Intellectual Property: The characters are wholly my own. Any similarities drawn between them and any persons, plants, or animals, living and dead, are figments of your imagination. However, some places and products mentioned in the story do exist. No infringement is intended.

If you have any feedback, suggestions, or comments, please let the bard know at sarkel_bard@yahoo.com Constructive criticism is accepted

Part 1

PROLOGUE

It was the moment Charlene Sudsbury had dreaded ever since her son was born, only much worse. Please, she thought God knew how many times, don't let John screw up his life like I did. But as Charlene knew all too well, her son was only human. And humans made mistakes. But his situation was different. He had willingly, willfully, gotten himself into it.

John Patrick Sudsbury was born when his mother was a freshman in high school, barely past fifteen. He was the product of a relationship between an eighteen-year-old high school dropout who had seduced and taken advantage of a young girl eager for love, affection, and companionship. John never really knew his father and considered him a mere sperm donor. Ralph Green worked as an auto mechanic at Logreen's Shop after dropping out in tenth grade, but took off shortly after the birth of the baby, for whom he refused to accept responsibility. "It ain't mine," he declared emphatically. The young man drifted across the country, working at odd jobs. He never took an interest in his son, leaving the boy's upbringing to a very nervous and ill-equipped teenager. Charlene and John never heard from him.

Charlene had never met her own father either. All she knew was that her mother must have liked him enough to have sex with him twice. Her mother, Rube, referred to him as Billy Hibbins, but always got upset if the children mentioned him. Charlene and her mother were similar in one way-both bore at least one child early in their teens. But that was where the similarities ended. From the beginning, Rube Sudsbury never harbored ambitions. She simply knew her life of blue-collar workers and welfare recipients; it was a cycle, for her mother and her mother's mother, and so on, had always lived in the shoddy parts of town, in the shadow of the bright lights and glamour of Washington.

On the other hand, Charlene was a curious, bright, friendly, and inquisitive child right from the humble beginnings of her life. Libraries fascinated her. The elementary school library opened up a whole new world for Charlene, and she spent afternoon after afternoon there, absorbing stories of fairy tale princesses and their handsome princes, of lives lived happily ever after, of beautiful, perfect, understanding people. She read of grand, elaborate balls in regal castles, of a commoner servant girl named Cinderella, horribly mistreated by her stepfamily, who fell in love and married a prince. She read of the noble knight Lancelot, who fought for his Queen, betraying his King for the woman he loved. The little girl, wearing her ratty hand-me-down clothes, holes in her socks, wide green eyes studying line after line, fell in love with the idea of love.

The concept of soul mates tickled her. She couldn't wait to meet her other half, become one with him. What would he look like? By the time she was only seven, Charlene had formed a complete, vivid picture in her mind. He would be tall, muscular, with red hair (red hair always improbably fascinated Charlene), be romantic beyond her wildest dreams, make her laugh, and he'd be smart. He would do things for her. Charlene searched for this boy-man everywhere-at the grocery store, at the park, at the doctor's office.

She told her mother of her dreams once, but only once. Rube laughed right into her face, decrying those grand illusions as "bullshit if I ever heard it." The girl wasn't daunted, though, and told her sister. But her sister didn't care about those things, having seen the truth already, and just ran off to play. Charlene told her friends, and they all giggled and fantasized about falling in love. But as early as seventh grade, most of her crowd was in some sort of disrepair-drugs, fighting, parents already, you name it. Charlene was saving herself for that special guy. She wrote stories, even won a few contests. Her teachers said she could be a writer and encouraged her talents. Charlene liked the idea of being a writer, of her name being on books in the library. She decided that was what she'd do-she'd write and get out of the grind that constituted her neighborhood and daily life. But where love was concerned, she was getting impatient. To a fourteen-year-old girl, the path to adulthood seems improbably long.

Charlene was working one afternoon at her first job. She cleaned tables at a fast-food restaurant; she liked it because the hours were flexible and she got discounts on meals. The day was brilliant, a beautiful Indian summer. Soft, gentle breezes blew outside, trees swayed in complete rhythm with Mother Nature, and the sky was a perfect blue. Looking out the window, Charlene thought and pictured her soul mate. "Hmm," she mused, "That shade of blue is so lovely. Maybe he should have blue eyes instead of brown."

But when she looked up at the tinkle of the bell and saw the new customer, all modifications flew out of her head. There was the man, almost like she'd pictured him. He was gorgeous-his orange-red hair illuminated the room and the sparkle in his brown eyes was the perfect complement for his hair. Her life was never the same after that day, after meeting Ralph Green. She loved him and thought he loved her back too. When he stole Romeo and Juliet for her from the bookstore (he was poor and couldn't afford to buy the fancy one his girlfriend wanted), she thought she couldn't love him more. Stealing was bad, but how sweet! He even wrote a poem for her on the title page. "We'll be together forever," he vowed.

Charlene couldn't have felt more right. Which was why she felt funny, uncomfortable even, the first time she and Ralph made love. It wasn't fun, and it hurt like hell, and only lasted five minutes, but Charlene ignored the discrepancies between her dream world and reality because he was so good to her. Their relationship continued like that for a few months until the morning nausea began.

Charlene showed John a few pictures of his father, but John was apathetic. As far as he was concerned, his mother, Charlene Sudsbury, was his only parent. He didn't think highly of his biological father, nor of his mother's countless subsequent boyfriends and husbands. Charlene wanted a role model, a man in her son's life, but many times the boy told her while she was crying in his arms, "Mom, you mean well but a drunk or a wife-beater doesn't belong with us."

