It was strange really. Over the years Cassandra had stole nj all of Sara's boyfriends, starting with her first high school beau, Eddie Myles. Cassandra had orchestrated the seduction so that Sara would be sure to walk in on them.

Which she did.

Sara's eyes widened when she saw her boyfriend's pants lowered to his ankles, Cassandra kneeling in front of him. Her face had crumbled into anguish. But Eddie was only the first.

It became a game to Cassandra. A new challenge. Every time Sara risked trusting someone, her sister would pounce on him. With each seduction Sara's wounds bled anew. Insecurity began to nestle into her psyche. Sara became more self-conscious about her health problems. Her confidence withered away. Sarcasm became her defense. Cassandra watched her sister distance herself from the outside world. She dedicated herself to her studies, staying alone in her room, blasting that awful heavy metal music.

Eventually, there were no boys left for Cassandra to chase away.

But Sara had been playing possum. Somehow the sly bitch had landed the best of men.

Michael, the bastard. The gorgeous, wonderful bastard.

Cassandra stepped forward.

"Excuse me a moment, gentlemen."

The men parted to allow her to pass. Cassandra could not take her eyes off Michael. Six months had passed since they had last saw each other.

And a lot of things might have changed in six months.

Cassandra moved toward Michael.

Sitting in the back of a studio limousine, Sara could not keep still.

She tried to unwind from the excitement of the show, but the constant flow of adrenalin would not allow it. She rocked back and forth in the plush leather seat, her mind whirling with anticipation. She had moved from Blue Oyster Cult into the more contemporary sounds of Depeche Mode, but she still wasn't slowing down. Midway through

"Blasphemous Rumors," the limousine driver raised the soundproof window between them.

Good.

Soon she would see Michael. Corny to say, but the best part of days like these was reliving each detail with her husband.

Wincing, Sara snapped off her brace and rubbed her foot. Leg | braces had improved dramatically over the years, from the days | when she wore a heavy metal one that gripped like a power-vise to the modern fiberglass kind that felt more snug than compressing. Still, the brace was cumbersome and her leg throbbed painfully when she wore it a long time. She massaged her foot and lower leg with knowing hands. The blood began to circulate again.

Born two months premature, Sara had been a sickly child from the start.

Infections settled into her lungs, causing pneumonia and a childhood of health complications. The difficult birth had also permanently damaged a nerve in Sara's left foot.

As a child Sara had needed a brace and metal crutches to walk.

Now the crutches were gone, but the brace and occasionally a cane were still evident.

Her youth was filled with constant hospital visits and trips to medical specialists and therapists. During endless sunny summer days Sara was forced to stay shut up in her bedroom rather than play outside with other children. Tutors visited the house or the hospital because of all the school she missed. She had few friends. Schoolmates never teased or taunted her, but they shunned the strange child and treated her like some sort of outsider. Sara was not allowed to take gym class. She had to sit on the steps during recess. Other children eyed her warily, almost frightened by the fragile, pale girl as though she represented death in a place that only understood immortality.

No matter how hard she tried not to be, Sara was always different, always coddled, always behind. She hated it. As she got older, Sara learned that the limp and brace were not as difficult to overcome as people's perceptions. Whenever she suffered a setback, teachers were quick to offer her health as an excuse.

"It's not your fault, Sara. If you were in perfect health..."

But Sara wanted to scream every time they said that. She did not want to hear excuses or use them to justify her shortcomings she wanted to overcome them. Check that. She wanted to blow them away.

The chauffeur turned off the road and headed up the driveway. There were cars parked everywhere Rolls Royces, Mercedes, stretch limos of all varieties, cars with special government license plates. Some chauffeurs stood around the driveway, smoking cigarettes and chatting with one another.

Others stayed in the car and read newspapers.

When the limo reached the house, Sara snapped her brace back on, grabbed her cane, and proceeded as gracefully as she could toward the front door.

Michael took another sip of Perrier. There was a steady ripping pain in his abdomen, but he did not mention it to Harvey. He had planned to say something, but Harvey was so distracted tonight that Michael decided to wait. He watched Harvey's eyes shift nervously over the guests in the large ballroom. His overall appearance, always a touch disheveled, was a complete mess.

"Are you all right, Harv?"

"Fine," he replied quickly.

"Something on your mind?"

"I... what time is Sara supposed to show up?"

It was the third time he had asked.

"Any minute now," Michael said.

"What the hell is the big deal?"

"Nothing," Harvey answered with a tight smile.

"Your wife and I are having a torrid affair behind your back, that's all."

"Again? I hate it when you steal my women, Harv."

Harvey patted his paunch and tried to arrange his wild hair.

"What can I say? I'm a stud."

Michael took another sip of his water.

"What do you have planned for next week?" he asked.

"Next week?"

"Your birthday, Harv." "Oh," Harvey said, "that."

"You only turn fifty once, big fella."

Harvey sloshed down the rest of his martini.

"Don't remind me." "Fifty years old," Michael said with a whistle.

"Five big decades."

"Shut up, Michael."

"Half a century. The golden anniversary. Hard to believe."

"You're a pal, Mike. Thanks."

Michael grinned.

"Come on, Harv. You've never looked better."

"Yeah, well, I do get tired of beating off the women with a stick."

Harvey glanced over Michael's shoulder and spotted Cassandra walking toward them.

"Speaking of beating them off with a stick."

"What?"

"Sister- in-law alert."

"Where?"

Cassandra tapped his shoulder.

"Hello, Michael."

"Right behind you."

"Thanks." Reluctantly, Michael turned toward Cassandra.

"Good evening, Cassandra." "Long time, no see, Michael," she said, "Very long. Six months, I think."

"About that. You remember my friend Harvey Riker?"

"Ah, yes. The doctor."

Harvey stepped forward.

"Nice to see you again, Cassandra."

She nodded slightly, ignoring him, her eyes never leaving Michael's face.

"So how do I look this evening, Michael?"

"Nice."

"Nice?" she repeated.

Michael shrugged.

"Kind of noncommittal," Cassandra noted.

He shrugged again.

Cassandra turned her attention to Harvey for the briefest of moments.

"Dr. Riker, do you agree with Michael's assessment?"

Harvey cleared his throat.

"Uh, a lot of words come to mind, Cassandra. Nice is not one of them." She smiled briefly, her gaze back upon Michael.

"Michael, can we talk for a moment?"

"Look, Cassandra "

"It's okay," Harvey interrupted.

"I need to freshen my drink anyway."

They both watched him walk away. In front of the ballroom the band Dr. Lowell had hired finished their rendition of Tie A Yellow Ribbon and moved on to Feelings. The lead singer sounded like a cat caught in a cuisinart.

"Care to dance?" Cassandra asked.

"No, thanks."

"Why not?".