of times. Why people accepted that behavior from a grown up was beyond Fry's comprehension. But then again, she hadn't spent a lot of time around artists, and from all reports, that was the kind of thing you were supposed to expect.

Fry wasn't having any of it, so French could get a handle on her giant ego and choke up an apology for being a jerk, or she'd have to deal with the time-honored and never-once-failed Spark silent treatment.

Midway through her afternoon shift, she and half the restaurant were awed by the utter beauty of an 80 foot schooner gliding into the harbor under full sail. It was breathtaking. Well, it was Beligerare, Mitchell Redmond's yacht, but it was breathtaking too.

The arrival of the craft sparked a buzz in the room. Everyone talked about the Old Boat Regatta the next week. The name was misleading. A little joke among the Hilltop set. They were so droll. But the town loved this regatta above all others, as did the hordes of spectators who showed up to see the incredible vessels that competed in the race. It wasn't the kind of race that had much to do with who crossed the finish line first. It had more to do with the reaction that had just taken place in the dining room. People's eyes were glued to the craft as it moored and for a good time afterward.

Each vessel was an original. An antique in action. And the owners were proud captains. One day of the year anyway.

While Belligerare was poetry in motion, Fry had always loved Serendipity, Skippy Hendrake's yacht. It was smaller, and less decked out, but there was a sense of history about it. That boat had been someplace and you knew it in a glance. Fry wasn't into sailing, but she could appreciate a well appointed craft when she saw one.

Wednesday rolled around and the pall that had settled over the restaurant showed no signs of lifting. The crew was getting antsy, no one had a clue what was going on between the two women who were locked in a contest of some kind. Whatever it was they wished one of them would end it because they were sucking up all of the spare psychic space.

Fry wasn't budging. French's infantile resistance had irked her no end. It wasn't that big of a deal, but it had grown leaps and bounds in her mind since Monday night. Tricky part was she had some information on Bernie. It wasn't anything pressing, Mrs. Kendell, her next door neighbor's best friend who worked at the bank had mentioned that he'd been in to negotiate a couple of loans.

Fry had also gone door to door in Louisa's neighborhood collecting donations for the Central American Earthquake Fund. It wasn't an uncommon activity for a Spark. No one thought twice about 'that odd Spark child' asking for money again. Nevertheless, people couldn't resist her. And since Fry usually chatted with them, no one thought it odd that she should bring up Louisa.

No one had noticed anything out of the ordinary that fateful night. Ella Landry said Louisa was always having that young man over. He made a habit of parking in front of her house, too close to the driveway. But the night in question there'd been more comings and goings than usual. She did say that as far as she could tell, after Jason had unobstructed the driveway in front of her place, another man had paid Louisa a visit. She couldn't say who or give much in the way of detail. Her second floor porch was three doors down on the opposite side of the street, but she didn't have the best view of Louisa's end of the block. She'd sounded disappointed by the fact as she'd related it.

It wasn't much information, and certainly not the kind you interrupted the silent treatment for, not if you wanted results.

Barbra hesitated to get involved in the standoff between Fry and the culinary hysteric. She didn't want to hear that she may have been the catalyst that brought French into Fry's life, just to have her ruin it. That and she knew Priscilla Spark would skin her alive if anything happened to Fry, including a bruised heart. She called herself on her own cowardice and resolved to ask Fry about it as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

There'd be no chance in the near future, not the way business was jumping. Fry bustled out to the dining room to plate a table. She had two tables fill at the same time and already had four in progress.

She grabbed several menus and dropped them off at the first table then approached the next.

"We have to stop meeting like this." Fry was greeted by the lovely smile that she suspected was a permanent fixture on Julia Harding's face.

"Hi." Fry handed her a menu and turned to give Julia's guest the other one. She came over all awkward and stammered as she recognized the man.

"Thank you." He smiled and took the menu from her. He had to give it a tug to dislodge it from her grasp.

