With a towel wrapped around his waist, seventeen-year-old Deni exited the high school shower and headed to his locker where his friends T-Bone, Devon, and Hector were getting dressed after practice. He toweled off and then slid into his underwear.

            “Hey Daudov!” called the team’s offense tackle, Brad Dietrich. “I saw your mom wearing one of those scarfy things. Don’t tell me you’re a Muslim or is your mother just plain ugly.”

            Deni laughed and didn’t say anything, but T-Bone spoke up in Deni’s defense. “Hey don’t be an ignorant ass; our brother here is Muslim just like Muhammad Ali.” He threw air punches at Deni. ‘“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”’

            “No way. Muhammad Ali is black,” said Brad.

            T-Bone was just about to speak when Deni held him back. “I got this.” Deni turned to Brad and spoke
as if talking to a child. “Bradley, what’s your religion?”

            “Methodist,” replied Brad with a shrug.

            “That’s funny. I thought you were American,” replied Deni.

            T-Bone, Devon, and Hector laughed and continued getting dressed.

            “You guys are a bunch of pricks,” said Brad.

            “No. I’m not a prick; I’m Santeria,” replied T-Bone.

            Deni turned to T-Bone shocked. “And all this time I thought you was black.”

            T-Bone laughed wildly.

           Hector stepped in the conversation. “No Santeria is Cuban, isn’t it?”

            “No, Cuban is Spanish,” replied Devon.

            “I thought Spanish was Catholic,” said Deni.

            “No, that’s Italian,” said T-Bone.

            “Hey, don’t knock Italians!” shouted one of their teammates from a different row of lockers.

            “Don’t worry bro!” shouted Hector. “Italians make good sandwiches!”

            Deni zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “You know what I can go for - Chinese.” He rubbed his belly. “I could go for some scallion pancakes.”
    
         “Nah, that’s white man’s food,” said T-Bone. He put his arm around Deni. “Let’s go get some ribs.”
 
           “I’m not white?” Deni muttered, mocking confusion.

            “Nope, you’re a brother,” said T-Bone.

            Deni walked out with T-Bone, Devon, and Hector. It struck Deni as odd that he found more camaraderie with America’s so-called minorities, regardless of the rising population of different races and ethnic groups. The Great Melting Pot worked only if it blended into a bland, white stew, with just a spattering of different races and cultures for taste, Deni thought.

            Being a Russian immigrant was a novelty for many in his circle. Occasionally he could entertain the crowds by teaching everyone Russian swear words, or being the butt of Cold War jokes. But when his family’s religion leaked into the portals of his surroundings, it was often filled with traces of distrust and hate. Although he did his best to laugh it off, that nerve ran deep. His only other choice was to deny everything he was and just be a white boy to suit everyone’s comfort.

A thick layer of gloom hovered over the cemetery grounds. Upon opening her car door, Nicky popped open her umbrella. Angie didn’t even bother, allowing the rain to wet her hair and face. “Great day to greet the dead,” she said in a chipper tone.
 
“Please try to control yourself,” Nicky replied reaching for a potted lily plant in her back seat.
 
“Hey, if you’re the one going to be possessed by a spirit, I’m going to have live vicariously through you,” Angie said, finally lifting the hood of her raincoat over her head. “Do you know where your spirit is buried?”
 
Nicky checked the map and looked around at the paths leading up through the cemetery. She pointed off to a path on the right. “I think up this path, winding around a bit. There is a handful of Russian families buried in the area including the Stanislavs.”
 
“And who are the Stanislavs?” Angie asked trying to keep pace with Nicky up the rain-slicked path.
 
“It’s her sister’s married name. Viera and Dimitry Stanislav. They were the original owners of the house.” Nicky turned toward Angie. “Do you think I’ve lost my mind?”
 
“No, I’m just jealous. Of the two of us, the one who should be possessed should be me. I’m the one who saw ghosts since I was a child. I’m the one they appear to.” Angie gazed around the distressed marble grave stones. “Look around, can’t you see them?” she asked, seeing the shady silhouettes of people.
 
Nicky didn’t bother looking. She could feel their presence. The cemetery was more crowded than an Independence Day parade and twice as much oppressive. “I just have interest in one spirit.”
 
“Yes. Maybe we’ll see her,” Angie said.
 