John Patrick Sudsbury had grown up quickly, very quickly. At age five, he fretted at his mother's side in their one-bedroom apartment. How were they, a small boy and a young woman little more than a child, going to afford their bills? They seemed to pile up and up on each other, a formidable wall of imprisonment. He, so young, wanted to get a job, demanded that he get a job, so he could help his mother. She did so much for him; it was only fair. When John was at a friend's house, he'd dawdle so they'd invite him to stay for supper. It saved money.

Looking at her son through tearful green eyes, Charlene felt her heart swell with tremendous pride. This boy was her son, she loved him, he loved her, and they stuck together through thick and thin. Having him had basically put an end to her dreams of being an author, of going to college, but her son was well worth the sacrifices. Charlene loved loving him, taking care of him, helping him with school. She forgot about herself and threw herself into her son. She would make sure he would do what she hadn't done.

Ralph and their families had told Charlene to get an abortion. Ralph said: "I love you, baby. You know we're meant to be together. But we can't have a baby now."

Charlene, never an assertive person, gave into their wishes and made an appointment, scraping together the hundred bucks. She went to the doctor alone; no one could be bothered to accompany her. The girl, fifteen years old, made it as far as the examining room. When the doctor came in, she was gone. She couldn't kill her child, seize a life. She'd never forgive herself.

She also knew she couldn't provide for a child adequately. Adoption seemed the logical choice, and Charlene promised Ralph and their families that as soon as the baby was born, up for adoption it'd go. She still remembered her mother's slurred words, her tar stained teeth, her faded jeans and prematurely gray hair, the tired, defeated wrinkles etched in her face. "I ain't helping you care for no baby, sure!" she mumbled, massaging her sore feet. "You jus' go and git pregnant, what wrong with you girl?"

Charlene refrained from pointing out that her mother had given birth to her brother at age 13, to herself, Charlene, at 14, to her half-sister at 16, and to a stillborn baby at 17. The cycle of wedlock and poverty was simply continuing. Her siblings were already parents. That was just the way of life.

Her mother continued. "You keep that baby, suh you ain't gonna live here, you hear?" She shook her head in disgust, puffing on the eternal cigarette hanging from her diseased lips, phelgmy hacks sputtering from her polluted lungs. Rube Sudsbury died two years later of lung cancer. Death was also just the way of life.

Rube let out a heavy, knowing breath when Charlene looked at her, holding her newborn son. "I can't give him up," whispered the new mother.

"I told ya not to hold the baby!" scolded the older woman. "You on your own now, girl." Rube stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray and walked out.

Thereafter, Charlene and baby John Patrick truly were on their own. And through hard times, some happy, through the endless beaus in the mother's life, they became best friends. Charlene never regretted choosing her son over his father. Sometimes she even thought John Patrick was her soul mate-they just understood each other so well.

Charlene was hopelessly proud and devoted to her son. Once she become a mother, her life and priorities changed. She went to the library, not to lose herself into grand tales, but now to check out children's stories for her son. She pinched pennies so John could have a few luxuries, while she went without meals. She became a stranger to her friends, as she scraped together the money to afford the meager apartment she shared with another teenage mother. She forgot about finding a man to love. All she cared about was finding a father for her son, and it didn't matter if she didn't quite love him, as long as he was a good father.

She found a job, as a hairdresser's assistant, that let her take the baby with her. She found second job and a cheap babysitter. By the time John was ten years old, they were living in a house. A real house that Charlene hoped to pay off one day. Then it'd be all hers.

Her third husband, Nathan Tate, ruined her plans. They had joint credit cards, joint bank accounts, joint everything. He ruined her financial standing and left her broke and desperate. Charlene always felt like she failed her son; she had wanted to give him so much more. He never lived in a proper house or ate a steak when he felt like it. But to his credit, he didn't care. He knew she loved him and he promised to give them both her dream.

Through it all, Charlene pushed her son to do his best. "Live up to your potential and beyond, boy," she told him every day. "You can do it." She knew he could. John Patrick was a bright, curious, intelligent, if somewhat somber and serious, child. He did well, making the honor roll often in high school. And by golly, could he tackle. John was a big guy, topping the scales at 250 and 6'4 by his senior year in high school. He led the football league in sacks and tackles.

He received countless scholarship offers and finally settled on football powerhouse Florida State, far from home, which constituted the poorer part of Arlington, Virginia. His mother, finally back on track for financial health, couldn't be prouder of her little boy. She commanded him to attend FSU; who cared if it was way down south? That college would provide exactly what her son needed, and she wouldn't let her selfish needs to be near her boy stand in his way.

"Mom," said John Patrick, "I'll go pro and buy you a big house, a grand pool, everything beyond your wildest dreams."

In the final game of his senior year in high school, in front of a packed, sell-out crowd, of the media and FSU scouts who were patting each other on the back and grinning like Cheshire cats for landing such a prize, John Patrick broke his leg. Even after surgery, he walked with a noticeable limp. Damage was permanent. Florida State didn't want him. No one wanted him because he couldn't play. John was devastated; his whole life was gone. All he had counted on to finally thank his mother for her hard work, to reward himself for his sacrifices, was gone. Football was his life, and now he was dying a slow death. Charlene comforted her son and suggested counseling. He scoffed, saying it was wimpy. "You have brains," she said. "Use them."

So John finally agreed to attend the local community college. After a few weeks there, he was doing all right, but still a ghost of his former self, still down especially when he saw Florida State on the TV making a run for the national championship.

Charlene was concerned. Her son was turning into a completely different person. He cussed and swore; he came home drunk. Sometimes he didn't even come home at all.

