"Something wrong, Mother?" the girl asked, noticing Monica's stare.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. It's just that… I hope you weren't wandering around in that outfit. It's very revealing, Arlette."

The girl frowned, closing the magazine, then laying it on the table. They had had this kind of discussion before with poor results.

"Mother, I'm capable of taking care of myself. Besides, some of the girls at school would call this modest," Arlette retorted, affecting a bored expression. Then her face cleared. "Where's Jack, that handyman? I haven't see him around here for the past few days. Is he through?"

Monica felt a shudder ripple through her body. It was some time before she could compose herself and answer Arlette's question. Was her daughter studying her? It felt as if those clear blue eyes had suddenly become sharp, inquisitive. That was silly. What on earth could Arlette possibly suspect?

"No. He's been… ill, I believe. I'm sure he'll be back. I… I haven't heard from him, though." Her words came out haltingly, strained. Monica saw her daughter's forehead wrinkle, and she felt her breath coming in shorter and shorter pants. Dear God, she had to get away from here, or she would surely give herself away.

"Oh," Arlette commented softly, sighing, then reaching forward for the magazine. Monica collected herself, feeling another craving for a drink, yet afraid to fix one in front of her daughter. The mall down the way. Yes, she would drive to the mall, do some late afternoon shopping, then perhaps stop in for a cocktail to steady her nerves at a respectable restaurant. Surely not to look for a man. Oh no, not that! Just a drink, something that would cool down the aching, pulsing itch that was driving her out of her mind.