It was a thought Nicky didn’t have before now. What if Kira Karimov was lingering by her grave? What if she came face to face with the woman who captured her soul? “We’ll find out soon.”
 
For the next stretch of the path they walked in silence, both absorbing the energy of the cemetery in their own way. Nicky didn’t have to check the map. She knew upon first sight and veered off the path as if guided by an invisible energy. Angie trailed behind her beaming with unfettered excitement.
 
Nicky came to the grave which bore the name: Kira Alexandrovna Karimov. The date of her lifespan etched in marble: 1894-1969. She stood at the edge of the gravesite, imagining the bones buried below. The woman who painted such somber works of art now a decaying skeleton. A sickening feeling gurgled in Nicky’s stomach, as a chill ran down her spine.
 
“Are you okay?” Angie asked.
 
She shook her head numbly. “I dunno.” 
 
Angie removed the potted lily from Nicky’s hands and set it next to the headstone. “She’s not here.”
 
Overwhelmed with emotion, Nicky started to cry. “Are you sure?”
 
Angie rose, looked down at the grave, the name etched in the headstone and around the surrounding area. “Yeah, she’s gone. Moved on. Not like the others haunting here. I can ask the other spirits if you want.” She turned to see the stress in her best friend’s face and laughed, “Unless she’s in you.”
 
“I’m sorry,” Nicky said tearfully to all who were listening – Angie, the spirit inside her and all the rest of the lingering ghosts. “But if I wasn’t supposed to come here, why did she bring me? What does she want me to see? What about her relatives? Any of the Stanislavs?”
 
“No.” Wrapping her arm around Nicky’s shoulder, Angie looked at the grave. “Her. Maybe she didn’t get the attention she needed in life, she wanted to be noticed in death. Perhaps she longs to be honored like all artists.”
 
Nicky wiped her tears. “Yes. That’s it.  I think. I don’t know.”
 
“Anything else you want to say to her before we head back to the car?”
 
She took a deep breath. “Yes. Can you give us a moment?”
 
Angie backed away. “Sure, I’ll go chat with the other ghosts wandering about.”
 
When she left her side, Nicky knelt onto the soggy ground. She touched the wet grass and even dared to run her hand over the distressed marble.  “What do you want? Anything. I’m listening and I’m here to serve you. Just guide me in the right direction.” Hearing no immediately response from the spirit, she rose to her feet.  “I’ll keep my eyes, ears and mostly my heart open.”
 
She backed away from the grave and strolled toward Angie who was engaged in a conversation with no one, but many spirits. She slowed as she neared her, sensing the energy which surrounded her friend.
 
Angie turned to greet Nicky. “So many stories here.”
 
“You should write a book, Tales of the Dead.”
 
“They make the best subjects. They hold nothing back.” Angie linked arms with Nicky. “What about Ms. Karimov?”
 
“Nothing,” Nicky replied, shaking her head in disappointment.
 
“Well, you said she spent most of her life in solitude. Maybe she’s shy. I know a woman who may help.  Maybe we can summon her.”
 
Nicky shook her head. “No, if she’s not ready, if she doesn’t want to be disturbed, I don’t want to bother her.”
 
“But she has you beguiled. She must have something to say.”

Kira sat behind her canvas, bashful as the model disrobed. The voluptuous red head sat casually on the chair. Her breasts hung heavy, her areola large and pink, with a small soft nipple. Silently, she studied the model, her breasts a stark difference to her own which were tiny and perky.
 
Her focus traveled down the model’s round tummy, to a mound of red hair. Then the model tossed her leg over the arm of the chair exposing her vagina to all the students. She sat confidently and carelessly exposed. It seemed almost a crime and a sin to be so uninhibited, but to Kira and the rest of the students, the model’s brazen pose sparked inspiration.
 
After each studied the model taking in their own notions, the paint brushes fluttered over the canvas, swirls and dabs of paint contained every color of the rainbow. At the end of class, the instructor marched around the students, occasionally twisting the twirl of his mustache, but mostly with a dignified stance with his hands clasped behind his back.
 
He stood by Kira and studied her painting. “Her flesh is pale almost white.”
 
Kira gazed up at the model and then to her instructor as if in trouble.
 
“Yet, her hair her pubic hair a fiery red. Your paint strokes dance delicately over her breasts and the vagina,” the instructor said. “What was your interpretation?”
 
She twisted uneasily on her stool. “Despite her sex, her body and heart is innocent,” Kira replied. “She hasn’t been touched in her heart.”
 
