“Because it looks like nobody does?” She moved up beside him, her eyes silvery with amusement. “I don’t live here, actually. This is just temporary, just until the album’s in the can. And the tour…” She left it hanging, her eyes going to the bank of windows that made up one whole side of the loft almost as if they’d been pulled there against her will.

He thought about asking her where she did live, but the memory of that shrinking withdrawal kept the question locked inside his mind. Though he did let her see it in his eyes, knowing she was probably expecting him to ask, and held her gaze long enough to give her the chance to answer if she wanted to.

When she didn’t, he turned away from her once more, picking up the thread she’d left dangling. “The tour-I’ve heard the rumor. Is it true that the reason you’re starting this tour here, in this city, is because it’s your hometown?”

He waited for her to come beside him again. When she slid a look sideways at him, shook her head and murmured, “Rumors…” he recognized his own tactic and almost laughed out loud.

Instead, he shook his head, saying nothing.

“You’re doing it again,” Phoenix said, taking a sip of beer.

“Doing what?”

“Laughing at me.”

He shrugged, not looking at her, watching the city turn from pink to purple and the lights wink on like stars in the dusk. “Like I said before, it’s not you I’m laughing at.”

“You’re laughing at yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“You want to tell me why?” Her smile was sardonic. “No offense, Doc, but like I said, you’re not that funny.”

He smiled down at his beer bottle. The huskiness in her voice…the growing dusk…her nearness-oh, he knew it wasn’t the beer that was making his head swim.

“What you said…the way you said it-” and there was a burr in his voice he didn’t recognize “-I’ve said that, you know-done the exact same thing, when people ask for information I don’t want to give.”

She was turned toward him; he could feel her eyes. “I just don’t give out personal information, Doc. Sorry.”

“But you did,” he said softly. He turned now, to face her. The city seemed like an eavesdropper looking over his shoulder. “You told me your name.” Again he waited for the shuddering rejection of her withdrawal.

Instead, her eyes shimmered at him in the twilight. The silence shimmered, too, felt in the skin like the subaudible hum of electricity. His heartbeat leaped into his consciousness, like the sudden awareness of a ticking clock.

“That wasn’t for public consumption.” Her lips seemed barely to move; her voice was a whisper, like windblown sand.

He answered as softly, “I never thought it was.”

“You’d best just forget you ever heard that name.”

“Why? It’s a beautiful name…Joanna Dunn.”

Joanna… Seeing the word form on his lips, hearing it whispered in his voice…something came into her heart, something warm and tiny, and incredibly fragile. Panic-stricken, desperately afraid of losing or destroying it somehow, she closed herself like protecting hands around it, hiding it from view.

Did he even know, she wondered, that he was leaning so close to her…that there were only a few scant inches between his lips and hers? Did he know how fast, how hard her heart was beating? Was his heart pounding, too? If he touched her now…if he touched any part of her, it would be like a thousand tiny points of light pricking her skin. Her skin would shiver and her breasts grow tight, and the melting warmth inside her would pour into her legs, and they would tremble and weaken…

Fear seized her. She made a small, wordless sound and whirled away from him, while somewhere in the back of her mind the Phoenix she thought she knew was jumping up and screeching What are you doing? Are you crazy? He was about to kiss you-isn’t that what you wanted?

And the newcomer inside her, the stranger curled protectively around a newborn emotion that hadn’t yet been given a name, replied, Yes, oh, yes. But not like this.

Ah, of course. The familiar Phoenix nodded in relief. Because it wouldn’t be on my terms. Because I’m not in control of my emotions.

The newcomer merely smiled.

Shaken, she strode to the couch and sat, slipping off her sandles and pulling her bare feet under her. Sitting cross-legged like that-the lotus position, wasn’t it? Wasn’t yoga supposed to help with serenity?-she felt her confidence coming back. She took a swig of beer and said airily, “Hey, have a seat, Doc. You want to talk about those apartment buildings I own, or not?”

She watched him as he came and sat in one of the chairs across the coffee table from her, watching for signs that he’d been affected in any way by what had almost happened between them. But he seemed completely at ease, his eyes as calm and wise as always. Shaman’s eyes.

“Yes, of course I do,” he said quietly. “That’s what I came for.”

She felt a bright, hot flare of anger. “Are you sure?” she purred wickedly, and was delighted to see something flicker at last in those imperturbable eyes. “Come on, admit it-you came mostly out of curiosity. You wanted to see for yourself-‘Phoenix in her natural habitat.”’

He studied her for a moment, eyes slightly narrowed. Then he smiled. “I’m not going to deny it. Hell, what did you expect?”

“Hey-” she smiled back “-not that I mind. Goes with the territory!”

“Yeah, I guess.” But the smile was gone, and the eyes were quiet again. Thoughtful.

“This doesn’t have to be complicated, you know,” Phoenix said, before she could begin to squirm under the weight of that scrutiny. “I do want to do the right thing. I’m not an ogre.”

The beer bottle paused just shy of his lips. “I never thought you were.”

“It’s so simple, really. All you need to do is give Patrick-my business manager-a list. He’ll see that it’s taken care of.”

Once again he took his time answering. She could hear the whisper of an exhalation as he leaned forward, the bottle of beer loosely clasped between his knees. “The thing is,” he said quietly, “it really isn’t that easy. I don’t pretend to be an expert, but I think I’m fairly safe in saying what’s wrong with those apartments isn’t going to be fixed with some spackling and fresh paint.”

“Then what?” She threw it at him almost desperately. “What is it you want from me?”