"Oh! Sorry. I'll be back for your order." She spun and scurried off. She couldn't believe she'd choked. He was a man, like lots of other men she'd met in her lifetime. Only he wasn't, not really. Senator Jay Harding wasn't just any old monied politician who'd bought a seat in the Senate. He was one who actually used his position to do some good with it. He helped craft environmentally sound legislation, he was great on education, and most importantly in her eyes, he was pro labor and affordable health care.

Fry could forgive things like inherited wealth and station in the face of the man's obvious humanitarianism and accomplishments. She wasn't sure why it occurred to her, but he looked like he did on TV and in the newspapers. He was the picture of American WASPdom. He had squared features, dark hair, bright eyes, and a nose that was this side of prominent, but sculpted. He'd given her a small, but not in any way condescending, smile as he'd taken the menu. He had a nice smile, picture perfect.

Why hadn't French mentioned that her friend was that Julia Harding? But Fry realized that French probably knew a lot of people like that and it wasn't a big deal to her. And if French had gone on about some of the people she knew, Fry probably wouldn't have paid attention. But this was different, this was someone who'd actually done something.

Then she got a sinking feeling as she considered what she knew or at least strongly suspected about Julia Harding and she didn't feel quite as excited as she had a moment ago.

She returned to the Harding's table, determined to not make a complete ninny out of herself. "Is there anything that I can get you to start?"

The ordering went smoothly. Julia stuck to the menu, ordering the Poulet Vallé d'Auge, for which Fry was grateful. The Senator went with the more conservative, Steak au Poivre.

She made it through the next hour without any major mishaps. Miguel had hounded her a couple of times, reminding her how to address people so far above her station and not trip over her own apron. He was a peach.

The Hardings were a fun couple to wait on. Fry couldn't imagine what the problems must be to cause Julia to stray from her husband's side. They were so companionable. They teased each other, but they teased her some too, so that might not be a good indication. They spent most of the time talking, but there were moments when they just sat, enjoying the atmosphere and each other's company, presumably.

She was returning Julia's credit card at the end of their meal when she made a split second decision to speak to the Senator. "Excuse me, Senator Harding?"

"Yes?" He turned and smiled again. He was a very patient man.

"I just wanted to say thank you for all of the work you've done. My friend Eileen Bishop worked on the Neverclear Holdings legislation for you and she's always said that you were the best person she's ever worked for in government. I just wanted to let you know."

"Thank you. How is Eileen? She was going to get a degree in City Planning the last I heard."

"Oh she did!" Fry couldn't believe he remembered. "She's doing great. She moved to Oregon and is working in Portland."

"They're lucky to have her. Tell her I said hello, would you?"

"I will."

"I told you she'd recognized you." Julia said. "Who would have thought French would be harboring political groupies right here under her own roof? Mark my words, you don't want to let her find out." Julia chided.

Fry excused herself, she didn't want to intrude any further. The fact that she could feel Miguel's red hot gaze burning a hole into the back of her head helped as well.

The afternoon was slowing and French went to her office to clear some of the paperwork that had accumulated on her desk. She could only hound Milo so much about his shortcomings before even she got bored. He'd been doing fine for a while, but was experiencing another of his 'lapses', as French had come to call them. He fubbed a couple of orders and was dropping things again. She wondered if he had his period. She'd known guys in the past who were so sensitive that they would get attuned to her cycle. Saps. They could get cycles of their own dammit. She hated that crap.

Andre was killing off the few remaining orders when he spotted a woman tentatively poking her head in the door. He watched from the corner of his eye as she scanned the room. She stepped inside, still looking for someone. The tidy, severe looking woman approached him. She was going to speak when she became fascinated by something in the vicinity of his forearm.

"Is that a Red Phalarope?" Monica asked. She was referring to the almost lifelike rendering of the bird in question on the huge man's arm. There were a couple of other species visible on the skin exposed by his rolled back sleeves, but it was the elusive Phalarope that most drew her attention.

"It is. Do you know it?" No one ever asked him anything intelligent about his tattoos. Only other birders recognized any of them by name.

"Well, I haven't actually ever seen one, not in the wild. There's a stuffed one at the bird sanctuary."