Her comment gained the attention of not only the instructor, but the model and her fellow students. “And what makes such a young woman such an expert?” the instructor challenged.
 
“Because my heart is not innocent. My mind is guilty. I feel love far more than my body has known,” Kira responded strongly.
 
The instructor cracked a grin and patted her on the shoulder. “And a lucky man he is.”
 
Setting her paintbrush down on the palette, she lifted her eyes to the other students. Not sure of the fool she had made of herself, but she didn’t care.  She looked over the painting of the nude and wondered how she would explain it to her parents.

An hour later she overhead a rustle in the hallway. She rose from the bed and quietly stepped toward the door. When the noise subsided, she unlocked the door and peeked outside. No one. She stepped into the hallway, in the darkness, the eyes in the Cossack portraits upon her.

“Nast…Shelby,” he called to her from the shadows.

Peering around the corner she saw him, standing alone in the living room, wearing a silk, brocade house coat. “I just heard a noise,” she responded.

“Hedeon and Taras,” he said, reaching out his hand. “Come. Join me.”

Reluctantly, she followed Apostol to the patio. The moon hung full over the mountains, and the stars sparkled. A cool, yet comforting breeze of fresh air invigorated her senses. A tea setting rested on a table between two chairs. She sat down beside him and let her gaze trail off to the horizon.
He prepared her a cup of tea and handed it to her. “Beautiful view, even at night.”

“Yes. Have you lived here a long time?” she asked.

“Since the dissolution. This house used to belong to my family before the Communists took over. It was abandoned for many years, until the Nazis inhabited this region during the war. I officially acquired it after gaining my PhD. It took a lot to restore—cracks in the foundation, decayed wood, rodents and bullet holes from battles, but look at it now. It’s like brand new. This is what I mean by destruction and decay. It’s sometimes a necessity for change.”

“Well it certainly is a beautiful estate,” she said. “The argument between you and my father during the symposium, I sense bad blood.”

“Bad blood, interesting words. There is no such thing as bad blood, just memory embedded in the DNA. One thing I don’t understand about Morehead is the Scots used to be a rebellious lot, now he seems to be bending to those in power. He gives them what they want.”

“And what do they want?” Shelby asked.

“Ultimate control of the mass population.” He sipped his tea. “Let me explain it this way. Corporations control governments and governments control people. The Industrial Revolution, despite all its innovations and comforts has destroyed the fabric of society, namely the environment. Now, in order for survival the human genome needs to be altered, and alter the ecology in order to sustain life on planet, which is becoming inhabitable. Instead of curing the globe’s problem of mass commerciality and consumption, corporations with their scientists in their pockets are genetically modifying our food. Do you think that is the right answer? I don’t. I believe in revolutionizing the way we live.” He twisted in his seat, deeply engaged in his own theory. “You see, we can genetically alter our physical nature, or we can alter our mental and emotional nature. Altering the human genome physically will change the ecology of the world, alter our mental condition, we can fit within the ecology God gave us.”

Shelby sipped her tea. Apostol’s words gave her pause. “I can understand, but does that give a reason for violence and insurrection?”

“The question here is: what is the true crime? Who really is the enemy?”

She set her teacup on the table. “I’m a simple doll maker. The troubles of the world are beyond my scope.
All I’m interested in is finding my daughter.”

“Is that all you’re interested in?” he asked.

“What else would there be?”

He nodded and drank his tea. “I hear you have an interesting doll collection. Tell me more about it.”

“I’d honestly like to talk about my daughter.”

“Amelia. Beautiful name. She reminds of a sprite. Quite magical.” He admired Shelby. “She’s a lot like you. Strong, inquisitive…trusting.”

“Trusting?”

“Yes. You’re concerned, and desperately want to be reunited, but I don’t see fear in your eyes. You’re here, but not climbing the walls to find her. You are engaging with your clan, not wanting to antagonize, but you’re also curious.”

“You’re right about one thing. I desperately want to be reunited with my daughter.”

“And you will be. Trust and faith.”

“I’m tired,” she said, rising from her seat. “I want to thank you for your hospitality and enlightening conversation, but honestly it’s been a lot for me to digest.”

“I understand,” he replied with a smile. “Have a good sleep. And you shall be reunited with your daughter. In the meantime, trust your clan.”

