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"Little" Sister Pt. 02

By: pocketrocket



Chapter 7 -- An Eventful Week

With her call, Sheila accomplished three significant things. She introduced me to two other women—Francine Martel and Christine Collingsworth, the "submissive". If you know Christine, the irony is deep. Sheila also invited me to run a social event. I did not know it yet, but it would become the most important social event of the year. When I went into politics, it was a reference no one missed. Most important, Sheila gave me the sister I never had. Talent like that is too good to waste.

I rerecorded the call to make it easy to play through my phone. All the girls I called, and two of the guys, had the same reactions I did. By the fourth call, I was running behind rumor. I never did call Elspeth; she called me. Before it was done, I had to cut the list of names down to twelve, nine of which were keepers.

The next day was crazy. I had to finish grading papers, pack, arrange to get Shadow delivered to the House, and arrange details like having mail forwarded. Sean took care of plane tickets, but I had to get to Manchester to use them. The garage helped with that. I dropped off the clunker. They would deliver Shadow to New Jersey. In the mean time, one of their guys drove me to the airport. I was on the flight before I considered what meeting Sheila would be like.

It was too late to change how I was dressed. I switched a few of the showier rings for simple posts I had in the carry on. My hair was a mess, so I tied on a bandanna. It was the most thought I had given to my appearance in at least a year. If I only knew then, what I know now.

My plans for meeting Sheila went down in flames. First, she would not react to my appraisal. I first critiqued Elspeth, after "Waiting for Godot." Since that night, I practiced the technique continuously, often with devastating effect. Sheila was the first subject to shrug it off. When her turn came, Sheila put me in my place with five short sentences, using single syllable words. Damn, she was good. Fortunately, I had family history on my side. In Newark, that meant paella.

Dinner at Casa de Espana was a tradition and a rare privilege. Once we were seated I could tell I was not the only one Sheila had burned verbally. Sean also wanted some payback. Sheila talked of having sex with Sean up against the wall after a meeting. I expressed disbelief. Sean affirmed by saying Sheila was very limber. Sweet Jesus that woman can blush.

Using this as a pretext, Sheila invited me, literally, to powder my nose. Shaking my head in disbelief, I followed. In the women's room, I received another education. Sheila opened herself like a flower. In five minutes I knew things about her that a shrink might discover after a year. It was a gesture of trust and respect. To this day I am glad I started our relationship with an offer of marriage. Sheila deserved one.

After dinner, we had to pick up my dozen workers. One thing after another went wrong. When we made it back to town, I was short six of my people. Three either never showed up, or they took a cab home. Worse, I was going out of town the next day. Sheila, naturally, had the solution. She turned them over to Gerald in one of the most amazing conversations I have ever witnessed. Sean told me that Sheila got on with Gerald, but that is nothing like watching it happen. Surreal does not cover it. In hindsight, my surprise circuits were starting to fry.

I asked what Sheila did for a living, though she had already told me she was a dominatrix. Hearing it was not seeing it. We went to her studio. Sheila started with an impromptu homage to Sean, which revved my sociology gene overdrive. Next, Sheila and I had a bonding moment. They say shared suffering pulls you closer, but shared insecurities work well too. My surprise circuit must have blown by then, because I took watching video of Mistress Cynthia in stride. At least, I think I did. One thing was certain. Sheila might play Mistress Cynthia, but it was an act.

After her revelation, Sheila led us to the XTreme Gyms part of her building. She called it the rabbit hole, which fit perfectly. More for the surreal file. On that side, we met Sharon, a yoga instructor who seemed nice. In this context, "nice" was not a compliment. I did a double take when Sheila asked Sharon to cover her fitness clients during the honeymoon—and would not take no for an answer. Both sides impressed. Sharon raised some damn good objections. Sheila had even better answers. I decided Sharon might be nice, but she was no doormat.

After the stop on the mundane side of Sheila's work space, we went back to the car. In one of my better moments, I gave Sheila a big hug and welcomed her to the family. That done, we headed out. Fortunately for my overloaded sensibilities, Sheila had an verbiage problem concerning the wedding invitation. Proper communication forms were my bread and butter. While we drove to their printer, I wrote out suitable invitation prose.

In yet another shock, Sheila asked me to cover her bondage clients during the honeymoon. The first client I would meet is the printer we were about to see. As I said, burned out surprise circuit. As we talked to the printer/client, Sheila deftly put my name in the rumor mill. On the side, she tipped me to some things to watch for during sessions.

