It wasn't any easier for Girl that it had only been a holiday romance, and that after it was over she hardly felt touched. In fact, Girl felt downright numb.

And Girl had no hero, no book, no nothing. The grocery shelves from Plymouth, CA to Plymouth, MA were going to miss Carly Vincent's annual contribution. But nothing had sparked her imagination. Carly couldn't create the kind of character she wanted to fall in love with because Carolyn didn't want to fall in love again. She had tried it once and it looked like it would cost her her livelihood.

She told herself it wouldn't kill her to get a real job. She'd known this Carly Vincent business wouldn't last. It was too easy.

The doorbell rang, jolting Carolyn from her train of thought just before it started down an extremely depressing track. She signed for the envelope — it was probably some document to sign that Alison was in a tizzy about having. She'd look at it later. Carolyn went to get a soda and decided to finish off the Cheetos, even though she'd been saving them for a special occasion.

Back at the word processor she stared at the empty screen. Girl meets Boy. Boy meets Girl. She set her fingers on the keyboard again. It was all supposed to work out. It was supposed to be perfect and normal and perfectly normal. Carolyn raised her hands. Her fingers were trembling. Maybe Curt was right. If she wrote it down she might make some sense of what had happened to her in Paris. She might make some use of it after all. She took a deep breath and let her fingers fly.

She kept her eyes closed most of the time and just typed. Every detail, every image, every thought, every question — she didn't stop to read any of it, she just let it pour out. She felt darkness inside draining away.

It was after sunset when the phone rang. Carolyn realized, as she staggered to the phone, that her body was cramped and her senses dazed.

"So, what did you think when you opened it?" Alison's voice had a faraway sound to it.

"Opened what?"

"It didn't get there? Devon is dead meat…"

"Wait, wait, wait," Carolyn interrupted. "Are you talking about the thing that arrived by messenger?" Carolyn couldn't believe she had forgotten about it. Where was it?

"What else would I be talking about? Christ, Carolyn, you scared me — you didn't open it?" Alison sounded a bit upset.

"Sorry, I was working," Carolyn said. "I'll get it." She looked frantically around the kitchen. "I had it when I got a Coke," she said, thinking out loud.

"You lost it?" There was a long pause. Then Alison said, in a high, faint voice, "Please don't tell me you lost it."

"No, it's here somewhere." Carolyn set the phone down. She could hear Alison's voice echoing shrilly against the Formica. She mentally backtracked, then triumphantly opened the refrigerator. The envelope was on the egg carton, which she noticed was empty. "I have it right here," she told Alison. "Where are you, anyway?" She slit the envelope and opened it.

"El Lay," Alison said. "Otherwise I'd have delivered it in person. Carolyn? Carolyn?"

"This is an April Fool's joke, isn't it?" Carolyn swallowed once. It had to be a fake. "This is just an incredible simulation, isn't it? I can't actually cash this, can I?" Carolyn clutched the phone to her ear.

"I wanted to surprise you," Alison said. Her voice, now at its normal husky cadence, conveyed an ear-to-ear smile across hundreds of miles of fiber optic phone lines. "I earned every penny of my share."

"Alison!" Carolyn gave the check a quick glance, thinking if she looked too long one of the zeros might fall off. "You didn't even give me a hint."

"I wasn't sure the deal was ever going to jell. In the end it took so long I figured it was merciful you didn't know you were going to sizzle in Canada and Down Under," Alison said.

"Didn't you need my signature or anything?"

Alison sighed. "You'll never understand our contract, will you? Between me and your publisher we control more of Carly Vincent than you do. You are so lucky I'm not a crook."

Carolyn began to picture a soft green carpet the color of a mossy forest floor. And curtains bringing warm peaches and cream into the most icy Sacramento winter night. And tinted dual pane windows to keep out the most scorching Sacramento summer day. And a parquet floor, new shingles, and a great big bathtub ... there were a hundred decadent luxuries her parents had forgone in favor of sending their children to college. Some decorating changes would make it her house at last. And —

"Hel...lo Carolyn! Hey — remember me, calling long distance?"