“Right,” She replied allowing Apostol to hear the sarcasm in her voice.

She headed back inside the house, down the hallway filled with her ancestors. Upon returning to her bedroom, she closed and locked the door, hardly the night she anticipated.

Earl lay awake with Andy’s arm draped across his chest. He stared through the slight opening of the curtains where the lights of Hollywood faded to darkness. All was quiet.
 
Andy played with his dog tags. She lifted her chin on his shoulder. “What are you thinking?”
 
“That I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world,” he said.
 
“Me neither. This is nice.” She paused. “I sometimes get myself in trouble when I get real lonely. I remember the words of this movie once, ‘Never underestimate the kindness of strangers.’ I can attest that strangers are not always kind.” Andy propped her head on her palm and admired Earl, his earnest gray eyes and dark shaggy hair. She traced her finger along his mustache. “What about you? You seem like a loner like me. Were you a born loner or did it come with life?” Earl shifted his eyes to her. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, but I want to know you better,” she said.
 
Staring into her eyes he knew without a doubt she was something special. She could be his home. “Their names were Harry and Brice. They called Harry, Hank. He was a short freckle-faced kid from Alabama. Brice was an all-star pretty-boy from Huntington Beach. They were the weapons officers, and I was the pilot. My job was to not get shot down. I failed.”
 
Andy wiped his tears. “That sounds like a real tough job. I’m not sure many people can succeed let alone fly a plane.”
 
“I killed them and yet I somehow survived,” he cried.
 
Words of condolence came to her lips, but she did not let them escape. She instinctively knew he needed to come out of this alone. She simply smiled and remained silent holding him.
 
“And you know what the worst part was?” he asked wiping his tears.
 
“What?” Andy asked sweetly.
 
“When I finally returned to the States I found out the Beatles broke up. I mean what kind of shit is that?” he replied with a grin.
 
Andy stared at him and laughed. “Yes, that was indeed tragic.”
           
            Earl propped himself up on his elbow and brushed back Andy’s hair. “I knew when I got back everything had changed. Nothing would ever be the same again with me, the country and the world. The age of love had ended and now we are left with a void.”
 
“That’s funny coming from a military man. Most I met were not familiar with the word love, just a lot of anger.” Andy rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “Are soldiers born killers or is it instilled in them?”
 
“Training. You can’t be a bleeding heart when you’re sent to kill people. The love has got to end and if it doesn’t, that love will kill you and you will be haunted your entire life.”
 
“Why did you go?” she asked.
 
The reasons were not clear, but from what Earl could remember the reasons blended—duty, responsibility and the draft but then it came to him clearly. “I love to fly. I am a pilot or was a pilot.”
 
“You could have flown anywhere why Vietnam?” she asked.
 
“Yeah, I could have been a commercial pilot, maybe a crop duster or one of those guys that flies banners and writes ‘I love you’ in the sky,” Earl replied with a laugh. “I think it was the Phantom-4. It is an amazing plane and the power in that engine is incredible. There is something about soaring in the blue sky but the best was flying at night and being up there with the stars. They were always there to guide me and the constellations became my friends—Orion, the Dippers, Pegasus and my love Andromeda. I suppose I grew oblivious to what was happening on Earth, which is ironic since I am now stuck here.”
 
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
 
“If I can’t live in the sky, I chose the edge of civilization. Whenever I got close to the center, I retreated back to the edge.” He turned to her and caressed her face and hair. “People on their own are good, humanity has a lot to be desired.”
 
Andy laughed. “For me it’s always been the opposite. I find people to be cruel. There is safety in numbers.” She paused. “Isn’t it great we found each other? We can bring each other back to middle ground.” She paused. “If of course you want.”
 
Earl had lived in isolation for some time giving up on ever finding his home and a place he belonged. The idea of living with another frightened him, but then if he were to come out let it be with a beautiful woman. “Of course.”

Natalie led Andy to a back room. She had seen some crazy shit doing LSD and mushrooms in her hippie Berkley and Haight Ashbury days, but she couldn’t begin to fathom the décor in Natalie’s room—crystal balls, bottles of potions, charms and talismans of all kinds.
 
“Honey, have a seat,” Natalie said directing Andy to a plush parlor chair.
 