Charlene was realistic. She knew her son was no virgin. He always had some girl hanging on his arm. His mother told him to use caution. "Don't make the same mistake I did," she warned. "Don't ruin your life, your future."

After his devastating loss, John really didn't care. As far as he was concerned, his life had ended precisely that moment he felt the sickening, horrifying snap of bone breaking. He slept around, most of the time without protection. He didn't know the names of most of the one-night stands. His life became a blur of beer and women.

One night, John Patrick and a bunch of his pals had been drinking. They decided to go for a drive, near midnight. At a red light one of the boys looked at the car beside. Their community college English professor was at the wheel, her beautiful, long raven tresses pulled back, her sharp azure eyes focused on the road ahead, unaware of what was to come.

Every normal red-blooded male at the college wanted to fuck Morrisey Hawthorne. Her bitchy attitude, the 'Cold Fish' and 'Ice Queen' label only served to increase horniness on the campus. Students often swapped lewd stories and fantasies about her. She was nearly six feet, with smooth ivory skin, planar features, piercing blue eyes, even white teeth, a sharp-witted tongue, and a well-toned, athletic body.

To those drunken boys, seeing Morrisey Hawthorne right there, inches away, in the car, was unbearable. One young man shouted his plan and the others assented, laughing wildly.

The driver of the car, taking advantage of the deserted roadways, forced Morrisey's red sedan off the road. Before the blue-eyed woman really knew what was happening, they were swarming all over her.

Morrisey reached for her purse, for the pepper spray. Too bad the boys already thought of that. The hours spent working out in the gym were no match for five rowdy young men who had caught her so unexpectedly.

John Patrick straddled her first, thrusting furiously into her while the boys hooted and hollered. One of the guys, Keith, unbuckled his jeans and was shouting for John to get off so he could fuck the woman.

That was when the police arrived. Officers Dwayne Collier and Devin Marcas broke up the melee quickly. Subduing the drunk boys was easy; some were near passing out. John Patrick laughed drunkenly, pointing in no specific direction, chuckling gibberish.

The policemen shook their heads sadly. "John Patrick Sudsbury," they whispered to each other. "He had so much potential. Bummer about that leg."

Morrisey Hawthorne, despite her ordeal, appeared calm and collected. Cool and detached even. It was as normal a reaction as any, surmised the cops. The woman had just been raped. A female police officer took the young professor to a gynecologist. Morrisey remained in control of herself throughout. Yes, she wanted to press charges. Yes, she could give a statement now. Yes, she was fine. No, they didn't need to call anyone.

When she got to her house, she took the calico cat, Snickers, in her arms and held her close. The cat was hungry and purred loudly. Morrisey, still clothed, shoes on, took Snickers to bed with her and lay down. She stared at the ceiling, blue eyes wide open and unbelieving. She didn't cry. One hour later, a small porcelain tear fell onto the carpet. It shattered like glass upon the impact.

At first Charlene didn't believe her ears. Then John Patrick, hanging his head, said it was so. "I slipped, mom." He shrugged. "Don't worry, though. They'll cut me a deal." He had to save face in front of his friends, show he wasn't mama's little boy.

Charlene didn't care about that. Her jade eyes blazed with fury and anger. Even her blond hair seemed to glow with rage. "You hurt that woman, John Patrick," she said. "That's not right. At least look sorry!"

John averted his mother's gaze, hearing snides from his cellmates. "I am sorry, mom," he pleaded. "It won't happen again."

"You're damn right it won't!" Charlene hissed. "No son of mine acts like this." She told her son not to bother returning to the house and refused all communication with him for the next few months until he learned his lesson and apologized sincerely. The blonde never saw her son again.

She wanted to go to the woman, apologize to her. Several times she worked up the nerve, but never left her house. What would she say? Nothing could possibly make the rape victim's pain go away. Best to leave her alone than disrupt her life again.

John really fell this time. His mother hated him, and for good reason. He was a monster, no better than white trash. He'd raped a woman. Faced with all those pressures, he drank and drank, got into more trouble. He became the leader of his raucous crowd and quit college. Sometimes, late at night, right before the verge of passing out, John's heart nearly broke. He recalled the still, but clearly terrified woman under him, cooperating quietly, hoping for a quickie.

That wasn't him, was it? He liked Morrisey, he really did. She was a great teacher, challenged the students. Just because she was a looker… no one deserved to be hurt in such a way. John thought about his mother. Her rejection had been the final nail in his coffin. No matter what, he always believed she'd be there for him. True, she had said he could come back when he was ready to apologize and repent, which he was. But suppose he did just that. Then what? Go to jail? Work in the welding plant the rest of his life? His mother didn't know what she was talking about; she just knew he was the smartest boy in the world. What a load of bullshit! A smart player, his team ahead by 21 points in the fourth quarter of the final game of the season, would have heeded his coach's wishes and left the game.

But no. He had to stay in the game and show off, to the scouts, to the girls, but most of all to his mother, to show her just how good he was, to see the pride in her beaming features. And look where that had gotten him. What a load of crap. During those late nights, near passing out, John Patrick hated himself with such loathing. He wished he could die.

All the while, Charlene wept inside. John should have known better, seeing how hurt his own mother was at the hands of abusive and drunk husbands. She heard stories, rumors, about him. How he had been arrested last week for theft. The week before that for public urination. It wasn't like when Ralph had failed her. John had been Charlene's best friend, making her feel like gold. That one screw-up during a drunken frenzy nearly killed her inside. She could never look at her son again, in his big brown eyes, and love him unconditionally.

John had a part-time job at a welding plant. His trial wasn't for a few months and he was out on bail. He started working full-time. A month before the court date, two months after the rape, a heavy piece of equipment accidentally fell from a rafter and struck John on the head. Charlene's son died instantly.