"They are beautiful. I have only seen one, but I will never forget it." Andre said.

"Some Barn Swallows have been seen on the island. They're not nearly as tricky to spot, but they're lovely as well."

"I will have to look for them." He assured her.

"Yes, well... Is French in?"

"She's back in the office. Through that door there and to the left." He gave her a smile that he hoped was less than threatening, and nodded goodbye. Of course she was there to see French, he thought, all of the pretty ones were.

Monica knocked on the door and was barked at from within. "What's the point in trying to get a damned thing done in this madhouse? People coming and going like it's a take out joint. I ought to put a window off the back of the restaurant and advertise... Oh, it's you." French had looked up from the papers she was working on and motioned Monica in. "Have a seat."

"I don't want to interrupt."

French took a deep breath and adjusted her frame of mind. Civilians didn't respond as well to shouting. "Not a problem. I'm trying to get some paperwork dealt with. You've got to beat it back with a stick or it'll take over. This stuff is endless."

Monica gave the single, neat stack of papers in front of French a confused glance. It didn't look like much of a deluge.

"I found Jason." She started. "He found me, actually. He called this morning. He's going to be in town for a day to pick up some things, then he's moving away and he won't say where to. He's terrified, poor thing. He didn't want me to call you and he won't go to the police. Went on about tapped wires and bugging. I encouraged him to talk to you and he said he would, but only in a public place."

"Smart boy."

"Look, I'm sorry about last week. I wasn't thinking clearly and I almost killed you. I'm..."

"Forget it, I would have deserved it for one thing or another."

"I know. But I wanted to apologize in any case. You may have done some inexcusable things in your past, but it's not my job to take your life. And you seem to be trying to make amends. If it's genuine, I wish you luck." She stood to leave.

"Yeah, well thanks." This Monica was a tough nut. French considered that had things been different, she may have liked to get to know the poised, if somewhat stiff, librarian.

"He said he'd call again later to give me the time and place. I'll let you know then."

French let Monica out the back door of her office. No need to let her run into Fry. Besides, the impertinent waitron probably wasn't interested in chasing down the bad guys anymore.

What a night. The tension in the kitchen had increased and the crowd out front was in a rowdy mood. Fry was catching some air and a break out back. She needed a couple of minutes to herself. So she was surprised and a tad irked when someone loomed out of the darkness into her hiding spot.

"Who's that?" Fry could barely make the figure out. Whoever it was was dressed in black from head to toe and looked more like a shadow than a person.

French nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a voice coming out of the darkness right near her head. She must be slipping if people kept sneaking up on her so easily. She turned to see Fry perched on one of the compressor ventilator ducts. She was eating something, and by the dull white glow emanating from the container in her hand, French didn't have to ask what it was. "What are you doing out here?"

"Oh, it's you." Fry slid off of the duct and began to leave. She was dying to know why French had materialized out of nowhere wearing an outfit that swallowed light, and was carrying a jagged glinting thing in her hand. She reigned in her ravenous curiosity and made for the door. Or she would have if there wasn't a sizeable hand on her shoulder impeding her progress.

Fry wasn't a swooner by nature, she wasn't even sure it was a word. But since she'd met French she'd begun to think she just might have it in her. At least the tingle that danced up her spine and the dizzy feeling she experienced when the chef leaned over and spoke quietly in her ear indicated that she did.

"I know what you're up to Fry." French accused. "I want you to know that it's not going to work. You're way out of your league."

While Fry may have been distracted by the sensation of the words being spoken across the small, sensitive hairs of her ear, it was their meaning registering in her addled brain that snapped her to attention. And while it might be true, it still ticked her off.

"And how would you know what my league is?! You'd have to take a personal interest to find out and I don't think you've got it in you to try." Blast. There went the silent treatment.

"Oh please, is that your worst shot? Come on Fry, let me have it. I know there's a hellion in there just waiting to get out."