"Sorry, I was spending the money in my mind."

"I want you to do something other than buy new carpets and roof the house with that money."

"How do you always know what I'm thinking?"

Alison's low laugh flowed through the phone. "I know you inside out. Do something exotic. Brush up on all those languages you've let rust to pieces. I hear carpeting and plumbing running around your head. Wouldn't the South Seas be far more satisfactory than new pipes?"

"I just might consider it… I feel so on top of the world. Thank you, Alison, you are a terrific agent! Of course you're the only agent I've ever had, but I know you're terrific."

"You're at liberty to include that information in your next book."

"But I am going to redecorate. Do you know anyone good?" Alison always knew somebody.

Alison hesitated, then said, "Yeah, umm, Samantha Beckwith ... I've heard nothing but good things about her work. She's in the book."

"I'll call her."

"Well, if you decide to take a trip or something, I'll see that the lawn gets watered. It's the least the best agent in the world can do for you."

"You're not a bad friend either," Carolyn said.

"Then take me to dinner some time soon." Alison's voice was softer, less husky.

"Okay, it's a date."

After a completely indulgent trip to the grocery store, where she bought not one but two types of muffins and a supply of hand...dipped ice cream bars, Carolyn called her brother. Curt reminded her that she'd promised to start a retirement plan as soon as she had some money.

"The money'll be safe, won't it?" Carolyn nibbled on a muffin.

"Of course," he said. "I'll split it between tax...exempt municipal bonds and government-insured stuff. A nice, steady return, and you'll get some tax breaks."

"Okay, but I want to start small," Carolyn said. The words tax...exempt made her sleepy.

"You sound just like Mom and Dad. I'll bring the prospectuses and forms home from work. Come over early before the party tomorrow and I'll tell you more about it." Curt's voice became less official-investment-officerish. "I hope you're going to do something to the house, though. I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to, but I wouldn't mind if you did, you know. It's your house now."

"Well, I was thinking about some serious redecorating," Carolyn admitted. She hadn't known how Curt would feel about it.

"Good! The place looks so much like it did when we were kids, I expect Mom or Dad to walk in."

"I know. It happens to me from time to time."

"So make it your house."

Carolyn felt relieved. He concluded the call with a reminder about her tax obligations. Ouch. She got out the forms that Rochelle — Alison's tax wizard — had prepared so Carolyn could calculate her quarterly deposits. She winced at the final number. Her new, higher payment was due in just a few weeks. But even allowing for a pretty swell trip somewhere, there was certainly enough left for a new roof and new carpeting and finishing the installation of mini...blinds in the rest of the house, and maybe some new furniture. The house needed a breath of fresh air just as much as she herself did.

The next morning she set up an appointment with Samantha Beckwith. At the mention of Alison's name, Samantha eagerly offered to stop by the following day. Nothing was too good for a friend of Alison's.

When Carolyn opened the door to Samantha, she was immediately intimidated. Samantha looked nothing like her cheery and informal voice — she appeared every inch the type who lived for frozen whites and icy blues and merciless mirrored walls. Samantha herself was a tall, regal queen — a six-foot Whitney Houston-slim figure with masses of black hair swept into a perfect chignon and fastened with two long rhinestone tipped hat pins. Carolyn felt mousey and pasty, like a plant grown in a closet. She took comfort in the fact that she was wearing clean sweatpants and that it was possible to read the "Make Pizza, Not War" emblazoned on her sweatshirt.

"I… I don't want to get rid of any of my things," she explained as she escorted Samantha to the living room. "I would hate it if my reading stack looked ...out of place." She waved a hand at the comfortable clutter, and noticed for the first time that the reading stack had become a furnishing in itself.

Samantha smiled and the regal demeanor vanished. "It will be a welcome change," she said. "I'm tired of designing hermetically sealed show places. You want to l-i-v-e here."