Charlene was in shock for a couple days. The compensation settlement didn't help her mood. She never told her boy one last time that she loved him. John Patrick Sudsbury, thought his mother, died thinking she hated him. Night after night, Charlene lay in bed on her side, looking out the window at the twinkling stars against the pitch black drapes of the sky. John losing his baby teeth, hitting his first homerun. He was dead now. I might as well have gotten the abortion, Charlene figured. She was immediately ashamed of the thought.

She knew what Morrisey Hawthorne looked like from the newspaper pictures. Bet Morrisey's glad John's dead, Charlene reflected. Now she can get on with her life, especially since the other boys got jail time.

Charlene gradually moved on with her life too. She still thought of John every day, as if a thousand butcher knives were stabbing her in the heart. But the pain was getting better. Now she remembered the good times. Her son had been such a good boy, and she needed to remember him the way he was before the football injury. The green-eyed woman became a robot, going through the automatic motions of life and loving a boy that no longer lived.

A year after John Patrick's death, Charlene was at the grocery store. She was out of skim milk, and that irritated the blonde woman to no end. She didn't feel like going to the nearest store. She was considering a major cuss-out of the hapless sales boy when she saw a tall, dark figure across the room in the meat section. Charlene would've known that face anywhere. She was Morrisey Hawthorne, and that, Charlene realized, wrinkling her forehead, was a baby she held in her arms. A baby that looked to be about five months old.

Charlene's heart skipped a beat and she did the math. Total strangers had always complimented her son on his striking red hair, sometimes orange, sometimes auburn, depending on the surroundings. The baby that Morrisey Hawthorne held in her arms had hair color the exact same shade as Charlene's deceased son.

Suddenly pale and faint, Charlene waved the sales boy away and slithered up the aisles, remaining unhidden. She got behind a towering display of vegetable cans and watched Morrisey place the infant into the baby seat near the front of the shopping cart. The raven-haired woman couldn't decide between two brands of hamburger.

The baby babbled, his good mood contagious. Morrisey was practically glowing, Charlene noted with awe. She laughed, her teeth a perfect white. "That's my boy," she cooed, leaning in to kiss the infant's smooth cheek.

Charlene could only gape. John Patrick had left behind something of his after all. Shuddering, the blonde sat, legs tucked to her chest, behind the display as Morrisey Hawthorne continued her shopping unaware. The blonde didn't want to disrupt the new mother's life, but the hole in her heart had leapt with joy upon seeing the precocious infant. He looked awfully like his father. For the first time in over a year, Charlene Sudsbury thought maybe she could heal.

CHAPTER ONE

She followed Morrisey and the baby home, making sure to stay at least five cars behind. Charlene figured, correctly, that her grandson's mother could use some extra money. She drove a used car and lived in the quiet, blue-collar, tree-lined part of town, where houses seldom went for over a hundred thousand. Still, it was a big step up from her own economic conditions.

Morrisey pulled into a driveway.

Charlene drove past the house slowly, circling the neighborhood several times. Jumbled thoughts ran through her mind. She didn't know what to do, what steps to take. She did know she wanted to see the baby, but she had to think of his mother. Morrisey likely wouldn't take kindly to the intrusion.

Charlene decided to head home and mull matters over. But it would do no harm to drive past the house once more. Before long, the blonde found herself turning into the driveway and getting out of her car, then ringing the doorbell.

Before she knew it, Morrisey Hawthorne stood in front of her, in the doorway, her coal black hair done up in French braids, her blue eyes quizzical.

Charlene's palms were sweaty and clammy, her chest constricted. Jumbled thoughts ran through her mind. Her throat went dry and her mind went blank. What am I doing? she thought. What do I say? Oh, yeah, you know that baby in there? He's my grandson.

That'd go over real well.

Morrisey glanced over to the driveway, saw the modest blue sedan. "Are you selling something?" she asked, skimming over the shorter woman's features. She looked to be in her early thirties, maybe a couple years younger. Her hair was the color of sun-drenched straw and her eyes were pure, emerald green. She was in good shape and looked trim and fit.

Charlene's brain registered the fact that her companion had an incredible voice, like music.

"I don't want to buy anything," the new mother said kindly but firmly. She closed the door and retreated from where she had come.

Charlene blinked but stayed put, her heart racing.

She pressed the doorbell again.

Morrisey appeared a few moments later, obviously exasperated this time. "I'm not interested," she chided.

Charlene fumbled with her words and blurted out an utterly foolish sentence. "I want to see the baby."

The taller woman narrowed her eyes, shifting into protective mode. "I don't understand." Her posture and voice suddenly became alert, suspicious.

"He…he…he… you have a beautiful baby," the blonde stammered.

"Yes, I do," Morrisey agreed. "I still don't understand. If you'll leave…"

The sun set, sending brilliant hues of orange, purple, and pink across its heavenly canvas.

Morrisey fisted her hands, then unclenched them. "I'm going to call the police," she decided.

Charlene leaped into action, her brain jump-started. "No!" she exclaimed, reaching for her companion's wrist. "Please don't!"

Morrisey drew back immediately. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing here, huh, asking to see my baby?"

"I…I…" The blonde stammered, finally ekeing out the purpose of her visit. "I saw you at the store today."

"So you followed me home and figured you'd snatch my baby?" An arched, regal black eyebrow was cocked on the planar face. "It ain't gonna work."

"No… not at all," Charlene explained. "I saw the baby and…" She picked at a nail, avoiding the furious stare. "You see, I'm John Patrick Sudsbury's mother."