This close, Fry could see French's teeth. Her mouth was stretched into a grimace and she was getting some kind of thrill out of goading her on. Her determination to get an apology out of the chef did not falter, but she knew that feeding into whatever energy this was wasn't the least bit productive, nor, she presumed, was it entirely safe. She reached into the darkness to touch the chef. It's what she did when she needed to feel a connection to someone, and when she felt someone wanted to feel it back.

French was damned if Fry thought she could get away with using that touchy-feely communication thing on her. Like the silent treatment before it, it had no effect whatsoever. She ought to pop the woman for touching her in the first place. She hadn't said Fry could touch her like that. Whenever she pleased. Like they were friends or something. Why would she be friends with someone like Fry? A waitron with no survival instincts.

She looked deeply into Fry's eyes to begin delivering the fear of death directly to her brain. As eyes went, Fry had a decent pair. When she wasn't trying to peer into them in the dark or a dimly lit room, they were a pleasant hazely, greenish sort of color. Kind of serene if you looked a little deeper than was maybe professionally necessary. And she had a way of conveying an understanding of something through them. French wasn't sure what it was Fry thought she understood, but the intention rang true and you found yourself feeling it. Like now.

She was incredibly sneaky for such an innocent-seeming sort of person.

As much as French's entire body rebelled at the prospect, she eased off. That's when she realized that she was holding Fry's hand. Really tightly.

"Oh, um..." She snapped out of it and let go. She rubbed her own hand on her leg to dispel the awkward feeling of discomfort. They looked around at anything but each other.

"Well," Fry thought. "That was intense."

After a few moments of silence, French asked, "How was your snack?"

It wasn't much in the way of a conversation starter, but it had the pleasant ring of normality to it. "It'll do the trick."

"Why are you eating out here?"

Wow, not one, but two questions about herself, all in a row! "It's a nice night, I needed the fresh air. Besides, you told me not to eat tofu in your restaurant."

"True." French conceded. She really was a bitch, wasn't she? "Tell you what, from here on in you can eat any soy byproduct in there your heart desires. Just don't expect me to watch. Deal?"

Fry mulled it over a nano second or two. She knew that this was as close to an apology as one was likely to get from the chef. Then again, knowing French's antipathy for all things soy, maybe it was better. Who knew? "Deal."

"Now finish your bean curd and get back to work."

"Should I bother to ask what you're wearing and why you're carrying that?" Fry made a motion with her hand that indicated the entire ensemble.

"No. And don't mention you saw me out here either."

Twenty minutes later French had reappeared in the kitchen no worse for wear. The only indication that something might be different about her was that her hair looked damp at the front, but maybe that was from the sweat. It was hot that night.

Fry had finished up at Bachanal and headed home through the mostly empty streets. She made her way past a few late stragglers. She enjoyed the quiet. It gave her an opportunity to unwind before she got home. The fog was just beginning to roll in, she could feel a hint of moisture in the air and hear the faint bellow of the Thrace Point fog horn.

The fresh air gave her the extra energy to go a few blocks out of her way to get an errand done. She was going to stop by the Trawler's Catch to drop off a few pamphlets for next week's 'Your Labor, Your Health' meeting. Okay, so maybe she wasn't going to drop them off, maybe she'd try to sneak in the back and spread them around.

As she turned off the quiet street into the alley behind the restaurant she was startled out of her wits when a figure loomed out of the shadows and shouted, "You!"

She was grabbed by the collar and marched back a few paces into the empty street.

In the brighter light there, she was able to see that it was Kyle, the manager of The Catch. He dropped the garbage that he'd been bringing out to the dumpster and snatched the pamphlets she was carrying from her hand. He wasn't much bigger than she was, but he was all wiry muscle, lean and mean. Just like his personality. She struggled to free herself, but his grip was too strong to break. "I thought I told you to stay away from here! And if I found you sneaking around with these any more, I'd kick your ass, you little scamp!" Kyle was shouting and waving the pamphlets in her face. He was warming to his topic, enjoying her distress. It wasn't often he got to pick on someone smaller than himself.