Andy sat uncomfortable awaiting her fate. “I’m looking for—”
 
Natalie sat opposite her and took Andy’s hands in hers. “Don’t speak. Don’t ask me any questions. It disturbs my vision.” She sensed Andy’s confusion. “We often ask questions when the answers are already within us. When we start asking questions and not trusting our inner answers, we stray off path.” She gazed deeply into Andy’s eyes as if trying to see her soul. “Very interesting.”
 
“What?” Andy asked. “What do you see?”
 
“I see you are searching for someone who is lost, but they cannot be found until you discover yourself,” she said.
 
“Huh?” Andy grunted.
 
Natalie smiled sweetly. “Love is not to be hunted like a wild animal. You can’t expect to track it down and keep it in a cage for your desire. Love will only come to you once you are truly ready to receive it.”
 
“But—” Andy sighed.
 
“There are no buts. They only exist when we doubt our journey.” Natalie sat back and gazed deeply into Andy’s eyes. “My dear, you are very fortunate. Your angels have awarded a choice.”
 
Andy chuckled. “I have angels? No, just little imps making my life a complete joke.”
 
“We all have angels here to help us get through life.”
 
“Okay then, what kind of choices are they awarding me?”
 
“To take the journey closest to your heart. It will be challenging, but ultimately will be greatly fulfilling, or you can take the path society deems appropriate and live in mild contentment.”
 
“That’s it? That’s my fortune—a choice?” Andy questioned.
 
“You should feel fortunate. Many in this life do not get choices. Many have their lives dictated to them by family, friends and even society. They are not free to live as they choose. You, my dear have that great fortune. It really is a blessing.”
 
“But what about—” Andy asked.
 
“Study the stars. Your answers are there.”
 
“What? Astrology?  He’s a Sagittarius.”
 
Natalie laughed.
 
“You’re laughing at me. I am paying for answers, not choices.”
 
“Sweetheart, if I were to give you answers I would be doing you a great disservice. Make your choice. Live your life either in association with your heart or society.”
 
“Live my life with my heart or society? Why not both? I don’t understand.”
 
Natalie smiled. “Follow your heart.”
 
“Can you tell me at least one thing? Is he still alive?” Andy asked.
 
Natalie placed her hand on Andy’s shoulder. “If he wasn’t, you wouldn’t be offered the gift of choice.”
 
Andy bit her lip and nodded. She stalked out of the back room toward Alisha. “Well, that was a load of crap,” she whispered and headed out the door.

As Alisha and Jayson's wedding celebration carried on under a large white canopy, Andy stepped away to admire the stars. She found a seat alone and sipped her champagne. She didn’t want to expose her personal misery to the wedding guests.
 
“Hello,” a voice said.
 
“Earl,” she replied and turned. It was Jayson. “I swear you sound exactly like Earl.” She covered her chest. “It freaks me out.”
 
“Sorry,” he said taking a seat beside her. “How are you holding up?”
 
“This isn't about me. It's about you and Alisha,” she said.
 
He held her hand in his. “It's about all of us. You are family.”
 
“Well, if you must know, today was hard and I'm upset for being selfish. I should be here for Alisha, but I’m with a man I lost ten years ago.”
 
“Marriage is more than just a ceremony and a ring. It is a pledge two people make to one another. You and Earl, who I do hope to meet one day, are already married under the stars. You belong to one another,” he said.
 
Andy chuckled and wiped tears from her eyes. “Man, you are special. You know exactly what to say. Alisha is very lucky.”
 
“I do have a confession. Years ago, when I asked you to lunch, it wasn't because of Alisha. I was interested in you. I remember you introduced yourself as lost. I realized you weren’t lost; you were searching. The rest of us were lost. You had this shine about you. Your soul was shining through. When I learned of Earl, I realized it was because of him, because of love. I knew then you were not for me.”
 
Andy sat back in her seat and watched him carefully.
 
Jayson squeezed her hand lightly. “Alisha, although beautiful, was not radiating, not yet anyway. The more time I spent with her, I began to see her soul and I knew yes, she was the one. Your light and love provided me a direction I may not have seen otherwise. I thank you for loving Earl. I thank him, wherever he is, for consuming you and allowing me the freedom to find my true love. You and Earl are an inspiration and you don't even know it.” He put his hand out for Andy. “Come back to the party. It is not the same without you.” He grinned. “Besides, Jake looks a little lost without a dance partner.”
 
Andy smiled through her tears. “Wait,” she said and gave him a hug. “Thanks.”
 