Eventually we made it home and to bed. If I had known what Tuesday would bring, I might have gone back to Hanover.

It started innocently. I dressed as presentably as my wardrobe would allow, which was not much. I had variety, but it was all in the same vein. For the first time in forever, I wanted to dress up a little, but all I had were tattered jeans and torn T-shirts. As it turned out, it was just as well. I still have a mismatched pair of Army boots as a reminder.

The first major event of the day was meeting Francine Martel—again. Sean had mentioned her, so I had time to process the memories. It was not a fun part of growing up. When I was ten or eleven, Mother dragged me to dance classes for several weeks. Sheila and Francine were both there, though Sheila did not remember me. Francine and Sheila moved on a higher plane than most of the students, while I was on a still lower plane. I remembered Francine, but did not expect the reverse. Francine surprised me by immediately calling me by name. It was a hated old nickname, Jo Jo, but that paled beside what she told me.

In essence, Francine gave me two choices. I could work to the point I was not an embarrassment at the wedding or she would find a way to hide me. I never said a thing, but she took that as agreement to make an effort. Francine immediately started telling me what to do. The short version was that I needed to unlearn 25 years of sitting, standing and walking. Francine started me on a posture exercise that doubles as a slave position. Humorous as that seems, it worked.

In my expert opinion, Francine was an exceptionally good teacher. She explained what I was doing, down to which bones went where and what muscles pulled which tendons. Sheila, Francine and Christine all had formal educations that stopped at high school, yet any of them can make me feel slow in the head. As Sean says, uneducated does not mean stupid.

All this was in a corset makers waiting room. As soon as Sheila rejoined us, she threw her weight behind Francine's. Our next stop was a shoe store, where Sheila picked out some tall pumps and managed to get me standing in front of a mirror. When my posture was correct—no small adjustment—I looked presentable. Not beautiful. Not pretty. Not even attractive. Presentable was quite sufficient, thank you. I wore heels the rest of the day.

Next came a warehouse clothing store. Francine and Sheila picked out a power suit for me, with some separates in the same vein. Once again the mirror was a shock. This was not just presentable—I looked damned good. With tears on my face, I asked Sheila how I had missed so much, for so long. She made me think it through. Two things jumped out. First, I had been dressing ugly on purpose. It deflected people from my face and body, but at a cost. Second, only grown woman fashions showed me well at all. I would never be beautiful or pretty, but I flat owned boardroom suits. Thank God I had the money for the clothes.

That would have been enough for a normal month, but the day was only half over. We went to Brooklyn, where I met one of the legends of New York society, Angela Molinari. She and Francine were close friends. Unknown to me, but much more impressive in his area of influence, was Angela's husband Pedro. Francine, Sheila and Christine stopped schooling after 12th grade. Pedro stopped after 4th. This did not prevent him from becoming the best kept secret on and off Broadway. He had come to meet Sheila, but he offered me a few observations. It took me a while to unravel them all, but I have rarely been so deeply complimented.

We were in Brooklyn to see a costume storage. Sheila picked out a cute dress for the bridesmaids. I balked. Everyone understood, but matching dresses are traditional. In desperation I offered to wear a man's suit and stand with Sean. It was one of those moments when time stops, so everyone had to think it through. It only took a moment, then people were running for the pieces we needed. You have seen the pictures. That was my idea.

I have referred at length to Francine and Sheila. Both of them were accomplished and acknowledged in their own areas. Christine was a nineteen year old greasy spoon waitress, recently hired as a personal assistant. She rarely spoke. When she did, it is usually a sentence fragment or a name. It should tell you something that Christine dominated the most memorable part of the day.

It started in the restaurant. Francine took us to The Crows Nest, a place she owns. Appetizers were oysters in half shell. I fed them to Christine with hot sauce, starting with Texas Pete, moving to Tabasco, then Melinda's. That is where pepper heads get serious. Christine wanted more heat, so Francine's people brought out the big guns. The hottest was Mad Dog 44 Magnum. I asked for gloves, because I was scared about what that stuff might do to my hands. Regardless of my reasons, it added to the theater of the moment, which made the nightly news. Christine kept it down, but showed me blisters later. The whole restaurant cheered. As of the day I left New Jersey, no one had duplicated the feat.