He shook her and went to wave the sheets under her nose again, but they were violently jerked out of his grasp from behind. Fry looked up to see French standing over them both, looking curiously at the pamphlets.

When she was sure she had their attention, French cocked her head, feigned a pout and said, "Why Fry, I'm heartbroken. I thought this was our little game. And here I find you in this intimate setting," she gestured at the dimly lit sidestreet. "Sharing your literature with just any ol' body."

An odd expression had come over Kyle's face. Fry wasn't sure, but the sudden shaking of his hands, indicated it might be nerves, or lack thereof.

It was. Kyle had heard the stories about the insane chef at Bachanal. He'd even witnessed one of the legendary confrontations first hand. He didn't want that kind of trouble. He wasn't that kind of crazy, and by all accounts, she was.

He figured that being caught threatening this gnat couldn't look good for him. But his practical brain function kicked in and overtook his nervous reaction. To his mind, another restaurateur was the last person who'd have any sympathy for a labor propagandist... health care advocate, or whatever it was she called herself. It also sounded like the chef may have had a run in with her too. This should work to his advantage. This small woman was like a thorn in your privates. "She's been bothering you too, huh? I've been telling her this stuff's a bad idea and it'd be a healthy move if she gave it up."

"Yes, Kyle, she has been bothering me." She walked around him, brushing his now slack hands from Fry's shirtfront, and leaned down so they were face to face. She continued conversationally, "But you see Kyle, I rather like it. And if you have half a brain in that shrunken head of yours, you'll take off now before I pound you into the dirt for assaulting one of my employees." She tucked one of the pamphlets from the stack into his shirt pocket, patted it neatly and shoved him off. He stumbled toward the alleyway, picking up speed as he regained his balance.

"Why French!" Fry began when she'd sufficiently recovered from the shock. "That was almost sweet."

"Put a cork in it. Do you know how stupid that was? What do you think you're doing with this stuff? He's just going to throw it out, same as I did. You're threatening his livelihood, you think he's going to thank you for that? You could've been hurt! And it's past two A.M. for christ sakes. What are you doing sneaking around sidestreets, pamphletting in the dark?"

"I was trying to go into the The Trawler's Catch the back way, when he saw me. Look, I know it's dumb to deliver these things at night, but they run me off when they see me coming during the day! And I don't just put them where the owners find them, they're for the workers too! They deserve to know their options..."

French slapped her hand on her forehead, rolled her eyes, and said, "At least they're smart enough to run you off, I hired you! Are you telling me that you've been handing this stuff out to my staff?!"

"Well yeah, I figured you knew because you'd got one too. But even though I planned it for a Monday, no one came to that meeting... except my parents and Bobby." Fry sounded so dejected as she admitted this, that French couldn't help but ease off. Fry sounding down was so wrong, so at odds with her boisterous personality. And it wasn't like the pamphlets had done any harm. Apparently everyone else thought her ideas were half-baked too. "Maybe we should call it a night, huh? It's been a long day."

"Yeah," Fry sighed. "I guess you're right. And with the deliveries tomorrow you'll have to get in early, won't you?" They started to walk in the same direction, and without noticing it, French was drawn into the easy chatter that bubbled forth from the effervescent pamphleteer.

Fry had returned to the subject of health care and was extolling the virtues of a nationalized plan. French shook her head as her mind reeled at Fry's idealism and flights of fancy. "Ya know, Nationalized Healthcare sucks! I've lived in a lot of those countries and I'll tell you where the people who have money don't go when they need good medical care!"

"I can't believe that someone of your intelligence would make that argument! We don't live in a perfect world, none of these solutions is ideal. The point is to find one that serves the most people the best way! Not leaves the vast majority out, while performing miraculous cures for those few who can afford it! It's not like the rich won't always have better options. You've got to see that!"

"You're delusional if you think that kind thing will ever fly here. Your average Joe won't go for it and it'll be a cold day in hell before corporate America lets anything like that happen."

"Well, while I'm waiting for the climate to shift in places south, I might as well fight to improve the existing situation and educate people about their options. Affordable health care is a right we all share, you have to agree with that."