She and Jayson strolled back to the ceremony hand-in-hand. Alisha greeted her with a warm, understanding smile. Andy gazed around at her friends and the guests at Alisha’s wedding. Everyone searches so hard for love, when love is all around.
 
Jake strode through the crowd and took Andy’s hand. He had become a true and trusted friend. She wished she had the romantic love in her heart to give him, but she didn’t. She would be fooling herself and him. It wasn’t fair to either of them. Instead, they loved and danced as friends under the bright desert stars.

Models strode across a hardwood floor decorated with bloody glass shards, rubble and charred bits of metal, their faces painted with white makeup and eyes darkened for a ghastly appearance of death. Once again, Martin presented the lineup to Milo, who watched with the same dim expression. “Chaos, destruction! Feeeel the drama!”
 
A lifeless model swayed before Milo in a lace dress beaded with gravel. Martin continued his presentation, “Here is Tiffany in what I like to call, Death to the Adorned.” It represents the contradiction between beauty and destruction. Her dress is made of the finest Chantilly lace from France, beaded with rubble from the recently destroyed Taj Mahal, flown in specially today.”
 
Milo forced a grin with his hard leather face and waved his approval.
 
Martin gestured for another model. “Next is Bianca, blazing in a daring silk dress singed to her panties. Ooh, la, la! She wears straps of bullets that cross over her breasts and scream: Stop! Don’t go there!”
 
Suddenly, Venetia burst through the door, looking like a wreck in her wild curls and jeans. “Stop don’t come in here!” yelled Martin.
 
“I need to talk to someone!” cried Venetia.
 
“You quit, remember, and therefore you are trespassing,” replied Martin.
 
Venetia stared at a model wearing a red-stained and burnt wedding dress. “What is that?”
 
Martin pushed Venetia toward the door. “That is art. Art is decay, decay is art. It is the latest trend.”
 
“You’re celebrating death and decay? Martin, how could you?” asked Venetia. “You should be celebrating life.”
 
Martin squared Venetia’s shoulders. “That is the problem with you Venetia, you never understood fashion. It’s about what’s hip, what’s here, what’s now. We gotta jump on this destruction thing before anyone else or else it will be too late!” He shoved her out the door. “Now run along and celebrate life elsewhere.” Turning to Milo with an apologetic grin, he introduced the next model, “And now Cindy Lou, show us Shrapnel City!”

Quarter till eleven, Frieda paced outside Harrods. She kept peering through the crowds waiting for her to appear. Finally, she spotted her striding across the street in her knee-high leather boots, Burberry slacks and wool cape flowing behind her like a super hero. Yes, Jess Banks real-life heroine of romance publishing was meeting her for tea. Frieda smirked as she hugged her bag to her chest.
 
When Jess neared, Frieda stepped toward forcing a friendly smile. “Hi.”
 
Jess gave Frieda kiss on each cheek. “Hey sweetheart. I made reservations. We got a nice quiet table away from all the tourists.”
 
Frieda followed Jess inside the teahouse to a secluded corner table. A plump middle-aged waitress arrived at their table with a giddy grin as if serving tea was her life’s calling. “Good morning ladies. Do you know what you’d like?”
 
“I’ll have the black cardamom tea,” Jess aid with a wink to Frieda. “Your teahouse isn’t being strong-armed by the cardamom cartel?” she joked to the waitress.
 
The waitress scratched her temple. “No. I don’t think so, but I will check with the manager.”  She turned toward Frieda showing unease from Jess’ question.  “And for you, hon?”
 
“I’ll have the same,” Frieda replied.
 
“We have to support your boyfriend’s cause,” Jess said after the waitress walked away.
 
Frieda nodded casually. “Yeah, sure.”
 
“So, how’s the book coming along?” Jess asked getting straight to business.
 
The waitress appeared again at the table with a three-tiered tray of scones and teacakes. “Tea will be right up. And I checked with the manager, we don’t have any issues with the Cardamom Cartel.”
 
“Good to know.,” Jess said reaching for a raspberry scone and took a bite waiting for Frieda’s response on her book.
 
“Honestly, having a little bit of trouble getting started.”
 
“Huh,” Jess said with a sigh. “Yeah, writing is kind of like sex. If you don’t do it often, it begins to feel unnatural and awkward. Once you start doing it over and over again, you remember how wonderful it is.” She smiled at Frieda. “But since you’re dating several lovers, I’d think you’d be able to draw upon some of your experiences.”
 