Morrisey stiffened, her spine erect. "Go away," she said tonelessly. "Don't come back." Grasping the doorknob, she slammed the door in Charlene's face.

Charlene was normally was a very impulsive woman, and now that she had gotten past her initial paralysis, she reverted into her usual mode. The blonde flung open the door and raced into the house, catching up with the taller woman.

Morrisey spun around, her ice blue eyes sparkling with raging passion. She leapt for the smaller blonde, but Charlene dodged out of reach and got off a sentence. "Hear me out, please!" she cried.

"Ha!" The raven-haired woman hissed.

"I'm not here to tear apart your life!" Charlene pleaded. "I just wanted to see if I could help! That's all!" Her voice became a beseeching wail.

Morrisey snapped into calm and collected mode. She had to handle this rationally. Speaking flatly, she ordered Charlene to get out.

The blonde declined, rattling off a list of pros. "When John died, I got several million from the company for wrongful death! You and the baby are entitled to some of the money, if not all, of-"

"No." Morrisey cut the sob story short. "I want none of his money. None!"

"You can't punish me for my son's behavior!" Charlene implored.

"Out." Morrisey meant serious business this time, and Charlene knew it. She left, cursing herself for her stupidity, feeling as if her son had died all over again. But there had to be a way to be involved in her grandchild's life, and Charlene Sudsbury had never backed away in the face of adversity. When there was a will, there was a way.

After leaving Morrisey's home, Charlene drove straight to the cemetery where her precious dead son laid six feet under. The sky was gray, that uneasy moment between the end of dusk and the impending blackness of night. The blonde parked her car and walked the few feet to the plot. She had spent some of the settlement money, buying him a grand marble tombstone that read: "John Patrick Sudsbury, Wonderful Son."

Charlene gritted her teeth, spotting the overgrown weeds around his grave. Kneeling, she plucked the growths, spiffing up the gravesite. "Did you know?" she whispered. "Oh, John, he's beautiful. Your little boy. Oh, how I wish you were here…" Anguish crept onto her face, but Charlene did not cry. Her mind was on happier matters. Now she had someone to live for.

Winds whistled through the treetops around her, creating a tinkling, chiming sound. Charlene smiled, closing her eyes.

Morrisey rocked her son, baby Gareth Adrian Scott Hawthorne, to sleep that night. Although she'd never admit it, the surprise visit rattled her greatly. Just when she thought she was getting her life together, selling the house and moving to a new town, to a new life, with her baby, that woman had to show up. Of all times! Her carefully reconstructed sense of security threatened to fall apart. After the rape, she pumped out in the gym tirelessly, took self-defense class after class, determined to never be a victim again.

When she discovered she was pregnant, abortion or adoption never crossed her mind. Somehow, she knew she needed this baby, had to keep it. And she didn't regret her decision. Gareth was the light of her life, and if any of her colleagues at school saw her with her son, they'd suffer heart attacks. Gone was the permanent scowl on her face, the impatient aura. Morrisey was completely at peace, at ease with her child.

And now her carefully stacked house of cards was littered all over the floor. The rocking chair creaked against the not quite sturdy wooden floor, making a squeaky sound.

After her son was sound asleep, Morrisey called her parents, wanting to hear a familiar voice. They lived in Maryland, a 30-minute drive away. The dark-haired woman was close to her parents and older brother, and they had especially bonded after the rape.

"Mom?" Morrisey spoke hesitantly into the phone.

Harriet Hawthorne immediately tensed upon hearing the concern in her only daughter's voice. Morrisey was nearly always confident and to the point, when she did choose to divulge information. Ever since she was a child, Harriet's daughter had marched to the beat of a different drummer. The mother knew it right away. The little girl never had more than two friends at a time, and would spend hours in isolation, in her bedroom, outside under a tree, or just simply lost in her own world. Morrisey was always deep in thought, pondering the unimaginable, her blue eyes dreamy that faraway look, her planar face perpetually occupied.

She never flowed with the crowd and was fiercely independent. But the majority of the time, Morrisey Hawthorne kept her thoughts, feelings, and emotions privy to everyone except herself. She was such a complex person on many levels. She rarely dated, being too self-reliant for a relationship.

Harriet and her husband, Dave, had found out about their daughter's rape two days after the fact. It still amazed them to this day how cool and unconcerned Morrisey had been. She was over at their house for Sunday dinner.

"What did you do Friday night?" their son Mark, a computer programmer for Andtel, a local computer company, asked. Mark was the polar opposite of his older sister. Blond-haired where she was dark, light and carefree where she was somber and thoughtful, they were nevertheless both tall, muscular, and strikingly handsome.

Morrisey hesitated, a terribly conflicted look crossing her face. She sighed, eyes wavering on the tablecloth and her half-finished dinner plate.

Harriet and Dave shared a concerned look.

Morrisey reached the point immediately. "I was raped." She said this, looking solidly into her mother's shocked hazel eyes, then shifting the gaze to her father's.

The news of their daughter's pregnancy had been very similar. But that was when the family really began to bond, to gain some insight into the workings of the tall, brooding young woman. "I went to the doctor today," Morrisey said.

"What about, honey?" Harriet put an arm around her child's shoulders. It had been two months since the rape, and she was concerned that her daughter was withdrawing into herself even more.

Morrisey clenched her fists. This time she wasn't able to look into her parents' faces. Even her voice trembled. "I'm pregnant," she whispered. "I'm going to have a baby."

"Oh, no," Harriet breathed. This was one of the mother's worst fears-what could be worse than becoming pregnant with your rapist's child? "Don't worry, sweetie. I understand if you want an abortion."