French groaned. "No, I don't have to agree..."

"The people who keep this country running, the ones who pick the food you eat, who take care of the sick, who wash the..."

"I get the picture ..."

"These people deserve health care too French. Good night."

French stopped short. She thought they were managing a decent discussion, nothing to get all testy over and storm off in a huff. But Fry wasn't storming off, she was standing there smiling.

"This is my house. And I'd invite you in, but like you said, it's late and... Thanks for walking me home. I'll see you tomorrow, unless you have plans to fire me or something."

"Oh, nah... not yet. I'll keep you posted. 'Night Fry."

Fry walked down Morton Street. It was a quiet side street on the way to the restaurant that skirted the busier main streets on the way. It puzzled her that most of the people who visited the town stuck to maybe three streets downtown and the beaches in Midstock. Were they really only visiting the island to buy t-shirts and eat on the water?

She rounded the corner onto Billings Street and spotted Barbra a block ahead. She jogged up and said, "Hi! You headed in?"

"Beach is too crowded. Town's over run with Jerseyites. Might as well." A common lament in Comstock was that many of the tourists were rowdy and too forceful. Over the years it appeared that New Jersey residents represented an unusually large percentage of this group. Fry could never understand what it could be about the otherwise respectable locale that generated such overly enthusiastic daytrippers.

"I have a hard time at the beach during the summer, I generally go over to Jetsom Cove." Fry said.

"It's too far for a quick swim, and I hate to ride when my suit's wet. I just dipped into my neighbor's pool and floated for a while. It wasn't the ocean, but it calmed the beast within."

"Sounds good. Maybe we ought to get French over there." It was a slip. She hadn't meant to bring the chef into the conversation.

"So what's up with you two? Why all of the gloom last couple of days, then last night it was like sunshine broke loose all over the place?"

"Oh nothing, she was being a jerk."

"Big surprise. Not that it's any of my business and you can tell me to take a walk on Tinker Pier if you want, but are you guys involved?" Everyone in town used the Tinker Pier expression. It was a project in the early 80's to make more mooring space at the shoreline. Exactly two pilings had been sunk before the project was abandoned. Tinker Pier was very short indeed, it didn't exist.

"No! I mean, no. I'm not interested in her. Not that way. And even if I was, she'd have to notice that I'm alive first."

"Oh come on, she's noticed you." What was she saying? Things had been going just fine until she'd heard that faint note of insecurity in Fry's voice and rallied to her defense.

"Sure, she's noticed that I have some tastebuds and a pulse, but I mean that she's not noticed that I'm a woman, ya know? She treats me like inconvenient furniture more than a person who might want to know her."

"Inconvenient furniture?"

"Yeah, she pushes me around a lot, and I get the feeling I could be out on the curb at any moment. If I was interested, which I'm not because I get the feeling being involved with her is a bad idea, she'd make me nuts."

"Good for you! You're absolutely right. I'm so glad I didn't have to say it for you." Barbra was relieved. She also wanted to reenforce the sentiment. "Besides, there are more fish in the sea than that Mako shark."

"She's not that bad." Fry missed the silent gagging motion Barbra made. "It's just that I don't want to spend the rest of my life rescuing someone from themselves, you know? I want a partner who's able to be as supportive of me as I am of them. I don't want to have to spend all of my time doing the nurturing female thing. I'm prone to that as it is. I don't want to make a walking stereotype of myself."

"Well, that really wouldn't be a problem with French."

"Oh please, how could it not be?"

"A lifetime? You wouldn't spend more than one, maybe two nights being 'nurturing'. If you're willing, and by all accounts people are, sometimes she'll sleep with someone without money a few times, but not in a row. More like, whenever she fancies it. And if you make the unforgivable mistake of showing any real interest, forget it."

"How can anyone stand that? It seems so demeaning, being someone's plaything."

"Hey, don't knock it, Michael likes it just fine. And maybe it's not your thing, but there are women and men who've vied for the privilege with French. Many of them on her staff. You may want to rethink that 'happily ever after' approach to dating. Not that you should start with French, but don't you think it's a lot of pressure to put on a first date?"