 
Frieda rested her elbows on the table falling naturally into conversation. “You’d think inspiration is easy, but it’s not.  I have characters to draw from, but what's their story? I'm not sure where to begin. So many themes and plotlines to draw from.”
 
The waitress returned with their tea. Jess squeezed lemon juice from a wedge, added a teaspoon of sugar and a douse of milk. “Well, you know from reading Terrorist Tryst that military eroticism is hot, but I think that trend is fading. No one wants war anymore. Also, rich man, poor girl fantasies are going by the way side. It’s the opposite trend these days.  Women want a hunky farmer to heat up the haystacks. Look at the sign of the times. What to people want now? What do women want?” She looked at Frieda. “As a woman, what do you want?”
 
Frieda studied Jess' face, her serious blue eyes and determined expression. She took a pause to add honey to her tea. “I don't know.”
 
Jess chuckled. “That's why you have three boyfriends.”
 
Frieda sipped her tea. “What do you mean?”
 
“Well, obviously you can’t make up your mind what you want. You’re still in the tasting life mode and haven’t decided on your favorite flavor.,” Jess explained.
 
Frieda gazed down at her tea, watching the clouds of cream blend into a caramel color.
 
And when she looked up, she watched Wilhelm delicately pick up a cucumber tea sandwich and take a bite. “These are delicious.” He paused, contemplating the ingredients. “Is that saffron?” He reached across the table offering a bite of his sandwich. “What do you taste?”
 
Frieda nibbled the edge of the sandwich. “Sage?”
 
He wiped cream cheese from her lip, and then licked it off with his finger. “Yes. I believe you’re right. Sage. I always get the two confused.”
 
Jess waved her teaspoon in front of Freida’s face. “Frieda, hello. Are you there?” Jess asked.
 
“Yeah, yeah. Just thinking,” she muttered.
 
“First rule of writing. Find out what your protagonist wants. I read books from so many authors who fail at truly defining what their character wants. I believe it has to do with the author not knowing what they want. They are unfocused and constantly looking for distraction.”
 
“So true,” Frieda said with a sigh glancing around the dimly lit restaurant, noticing the other patrons deeply engaged in conversation.
 
He gripped the porcelain teacup with both of his big hands, his fingers too thick to grasp the thin handle. He raised it to his lips and took sip.
 
She leaned toward him, admiring his silver-colored eyes sparkle upon tasting the spicy cardamom. Looking beyond him, her entire body became alert. “Watch out!”
 
Sergei reached in his side pocket for his pistol, twisted around to take down the Cardamom Cartel as they infiltrated the teahouse.
 
Patrons took cover under floral-patterned and lace covered tables. Lemon scones and cucumber sandwiches blown to pieces flying across the room. Teacups shattered. It was a massacre of porcelain and tea-stained walls.
 
“Here! Take this,” Sergei whispered, handing her a gun from behind the table they are using for cover.
 
Frieda took the gun. She aimed and shot a fat, greasy-haired man in the chest. Bulls eye. The Cardamom Cartel was kaput.
 
“I think ideas are percolating. I can see your eyes twirling,” Jess said.
 
Frieda chuckled returning her attention to Jess. “Nothing I can use.”
 
Jess lifted an egg salad sandwich from the tray. “Whatever your theme, you need to find an erotic edge, something sexy that will make the most reserved woman want to tear her clothes off.”
 
The rich, exotic sent of jasmine floated throughout the room. The tables and chairs replaced by ornamental pillows. Oil lamps illuminated the romantic setting as lovers cuddled together through the room. A flute and a sitar provided musical ambience.
 
“May I fill your cup?” Jai asked, refilling Frieda’s cup from a silver kettle with an extra- long spout. The tea poured out in a seductive arch.
 
She huddled close to him. “As long as you add your honey.”
 
“I’m always good for extra honey,” he whispered and kissed her check, “honey.”
 
A chill ran down her spine. She blushed in delight of his touch.
 
Jess beckoned her attention. “Am I giving you any ideas? Frieda?” Jess asked beckoning her attention.
 
“Oh yes. Yes! Yes. I think I’m getting it,” she cried out, aroused by her fantasies of Jai..
 
“Good. Now that you’re in the mood, afterward we can do some shopping,” Jess said with a wink.