And will again.

Or will they?

And now, this doubt assails her.

Was that a one-shot deal, something to be done and forgotten and never acknowledged, never repeated?

That too is a possibility, and one she had not considered before now.

But then, if he is not interested in the garden and not interested in her as herself, what would be the point in his keeping her around?

He owes her nothing, after all.

He could as easily have Eric drive her back to the bus terminal and drop her, there to begin anew or to find her way back home.

Strange, strange man, really.

But wealthy and unattached, don't forget.

And certainly capable of passion, if only in the strictly physical sense.

Uneasy, Daisy removes the drawing, rolling it up, standing up, leaving as Cranston enters the den.

And holds the heavily carved wooden door open so that they can watch her retreat on bare feet.

Randy doesn't wear any clothes, why should she feel obliged to wear shoes?

A display of independence and nonchalance that is not lost on the men.

"Like ta take her down, Cranston," Buck says, when she is out of earshot, climbing the great marble staircase.

"Like to roll her over, luck her in the ass with no Vaseline.

"Like to-"

"Easy, Randy. Tonight.

"We're all set for tonight."

"So Eric assures me."

And he sighs luxuriously, leaning back in his dark, leather-upholstered swivel chair, hands behind his head, a smile of contentment on his face.

"Just think, Cranston. Tonight, the Brotherhood of the Body will be reborn!"

And both of them watch, amused, as Randy's thick, bulb-headed prick rears up between the folds of his robe.

Daisy tosses and turns, exhausted but unable to sleep, troubled at the ambiguousness, the uncertainty of her position.

She knows that something is wrong. Granted, the first few days of a garden of that size are a full-time job.