He glanced back into the kitchen. “Well, you’re young. You’ll begin soon. And you don’t have to be exactly as those girls are, or wear what they wear, either. Just relax, and the real Frances will shine through!”

She shook with brief, hysterical laughter.

“It’s never too late to be a lady,” he said, unwrapping a lump of cheese.

Frances thought. Sometimes, coming home from afternoon shopping, she stared at her image in the dark-tinged hallway mirror: the disappointed-looking creature she saw in the skirt and blouse was strange. If she was not a child, then surely she was a type of girl. But she was not a girl, nor was she a married woman, by any means. She had no offspring, and often browsed through boating magazines; with her mouth- and eye-wrinkles she seemed almost an older woman; but she was not. Her belly burned atavistically at times, and she could be aroused upon hearing anyone at all cough or speak her name. What was a girl? Frances never had quite considered herself a full woman; besides, older women were clearly prone to ugliness and illness. She was not that way—not yet. Was she unique?

With a flat expression, she stepped toward Kenny, who held a broken cracker in one hand.

“Kenny, when I was four years old my mother told me, ‘You’re all alone in the world.’ And what do you know: that turned out to be true!”

He stared, then drank down a very small glass of water. “You’re a nice girl, Frances. Come meet Will Morst.”

A door banged upstairs, and Ray thumped across the upstairs hallway. Another door banged as he headed down the stairs. Frances stared at Kenny dryly. “No,” she said with cool, impacted anger.

Kenny gave her a solicitous gaze. “You’re not still worried because of your face—from long ago?”

She waved him away. “No, no, it’s nothing to do with that. I just don’t care to meet Will Morst!”

“How can that be?”

Ray’s footstep was in the downstairs back hall.

“Kenny,” she said quietly, “I have to talk to you—away from here. Will you meet me later?”

“Oh! Well, sure, if you like—where?”

“Near that barn.”

“What barn?

“Out by Rise Road.”

“That’s not a barn, Frances, it’s a legitimate business. It’s Hal Arn’s motor shop.”

“Is that what all those black piles are? Motors?”

“ ’Course they’re motors. How do you suppose Hal Arn makes his living?”

“All right then—meet me there after you and Ray leave tonight. I want to show you something. If I don’t talk to someone soon, I may burst!”

“Gosh. All right, Frances.”

She raised her voice. “Can we begin our meal? Please? Ray!” Frances went to a chest of drawers and pulled out a gray tablecloth, shaking it across the table so it billowed, staring at the movement insatiably.