"I didn't mean it quite like that. And I'm going on a date this weekend. She came in the restaurant a while back, Alyssa?"

"Oh sure, she's a cutie. Do tell!"

Fry blushed lightly. A good sign in Barbra's eyes.

"Well, it's not a big deal. I know her from school and she's here for the summer. She's really nice and actually interested in topics that aren't directly related to herself."

"Sounds like fun. You need to get out of that place more. I don't know if you've noticed, but most of those guys are nuts. And I have a feeling it has something to do with the amount of time you spend there. I've seen that French has been putting you on more doubles."

"You've noticed too? The weird irrationality thing? What is with that?"

"I call it the 'French Effect'. Spend too much time around her and it will effect you."

"Oh come on Barbra, she really isn't that bad."

"You only say that because you look for the good in people. Not that there can be much to spot in that callous bit... pain in the ass." Barbra couldn't stand the look in Fry's eyes when you said something that could be construed as unkind about someone else. It was like hitting a puppy.

"Has she done something to hurt you?" The thought had never occurred to Fry.

"Not me personally, but plenty of people I know rue the day they let that woman in their lives."

"Are these any of the same people who were vying for her attention?"

Barbra had never stopped to consider that point. Not in a thorough, giving French the time of day sort of way. "Well, maybe a couple, but you don't ruin that many summers by not trying."

"I've heard a lot of stories and I'm not defending her by a long shot. But I figure if I've heard the stories and I haven't gone out of my way to hear any of them..."

Barbra could see Fry's point even clearer and didn't like it any better. And now that she thought about it, most of the bizarre behavior at the restaurant was just that, bizarre. It wasn't nefarious or twisted in any dark, Marquis De Sade kind of way. It was more bizarrely perverse. "Well, she was still awful to a lot of people." It was the best she could muster on short notice. Fry had a way of cutting right through your deeper prejudices and making you feel crappy about them.

"I'm sure of it. Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure kiddo, shoot."

"I know you used to date a lot. I was wondering if you used to date any of the Hilltop guys, you know, the summer crowd. Before Michael, of course."

"Yeah, I know." She appreciated Fry's euphemism. Most everyone else just called her easy or a slut. She'd grown up before the concept of sexual liberation had hit the island. For either sex. There were still old ladies that tisk-tisked when the name Barbra Wilkowski was spoken in conversation. "And yes, I dated a few of them. A couple I wish I hadn't because they still haunt me. If they'd stop dining out I could forget them, but as it is, they don't. Why the question?"

Fry shrugged. "I've seen Skyler Redmond around a lot this summer. She hangs out with a few friends of mine."

"You interested?"

"Not me, but someone else I know."

It was the tone of voice that clued Barbra in. Was Fry, the terminally cheerful poster girl for all things positive, jealous? Barbra's home town pride was insulted by the prospect of Fry feeling anything but adequate when compared to a Hilltopper. True, they were people like anybody else, but not really.

"Look Fry, you'll never be a Skyler, I'll never be Susan Sarandon. Life's a bitch. Growing up in this vacuum doesn't make us great competition against the Hilltop set, but you're selling yourself short if you're comparing yourself to that lot. Skyler's not bad in her own way, but you've got intelligence and that eternally young, spunky thing going on that's a turn on to anyone with brain enough to notice. And not that I make it a habit of telling young women these things, but you're in great shape, a real knock out. If your friend Alyssa is having trouble seeing that, you ought to rethink your date."

They'd turned the corner and the restaurant came into view. Fry was about to set the record straight on Alyssa, but Barbra broke in saying, "What the hay is up over there?" There really was no way around that kind of language if you spent any time with Fry.

Fry saw the crowd of people too. They were standing on the boardwalk at the water's edge pointing and leaning over the railings. They approached and asked what all the commotion was about. Some of the people moved aside and they were able to see it for themselves. There were two tugs and a small barge with a crane about one hundred yards out. Right where Beligerare had been moored the night before. At first glance, there was no sign of the exquisite craft, but if you looked closely, you could make out the tops of her masts, just breaking the water line.

