Heels or no heels, Martha ran up the stairs to her floor as if she had track shoes on. She was so giddy she had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. She could just hear Carol's voice in her head: I can't believe you did that!

Neither can I, Martha answered mentally. But I did! And it was so incredible. . . . She stopped dead in the middle of the hallway and closed her eyes, living the experience all over again.

She was still standing there when Carol's voice, coming high and shrill through the door of their apartment, made her jump. Who in the world was her roommate talking to? Martha stepped closer to their door.

"That's a lie, and you know it," she heard. Then a pause. Carol must be on the telephone.

"No, I didn't want to do it!" The voice rose even higher. "I told you a hundred times I didn't! I only did it because you wanted me to. Because you couldn't get married right now, and you couldn't afford any 'bad publicity.'" She spat out the last two words. "It was all my problem, right? It didn't have anything to do with you. And everything was going to be just wonderful once I took care of it. I can't believe I was stupid enough to listen to you!"

Martha stood frozen with shock, her hand on the doorknob. I shouldn't be hearing this. She was just stepping back from the door when she heard Carol start to sob. Quickly she took her key from her purse and opened the door, but didn't move any farther than the doorway. Carol hadn't turned the light on, but Martha could make out her silhouette by the glow from the streetlamp outside. She had one hand over her eyes, and she was shaking. From where she stood, Martha could hear a faint murmur on the other end of the line.

"No, thank you." Carol swallowed another sob and spoke in an ominously low tone. "I don't need to see a psychiatrist. And I don't want any of your money." Her voice rose toward hysteria again. "I don't want anything from you, ever again!" She cursed and threw the phone against the wall.

"Oh, Carol—" Martha breathed. She ran and knelt beside her friend, who had dropped to the ground. "Sweetie—" She put her arms around Carol and held her as she cried.

------

Martha lay staring out the window at the morning light, which appeared entirely too bright and cheerful to her bleary eyes. It had taken hours to get Carol calmed down and help her get to sleep. By the time Martha had fallen into bed herself, sleep was impossible. She felt as exhausted now as if she'd been lying awake for a week.

Her lip curled at the thought of Carol's "wealthy, charming, attentive bachelor." And yet the two of them had been so happy together for a while—at least, Carol thought they had. Would I do something like that just to try to keep Jonathan from leaving? The thought chilled her. She couldn't see herself ever being weak enough to submit to that kind of pressure. But then, she had never thought of Carol as being weak, either.

But Jonathan wouldn't do that, anyway, she reminded herself. He would never say something was my problem and walk away. Especially if it was his problem too. She sighed. If only M.M. had been more like that. . . .

She sat up suddenly, listening. There it was again—something that sounded like a knock on the front door. She grabbed her robe and hurried to see before the noise woke Carol.

It was one of the girls from the next apartment. "Your boyfriend's on the phone, Martha," she announced in a disgruntled tone. Apparently she'd been sleeping late too. "He's down in the lobby and says he needs to see you. Says he can't get you on the phone."

"Oh—I'm sorry." Martha glanced involuntarily at the coat closet, where she'd shoved the broken phone last night to get it out of the way. "Could you please tell him I'll be right down?"

She dressed quickly, looked in on her sleeping roommate, and ran down to the lobby, where male visitors were expected to stay except during designated visiting hours. Jonathan was still standing by the front desk, where he'd made his call. He turned to face her as she came in, and she was startled to see how haggard he looked.

"Jonathan! Is something wrong?"

"No—everything's fine." He ran a restless hand through his hair. "I'm sorry to bother you on a Saturday morning—"

"It's okay." She came closer and put her hand on his arm, looking anxiously at him. "What's going on?"

"I just—I really need to talk to you." He glanced around the lobby, where a few early risers were studying or talking. "Somewhere private."

"We can't go too far. I don't want to leave Carol for long. She had a bad night."

Concern came into Jonathan's eyes. "Is she okay?"

"She will be," Martha said, hoping she was telling the truth. "But she's still asleep."

"I've got the truck parked out back. We can just sit in there, if that's all right."

"Okay." But Martha watched him doubtfully as they walked toward the back door. Whatever he'd said, something was wrong. She'd never seen him look this upset.

TBC . . .