Perhaps because she asked it just that way-What do you want?-Ethan answered her truthfully. “I want you to come down there,” he said, as intense as if at that very moment lives hung in the balance. “Look for yourself. Put on one of your disguises if you want to, but come with me.” It was what he wanted; nobody had ever suggested such a thing to him, probably even Father Frank would think him out of his mind to dare expect Phoenix to personally tour a run-down tenement. The only thing he didn’t understand was why he wanted it, and so badly.

She regarded him from across the bare expanse of coffee table, sitting cross-legged and sharply upright, remote as a statue of Buddha. A statue with diamond eyes…

“That’s not going to happen.” Her voice was empty of emotion, smooth and dry as sunbaked clay. “I’ll arrange to have Patrick send somebody down to evaluate the buildings. Based on that report, the decision will be made by the people I pay to handle my business affairs either to repair or demolish them.” She lifted her hands and shoulders together as if to say, That’s it-end of story.

She had more ways of withdrawing, Ethan thought, than any human being he’d ever met. Shrinking, hardening, freezing, distancing…even jokes and games…they were all the ways she had of protecting herself, of keeping other people from getting too close. He understood that, he supposed, given who she was. What he didn’t understand was his own profound disappointment.

Keeping his movements deliberate and slow, he rose, walked to the counter and placed his empty beer bottle on the polished granite. There was no reason for him to stay longer. He’d gotten what he came for. He’d come to discuss repairing the buildings she owned in The Gardens, and he’d done that. He’d been informed of her plan of action, which he could now report back to Father Frank, who would in turn inform the tenants committee. He’d done very well, actually-and it was a shock to him to realize that fact, so deep and personal was his sense of failure.

He’s leaving, Phoenix thought, and was bewildered by regret so sharp it was almost pain. Seized by a panic that was totally alien to her, she unfolded her legs and rose from the couch in one strong, fluid motion, waving her bottle like a flag. “Have another?” And to her own ears her voice sounded too high and just off-key.

“Thanks, but I’d better be going.” His voice was off, too-his voice, his smile-everything seemed wrong.

“Stay and have dinner with me.” She hadn’t meant it to sound like an order, dammit. But she wouldn’t beg. Phoenix does not beg. She strolled toward him, making the movement of her body graceful, fluid, subtly inviting.

He watched her come, smiling in a way that for some reason made her throat ache. “It’s tempting, but…” His eyes revealed a sadness she didn’t understand. “It’s been a long day.”

“Well-” she drew herself together and halted, her arms folding across her body in a way that felt defensive and unfamiliar to her “-why don’t you give me a call or come by tomorrow? Maybe I’ll have some information for you by then.”

He shook his head, narrowing his eyes in that way he had, as if the light had suddenly become too bright. “Can’t tomorrow-my EMS ride-along night.”

Anger flared inside her like a Fourth of July star burst. “Fine,” she said silkily, looking away from him…dismissing him, “make it the next day, then. Or whenever.” He was of no consequence to her. She didn’t give a flying fig what he did or did not do.

He nodded and picked up his bottle, lifting it to her in a little salute. “Thanks for the beer.” He set it down again and turned and left her standing there.

Phoenix stood absolutely motionless until she could no longer hear even the squeaking and creaking of the elevator. Then she lifted her bottle to her lips and drank the last of her beer. It burned like acid going down. Burned so, it brought the tears to her eyes.


Even after he noticed the young Doc Brown had gone on his way, Doveman stayed at the piano in the studio. Working. Playin’ around. Waiting.

It was maybe fifteen, twenty minutes before he heard that old elevator creak and groan its way up…then back down again. “That good-lookin’ doctor left mighty early,” he said a few minutes later to the silent presence in the shadows. “I take that to mean things are not going well.” He cackled, secure in knowing he was the only person alive could get away with talking to Phoenix like that.

Ignoring the jab, she came to the piano and slid herself onto the bench beside him. “Hey, Doveman, what you doing here so late?” She sounded tired.

“Oh, you know… ‘Hard Sayin’ Goodbye.’ I been tryin’ out some new harmonies…thought maybe a minor key…” He played a few bars for her.

She listened a bit, then jerked her shoulders impatiently, like a child. “You ever think,” she said suddenly, “maybe it’s the whole premise of the song that’s wrong? I mean, ‘Hello is easy’? Sez who?”

Doveman played a minor chord and left it hanging. “Hello is easy, girl. You and the doc, you done said hello already, and it was so easy you didn’t even know you was doin’ it.” He played a few more chords, switching back and forth between major and minor. “It’s what comes after-what happens between hello and goodbye-that matters. Hard, easy, good, bad-makes all the difference in the world.”

She watched him for a while, not saying anything or singing, or humming along like she’d generally do, just watching his bent old fingers travel over the keys. When she finally spoke it was in a voice so low he had to stop playing to hear it.

“Doveman? He scares me.”

Doveman shrugged. “Stay away from him, then.”

She didn’t reply, and after a while he added, “But you aren’t going to do that, are you?”

He was laughing softly when she left him, his old heart light with hope and a whispered “Hallelujah” on his lips. The girl-child he loved like his own was hurtin’, and he didn’t think it odd at all that this should make him feel so glad. It was, after all, what he’d been praying for, oh, Lord, for so many years.


The lights were burning late that night in the master bedroom suite at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

“If you’d call more often,” the president of the United States was saying, “maybe you wouldn’t give your stepmother and me a heart attack.” He broke the connection, cradled the telephone and settled back into a bank of pillows, while the First Lady came to snuggle against him.