Morrisey looked at her then, incredulity in her eyes. "I want this baby," she stated emphatically. "It's not his or her fault."

Harriet tried to understand the decision, and during lengthy conversations with her child, accepted the determination. Morrisey had even exposed herself a bit, admitting one night that she wasn't completely comfortable with her choice. "But I do feel I have much to offer to a baby, and, let's face it. Who will have me? This is probably my only chance to become a mother."

And that had been that. Harriet knew that despite Morrisey's introverted nature and general aversion to people, she'd make a great mother one day. And indeed she was, the greatest of mothers to little Gareth.

"I had a visitor today," said Harriet's daughter over the phone.

"Do you need me to come over?"

"No. I'm fine." Morrisey whispered into the cordless phone, standing hunched over her son's crib as he slept. She studied his remarkable beauty and refreshing innocence, and yet again, was immeasurably glad for this new baby in her life. Morrisey looked down at her son. His hair was fiery red, his skin fair and freckled. His right eye was the same vibrant, deep blue as hers, but the other was a sparkling jade green. The same shade green as his grandmother, she realized with a start. She'd wondered where his green eye color had come from, since her rapist possessed brown eyes to go with his burnt copper hair and her side of the family was strictly blue-eyed or brown-eyed.

"Who came to see you?"

"More like who came to see Gareth," the dark-haired woman observed wryly. "Charlene Sudsbury, John's mother. She saw us at the store and figured things out."

Harriet registered the name and let out a sharp gasp, squeezing her eyes shut. Although she would never admit it, hearing of John Patrick Sudsbury's death had gladdened her to great degrees, especially since there was a baby in the picture. Harriet did not wish in the least for the rapist or for his family to thrust themselves into the baby's life. And here was his other grandmother. "What did she want?"

"Wanted to see the baby." Morrisey quietly left her son's room, leaving the door open. The hallway light spilled onto the child's still, sleeping form. "I told her no, of course."

"Well, good!" Harriet let out the breath she had been holding. "That baby isn't her grandson."

"Yeah." Morrisey sat on her sofa, rubbing her forehead. "I don't think I got the message across though."

"Well, you'll have to!" Harriet declared, her nostrils flaring.

"I will. I'll call her and set up a meeting. Tell her in no unequivocal terms to basically-"

"Butt out of your lives!"

"Yeah." Morrisey chatted with her mother for a few more minutes, feeling even more uneasy when they hung up. She had the feeling that Charlene Sudsbury would not take no for an answer. But the best way to start was to make the first move, and she needed to call the blonde before she could spring some sort of surprise onto Morrisey and her baby.

Before the blonde had any firm plan of action in mind, Morrisey surprised her by making the first move. Gareth's mother called two days after the initial encounter at her house. She'd found the Sudsbury phone numbers in the book and winnowed them down to the proper one.

Morrisey Hawthorne spoke in a clipped monotone over the phone. "We need to meet."

"Wonderful!" Charlene gushed, pleased to no end. "How about my place? Or yours? Or I'll take you to dinner. I know this wonderful place-"

"No." The younger woman interrupted coldly. "My office at Nova, four this afternoon."

"Well, uh, sure." Charlene spoke hesitantly into the phone, the other woman's cold tone and abrupt manner having dampened her enthusiasm. Before the green-eyed woman could ask the whereabouts of the office, Morrissey hung up. Her heart pounding with excitement and nervousness, Charlene called the beauty salon and informed her boss that she wouldn't be in that day.

The blonde prepared very carefully for her second meeting with the baby's mother. She knew she had to handle matters with kid gloves, because she so badly wanted to be involved with the little boy's life, but everything was in the hands of his mother. The fact that Morrisey called had to mean something, reasoned Charlene. The first matter at hand was picking out her clothes. After John's death, she'd bought herself a few nice things, hoping that shopping would improve her mood. But she felt horribly guilty for spending her son's compensation money on nice clothes for herself, and so had never worn any of the outfits.

But now she had a perfect, guilt-free reason to.

Charlene shut her eyes tight and brought up her mind's image of all the outfits she owned. Viewing them through her mind's screen was much easier than sifting through the drawers and closet, for the blonde loved clothes and had plenty of them. The aloof Mrs./Ms./Miss Hawthorne (Charlene made a note to herself to find out if there was/would be a man in her grandson's life) seemed to be a woman of simple means. Thus a fancy power suit or frilly feminine clothes wouldn't do. Jeans and a T-shirt, as well as casual wear along those lines, were unacceptable also. Charlene's appearance needed to project to this woman that she took the issue at hand quite seriously.

Finally, the blonde settled on a solid gray cashmere sweater and sensible black slacks and black pumps. She selected simple silver studs for her earlobes and chose to forgo a necklace. She applied minimal amounts of makeup. After the preparations, Charlene studied her reflection in the mirror. She certainly didn't look like a grandmother. Her looks were more fitting of the mother of a very young child. That was what happened when the son you bore at age 15 fathered another child at 18. Frowning at her hairstyle, Charlene decided to toss it. Her blonde hair was pulled back by glittering silvery barrettes and she unbuckled them, allowing her shoulder-length tresses to fall down freely. There. That looked more natural and informal, but not too unkempt.

Her appearance out of the way, Charlene agonized over what to say. She wanted to emphasize that in no way did she approve of John Patrick's actions and had, in fact, kicked him out of the house. But she also wanted to say that she'd loved her son very much and wanted to do anything, everything she could for her grandchild. She had so many questions about him. What is his name? What foods does he like? What kind of toys does he play with? Is he a good sleeper? The blonde's heart skipped a beat. Would the boy be there? Would she hold the baby, her own flesh and blood, in her arms today? Her precious dead son's unconscious gift to her?

