“I’m going to take a shower. And neatly put away all my tools,” Tessa added pointedly as I dropped the folder back on the heap of papers: if Mary Louise were working on it she’d have typed up a label on the spot and stuck it in the drawer with other pending cases.

“Yeah, you always were teacher’s pet. It ain’t going anywhere, but I am.” I shut down my system for the day and stuffed a second copy of the backup program in my briefcase. It was the second thing my old hacker friend had taught me—always keep a copy of your programs off the premises. You never think your office is the one that will be burgled or burned to the ground.

Tessa, her hair heavy from her shower, was locking her studio when I came into the hall. She had changed into a gold sundress of some kind of soft expensive cotton. I wondered if a ten–thousand–dollar wardrobe could make me look as good as her or Abigail Trant. The two came from similar worlds—fancy private schools, fathers successful entrepreneurs. Probably the only difference was their mothers—Tessa’s had broken through the white male barricades into a major law career.

“Not to be a feline, but I always thought Murray liked softer women than that bionic specimen he brought in today,” Tessa remarked as she set the alarm code. “He was kind of preening when he introduced us, so I take it they weren’t making a business call?”

“Not the Bionic Woman—a Space Beret.” When she looked puzzled, I said, “I can tell there aren’t any small boys in your life. That’s Global Studio’s movie–cartoon–comic–book and megabillion–dollar action figure. The woman is one of their lawyers. When we were in school together she was Sandy Fishbein and led sit–ins. Now that she’s Alexandra Fisher and sits on boards, I get confused about how to think about her or what to call her. She’s seduced Murray, and now they’re trying for a ménage à trois with me.”

“I never trust a woman who gets all her muscles at the health club and only uses them as an accessory to her wardrobe,” Tessa announced, flexing her own arms, sinewy from years of hammering on stone and metal.

I laughed and waved at her as she climbed into her pickup—one of those fancy modern ones with leather seats, air–conditioning, and perfect suspension. Seen next to it, the Skylark looked more decrepit than ever. I felt another unwelcome twist of jealousy. I wouldn’t have traded either of my parents for the wealthiest tycoons in the West, but every now and then I wished my legacy had included more than the five–room bungalow whose sale after my father’s death barely covered his medical bills.