Almost an hour later. Lizabeth barely had the energy to dress herself in her dried clothes. She took Matt's hand, feeling unbelievably relaxed and foolishly euphoric, and followed him down the stairs.

When they reached the bottom, Matt cast a sidelong glance at his Harley. "You like motorcycles?" he asked Lizabeth.

She didn't want to be insulting, but she liked motorcycles almost as much as she liked tattoos, fat black cigars, and poisonous spiders. "I don't know very much about motorcycles." she said.

He dragged her into the living room. "This is a Harley Sportster. 900cc's. It's a honey, Isn't it? It can do everything but bake brownies."

She struggled to find something nice to say about it. "It's very… shiny."

"Yeah. That's because I keep her indoors. I used to do some dirt-bike racing when I was first out of the Navy. After I broke my leg for the third time I decided to quit the circuit."

"Is this a dirt bike?"

He grinned down at her. "No. A dirt bike is smaller. The tires are a lot more narrow. This baby is a hog."

Lizabeth nodded. Obviously, if you were a motorcycle it was complimentary to be called a hog.

"You're trying to be polite, but I can see you're not into internal combustion," Matt said. "Bet you've never even ridden on one of these."

"Well, no…"

He strapped the gym bag to the back of the seat, handed Lizabeth a big black helmet, and straddled the bike. "Open the front door for me. I'll take you for a ride."

Lizabeth clutched the helmet to her chest and took a step backward. "That's not necessary. It's nice of you to offer, but…"

The smile was full of pure little-boy charm. "Come on. You're really going to like this. This is going to be great." He jump-started the big black bike. The motor kicked in and rumbled through the house like thunder. Windows rattled, glasses danced across the kitchen counter, and Lizabeth felt the vibration through the soles of her shoes. "Riding a Harley's the next best thing to good sex," Matt said, hand-revving the engine.

Lizabeth pressed her lips together. She didn't want to miss "the next best thing to good sex," but the thought of riding hell-bent on Matt's Harley made her mouth go dry. She grimly followed him out the door and down the sidewalk to the curb. He patted the seat behind him and smiled.

"Macho garbage," Lizabeth said.

The smile broadened. "Without a shadow of a doubt."

She settled herself on the padded seat, cautiously searched for a place for her feet to rest, and tentatively clutched at his waist. "You have to be careful with me," she said. "I'm a motherrrrr!" Her fingers locked onto his shirt, her knuckles went instantly white, and her words were lost in the wind and the roar of the engine as the bike laid rubber and wheeled away from the curb.

Jason was the first to reach the bike when it pulled into the driveway. "Oh man, this is so cool. I hope Noogie Newsomes watching from across the street. He thinks he's so hot because his brother got a scooter. Man, this baby could blast that stupid scooter right off the road."

Lizabeth could barely see her son through the bugs splattered on her Plexiglas visor. She carefully put one foot on the ground and tried to breathe. It was probably the first breath she'd had since leaving Matt's town house, she thought. She reached for the helmet and realized her hands were shaking. It had felt so fast. All wind and noise and power.

Matt cut the engine and felt the body go limp behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw that Lizabeth's eyes were huge, her face ashen, her breathing coming in shallow gasps. He set the kickstand and slid off the bike, cursing himself for not checking on her sooner. He put his hands to her waist, pulled her to her feet, and removed her helmet. "You're all right. You're just hyperventilating. Take a deep breath." He massaged her shoulders and the base of her neck. "Try to relax."

Lizabeth nodded, unable to speak. She couldn't remember ever having been so terrified… and so exhilarated. She cupped her hands over her nose and mouth and made an effort to slow her breathing.

Matt gently stroked the wet ringlets away from her damp forehead. "Lizabeth," he said, "you have a ways to go before you get those fairy wings."

She patted his chest with her hand. "I'm sure you'll help me."

"I'm trying."

Jason had scrambled onto the bike. "Vrooom, vrooom, vrooom," he said. "I'm gonna get one of these when I grow up. I'm gonna start saving my money."

Lizabeth looked at her son and winced. She didn't want him aspiring to own a motorcycle. She didn't necessarily care if he went to an Ivy League college, and she certainly didn't want him to be as career-obsessed as Paul, but she did have minimum expectations for him. And she didn't consider a fixation with motorcycles to be a step in the right direction. She reluctantly admitted she had a problem. She'd fallen in love with a man who wasn't her idea of a perfect role model for her sons. He was fine as a friend of the family, but what sort of a father would he be, riding around on his motorcycle, getting lewd messages tattooed on his arm.

"C'mon, squirt," Matt said, tucking Jason under his arm. "Let's go inside and look in the oven so I can decide if I want to stay for supper."

Elsie stood on the porch steps. "What's all the racket about? Holy cow, is that a hog in the driveway?"

"It's Matt's," Jason said. "Isn't it awesome?"

"Yep," Elsie said. "It's awesome all right. Nothing like a hog to liven a place up."

Matt gave Elsie a kiss on the cheek. "Play your cards right, and I might take you for a ride after supper."

Lizabeth turned, took one last glance at the Harley, and gave an involuntary shiver. Yes sir, Lizabeth, she thought, you're in way over your head.

Lizabeth cracked her knuckles and resumed her pacing. The bedroom floor was cool under her bare feet, her white cotton gown with the little blue roses billowed around her legs as she walked, and her ears stayed alert for sounds drifting through her open window. It was two o'clock and overcast and the backyard seemed unusually dark. The outside lights hadn't been turned on, and there were no lights shining inside the Victorian house. Even the small night-lights had been extinguished. Elsie and Matt didn't want to scare the flasher off. "It's not fair," Lizabeth said. "It's two against one. And that poor flasher doesn't even have any clothes on." In her mind that gave him some sort of disadvantage, as if he couldn't think as well, or run as fast, because he was nude.

Elsie had dragged the rocking chair into the kitchen. She'd positioned it in front of the back door and left the door ajar so she could hear the slightest sound coming from the yard. She'd been sitting there, in the dark, for almost three hours and she was sound asleep. Her hands were folded, at rest on her stomach, her mouth had dropped open, and her head tilted crazily to one side. Matt sat at the kitchen table, his arms crossed in front of him on the table, his head resting on his arms. His eyelids drooped shut. His breathing was slow and regular. A short nap wouldn't hurt, he decided. He was a light sleeper. He would hear the flasher when he came into the yard.

A stone hit Lizabeth's window. It was a small stone, and the sound it made was so slight it was barely audible. Lizabeth felt her heart jump in her chest. She stood absolutely still, her hands pressed to her mouth, the pulse thumping in her throat. She didn't want anyone to get hurt. Not Matt, not Elsie, not the flasher. She moved to the window and was caught in the beam of the flashlight. Lord, why didn't he just stop. Why didn't he put his clothes on and take up bowling or something. It was almost as if he wanted to get caught. Lizabeth leaned into the window. "Get out of here!" she hissed in her loudest possible whisper.