Most importantly, she had to come off as earnest and sincere. Charlene knew she could; all she needed to do was speak from her heart and Morrisey Hawthorne would have no other choice but to welcome her. She just had to.

Charlene conjured up what all she remembered about Morrisey from the news coverage. At the time, she was 30 years old, actually only a couple years younger than the blonde, an English professor at Nova.

The blonde arrived at Northern Virginia Community College, Arlington campus, at precisely three-thirty, a small gift tucked under her arm. She'd spent an hour at the toy store, wrestling over what present to get the baby. She didn't want to come across as being too strong, nor too indifferent. Similarly, the present couldn't be too cheap or too elaborate, and it had to be appropriate for a five-month-old child. At last, after a cursory glance at her watch confirmed the approaching meeting, the blonde settled on blocks and a toy car. Her John Patrick had adored blocks and cars.

After rushing home to wrap the purchases, Charlene found herself searching the corridors for Morrisey's office. She looked in vain for ten minutes, and finally had resigned herself when she spotted an information office. She got precise directions and hoofed her way to the other side of campus, arriving in the proper building slightly sweaty and out of breath. Charlene dashed into the women's room, reviewed herself quickly, then strode to the office, holding her head high. Outwardly, she appeared poised and calm, but inside, her heart was thumping mercilessly, like the first time she'd had sex, and the confident knock she made on the door did not reflect her internal turmoil either.

A clipped monotone called from within, as if Charlene's identity was already known. "Who is it?"

Charlene's mind immediately went blank and the moisture in her throat evaporated. Finally, she mustered a reply: "It's Charlene Sudsbury."

She heard a great sigh from within and a chair being pulled back. "Come in," the voice commanded, hard and businesslike.

Trembling, Charlene timidly entered the office. It was little more than a glorified cubicle, with no window view. The first thing the blonde thought was that it was miserably bleak and devoid of life and color. The walls were bare and the stretched wooden desk was uncluttered.

"Sit down," said the professor, curtly indicating the functional plastic chair across from the desk.

Charlene nodded apprehensively and took her seat. She set the present in her lap and fidgeted with it.

Morrisey Hawthorne, her chair as spartan as Charlene's, leaned back and fixed an intense gaze on her companion. She wore a flannel shirt and jeans. Suddenly, the blonde felt ridiculously overdressed. Again, words failed Charlene. One stare from the raven-haired woman and Charlene was rendered mute.

"I summoned you here," began the taller woman crisply, "because we have a few things to discuss."

The blonde found her voice. "Absolutely." She grinned in friendly agreement. "I want you to know a few things. I don't approve one bit of what my son did, and I apologize for the pain it caused you. What he did was hor-"

"I won't beat around the bush," Morrisey interrupted brusquely. "Straight to the point here. I didn't appreciate your intrusion the other day. Please stay out of my life, and out of the baby's life. Period."

Incredulously, Charlene absorbed the news. She could not lose her precious little grandbaby when she had just found him.

"I'm not looking for a grandmother for my son. Please respect this and leave us alone."

The blonde's heart had fallen into her shoes at the realization that Morrissey did not want Charlene to have any part in the boy's life. Charlene struggled to keep the tears at bay as she gulped. "I understand. But… I can help. Really, I can. Do you need money? Anything?"

The room fell silent and Charlene could hear the clicking of heels in the hallway.

Morrisey cleared her throat. "As I said, I'm not looking for a grandmother for my son."

"But…" The blonde spluttered, searching for a fitting response. "Please hear me out." She beseeched her companion with pleading green eyes.

With an annoyed flicker of her hand, Morrisey gave assent, and the words filtered through her ears.

"I'd be a perfect grandmother!" Charlene's soft voice was filled with emotion and sincerity. "I love that little boy to death already and I don't even know his name! I'd be real good for him, I promise. I could take care of him if you're working. Free day care, you know? It saves a lot of money. And… and… look, I don't know if you have family or not, or what you're planning to tell the baby about his father, but… I can read to him! Reading's important. I always read to my John Patrick-"

Immediately Charlene clamped a hand over her mouth at the mention, her face becoming guilty.

Morrisey's voice, little more than a whisper, filled the room as she bravely lifted her chin. "You can say his name, Mrs. Sudsbury. And I do agree. Reading is important. I read to him."

Charlene smiled timorously at the other woman, happy that her gaffe wasn't serious. "Great!" she exclaimed. "Oh, oh, and call me Charlene. We're family, aren't we?" She beamed at the woman across from her.

"Absolutely not." Morrisey scowled at her.

"But…" Immediately ashamed, the blonde willed herself to calm down, and fought back the tears, then darted a glance at the professor from the corner of her eye.

Morrissey ignored the other woman's obvious distress and determinedly plowed on. "Do I make myself clear?"

Burning tears threatened to spill down the blonde's cheeks. This meeting was going hopelessly down the drain. When Charlene spoke, her voice was strained and raspy. Lowering her gaze, she studied the thin maroon carpeting. "I'll give you all of the settlement," she conceded. "I spent some of it, but only like a few thousand. The five million, plus the interest it's accrued during the past year is all intact." She looked up then, green eyes earnestly pleading with Morrisey for understanding and some compassion. "Could you please send me a picture every year? Please, can't you think about this? He's all I have!" The tears trickled down Charlene's cheeks then, scalding, sorrowful, mournful tears for a baby she would never know. Immediately ashamed, Charlene willed herself to calm down, sniffing her nose loudly. She darted a glance at her companion out the corner of her eye.