"Holy shit!" Barbra exclaimed. She flinched when she looked at Fry who had her hands covering her mouth and a wide eyed look of something on her face. It took Barbra a second to realize it wasn't a reaction to her verbal slip.

They went inside and got ready for shift. On the way through the kitchen they learned that the boat had been reported damaged late last night, but they hadn't been able to stop the sinking. In a freakish act of nature, thirty or forty planks had come undone in the hull, and a hole the size of a car was opened up by the pressure of the water rushing in.

They made it into the dinning room and found several of the crew standing at the windows watching the boat as it was hauled and buoyed to the surface. French stood gazing out on the scene, uncharacteristically relaxed in the company of her staff.

"What do you think happened to it?" Barbra asked.

"Dunno." Ken answered. Helpful as usual.

"It sunk." Jacqueline offered. Slightly more helpful, but still lacking the substance Barbra was after.

"Some of those old boards were ready to go, I guess." Eddy chimed in with the most probable explanation.

"Pity." French said. The smile that spread across her face left no doubt how she felt about the incident. She turned to get back to work but was stopped short by the small figure standing directly in her path, arms folded, eyes mere slits. She sidestepped Fry and gave her a wink. She was feeling bad this afternoon, in a strictly good sort of way.

Fry knew that following French to her office fell into the category of, 'There's a murderer loose, don't go in the basement!' But she couldn't take that internal warning seriously because French had looked over her shoulder a couple of times and laughed at her. She even flicked some julienned carrots at her from Milo's station as she'd passed. It was the first time Fry could remember the chef looking carefree.

Once they were in the office Fry asked, "How could you?"

"How could I what? Put Roast Quail on the menu? I was seriously thinking of adding Duck's bottom, but I thought the Quail had more of a summery feel to it."

"You know what I mean!" Fry wanted to give into French's playful mood. It was contagious. But the knowledge that she was a partial accomplice in the chef's midnight excursion brought her back to reality.

"Fry, stick to cheerful, it suits you." French fell into her chair and looked at the dumfounded expression on Fry's face. She was really having a good time with this. Maybe too good. She reigned herself in a notch and tried to see it from Fry's point of view. That was no fun at all.

"That was an antique, a thing of beauty, a piece of history." Fry stammered in her amazement. "How could you... well... well, whatever you did to it?"

"I didn't do anything that Mitchell's money can't fix. Except the blow to his ego, of course."

"But French, even if they can refurbish it, it'll be severely damaged. You can't replace that kind of history."

"There's not a splinter on that boat that's older than the man who owns it. How do you think that thing won the regatta for the last few years? Not due to the expert navigational skills of it's captain. I was drunk half the time."

"You captained his yacht?"

"Mitchell couldn't skipper a rowboat in a stiff breeze."

"Why did he have it then?"

"He wanted it."

"Oh." Fry never understood the reasoning that accompanied the wealthier class. "Not that I want to appear naive, but isn't it cheating to have a new boat in the Old Boat race?"

"Half the boats in that race are rebuilt within an inch of brand new. Mitchell made a special effort. His was new all over." It was fascinating to watch Fry's face as she grappled with the utter stupidity of the deceit she'd just exposed.

"But then they're all cheating!"

"She catches on ladies and gentlemen! And whoever cheats best...?"

"Wins?"

"Bingo. You're quick. Must be why I can stand you in the first place."

"But why don't they compete fairly? It's not like they don't have the money."

"Force of habit, I expect." She could never understand the thrill Mitchell got out of making up the story and history of the Beligerare. The lengths he went to to legitimize the provenance were astounding. She'd seen him spend less time buying a company. "But while you're here, I have a little business to discuss. Have a seat."

"But French, what if he knows you did it? Isn't that going to make him mad?"

"I'm counting on it."

If Fry had ever seen a wolfish grin, that was it.

To be continued...