Morrisey was trying to figure the woman out. Hadn't she said clearly that she didn't want money? Was the blonde sincere or was it all some dramatic show? And Charlene couldn't be serious, five million for bare bones? And especially when she wanted none of it? No way would she accept five million and place herself in the woman's debt.

"That's quite generous," she replied. "However, we will suffice. Thank you."

"Oh, no!" Charlene protested. "You got to plan ahead, especially for the baby. College? Food, activities, his first car. A house and all? You know? What's your financial situation like? I don't want either one of you worrying about money like I always did."

Morrisey shook her head. "The most I will accept is nothing. Period. No argument."

The blonde sighed, but decided to drop the matter for the time being.

"Will you stay out of his life?"

"Yes," came the quiet, dignified reply without a touch of malice or anger, only deep sorrow and anguish.

"Why?" Morrisey shook her head, amazed at the generosity of the gesture.

Charlene's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "What do you mean, why? I want that baby to be happy, to live a good life. I can tell you love your son; love conquers all, doesn't it? I love that baby too and if you think this is best for him..."

The answer and the woman surprised Morrisey greatly. Here was this woman, with five million dollars in the bank, and she was willing to fork it over for a baby she'd never know. Morrissey didn't know if she was either a saint or stupid. Perhaps she was both: a stupid saint. "Why haven't you spent all of the money already?" Morrisey was curious. She would imagine most people would splurge on fancy vacations, houses, and cars.

Charlene shrugged. "What would I spend it on? I have no one."

"Hmm." Morrisey stroked her chin thoughtfully. "I appreciate this, Mrs. Sudsbury." She exhaled a sigh of relief. "I do, I really do."

Charlene nodded tremulously. "Can I ask you a few questions at least?"

Morrisey consented; she owed the woman.

"What's his name? Charlene wanted to know.

The baby's mother sighed. She didn't want the blonde to become too attached. "I'd rather not say…"

Tears stung the older woman's eyes again. "That's fine," she said shakily. "How about, uh… your family? Who will he have?"

"Gareth will have me," Morrisey said. "And my parents, my brother."

Charlene's face drooped. "Are you all close?"

"Yes." The dark-haired woman looked sympathetically at her companion. Charlene looked utterly miserable. "Look…" Morrisey cleared her throat. She wanted to get this out of the way before the woman changed her mind. "I have to be getting home…"

She slid her chair back.

Charlene did not even blink as she smiled brightly at Morrisey. The professor noticed the slight dimples in the blonde's cheeks and the small cleft in her chin and her heart suddenly ached. Charlene's facial features were like Gareth's. Just like him. Charlene looked at the other woman eagerly, hungry for any scrap of information about her grandson. The significance of a prior comment was just beginning to hit her. "Gareth, huh? Like in King Arthur. Is that his name?"

Morrisey grimaced, trying to remember where she'd slipped. "Yeah. I'm impressed; you know where the name comes from."

The blonde chuckled. "That's my favorite story. I wore out the pages in that book as I was growing up. I always hoped to meet my Lancelot… me, Guinevere, in a long beautiful dress…" Her voice trailed off wistfully. "But I learned soon enough that I was no princess."

The baby's mother shifted awkwardly. She hated mushy situations. "I'll be a good mother," was all she could think to say. For the first time, her companion's sheer youthful appearance occurred to the dark-haired woman. Her rapist had been 18, and evidently, his mother had been a young parent too. "Well!" she said. "Have a nice evening."

Charlene regained her forlorn look as she remembered the matter at hand. "Okay." She stood up and wandered to the door, then paused. "Ms. Hawthorne, please," she said. "If you, uh… ever need me…" She raised her eyebrows in defeat. "If you need money, let me know. I'll take on another job. You're more than welcome to any of that five million. And if you ever reconsider, you know… I'm more than happy to help out with Gareth."

The heartbroken expression on Charlene's face touched a chord deep down inside the dark-haired woman's soul. The extraordinarily selfless act of offering to work a second job for a baby she would never know struck the professor and she wondered how it was that her rapist could have had such a gentle, selfless mother. She considered giving in, even if just to let the woman see one picture a year, but steeled herself. That wouldn't do.

"Oh!" Charlene grinned sheepishly and proffered the package. "If you don't mind, could you please give this to the baby? To, uh… Gareth. What a lovely name."

Morrisey took the package carefully. "Thank you, Mrs. Sudsbury," she said solemnly. "I'm sure Gareth will enjoy it. Good afternoon."

Charlene opened the door and stepped out, sobs threatening choke her. Her small shoulders slumped in weary defeat. She had gambled and lost. Through her tears, she managed a final word to Morrisey: "Please give him a hug for me too," she murmured. "If it means anything to you, I really am ashamed and sorry for what John did." Then she fled down the hall.

Charlene left the door semi-open in the wake of her tearful departure. Her heart heavy, Morrisey got up to close it. She glimpsed the blonde disappearing around a far corner, her back hunched, hands covering her face. Right at that minute, the younger woman felt like shit. The woman's son had raped her, but did Charlene really have to suffer so? And especially after so selflessly sacrificing her ticket to a life of luxury.

Morrisey closed the door and sank to the floor, her head just under the knob. Tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear, she breathed forcefully, almost violently. She wanted to move on with her life, and making nice with that woman wasn't the way to do it. So what should she do? She'd honestly never met anyone as selfless as the green-eyed blonde that had just been in her office. It had just been a ploy on Charlene's part; what else could it have been?

Satisfied, the black-haired woman got back to work, ignoring the nagging but increasingly persistent voice in the back of her mind that she had never been more wrong in her life.