Next came a bondage club Francine also owned, Le Chat Noir. Knowing Francine, there is no doubt the club was named for Sheila, who wanted no part of it. Francine prevailed, while Christine acted like a kid on Christmas morning. We stripped to undergarments and donned masks. Francine pushed Sheila to get involved, which she finally did. Using her professional dominatrix persona, Sheila staged a race. She whipped a guy, while Christine ate a girl's pussy. It was no contest. The whip won in a time under ten seconds. On the side I met my husband, Lars.

That would have been a great cherry on the sundae, but Christine wanted more. Sheila offered her a reward, which Christine pushed onto center stage. The details were fairly well recorded, so I will not go into details. It is sufficient to say that New York's bondage culture had never seen the like. It was so impressive that Francine stood by gaping. I had to step in and direct traffic. Lars, bless him, just gave me his card and kept out of my way.

The day had been a highlight marathon, but we still needed to get home. Sheila and Christine were both done out. They took the chauffeured Mercedes. I drove Sheila's car and put up with Francine's nonstop talking. It's actually rather scary when Francine gets quiet. Once home, I needed to care for Christine's bruises. As memorable as the day was, our quiet bonding ranks up with everything else. Christine fits me like a glove. It was because of her that I knew how to handle Elspeth.

That happened the next morning. I dressed in bra and corset, but otherwise like always. Though the outward clothes were the same, no one recognized me til I spoke. Posture and attitude made that much difference. Elspeth was so shocked she dumped her purse. That moment was another highlight, but I had no time to linger. I sent them to work, then went to Target and bought undamaged clothes. A guy I knew from high school told me I was looking good. I can say from personal experience, positive reinforcement works.

The wedding is another thing covered in detail elsewhere. Somehow, I turned out to be in charge. Other than Sean, who was at the office, no one else had the clout to settle the arguments. It worked because very few people tried to mess with me. There are advantages to having a reputation as a bitch. The worst screw up came from Francine's twisted humor. More on that later.

Consider the layout. Our grounds cover about ten acres, including a chunk of the lake. A full acre of that was laid out for the lawn party. It sounds like a lot, until you consider the merry-go-round in the middle. We had to work around it, provide ingress and egress, games, food, sanitation, child care and seating for the ceremony.

If I have not mentioned it, my brother Sean is a genius. Off the top of my head, he discovered Sheila in her bondage studio. First he hired her for photographic work, at which she is now world renowned. He hired Christine from a diner, to be her assistant. After less than two weeks with Sheila, he proposed marriage. He pulled the carousel out of storage. Who sees a merry-go-round and thinks wedding? Yet, it is impossible to think of Sean and Sheila's wedding and not think of it. The words "merry-go-round wedding" are still all the reference you need.

We had grounds crew leveling an area for tables and chairs. Equipment people setting up the carousel. Security wanted to make sure they could see everything. Events people worried about traffic flow. There were catering people, rental people, household staff and a gazillion temporary employees. All that was in house. In addition, we had set and prop people from Francine's production company. Soon after, we had a load of Amish. I was the only one named Richards. Yay me.

Tuesday changed my life. I loose count of things that flowed out of the people I met and the events that occurred. Wednesday and Thursday drew on the old me. I needed to handle the workload and deal with constant changes. A crushing workload was nothing new, so I coped. I love the word "gestalt". It means a unified whole that cannot be described by listing the parts. Friday was when the gestalt occurred.

Francine was the impetus, of course. While she had people at the house, doing various things, Francine's real impact was on the wedding party. We were being costumed, principally Sheila and I. Friday's first stop was Elizabeth. Francine taught me some more about shopping, while Sheila had her final corset fitting. Sheila also outfitted Christine in a killer faux Catholic schoolgirl outfit. You should see the pictures. After a ferry ride to Manhattan, we were each fitted for our wedding suit or dress.

Sheila looked divine in her forest green dress. Francine gave her a pair of emerald earrings that matched perfectly. During the week, I had come to understand that Francine was more than just wealthy, but this was the first sign of serious money. Not everyone can sink a few hundred thousand in a wedding gift. I could not do it without raiding a safety deposit box. I whispered to Sheila that she should accept them. She was that close to declining.

We left the costume company and went to an Italian restaurant. That would have been fine, except Francine invited all of Manhattan's dance and theater people. It was not all bad. First to arrive were Angela Molinari and her old friend Edith Dryden. Before long I was on first names with one of Broadway's greatest stars. It did not last. More people started pouring in. Susan Farwell showed up with Giesla Kirtland and George Blanchard, followed closely by Lisl Rhinehardt and Rudolph Nerovski. Someone had to run interference and Christine, the Maid of Honor, was hopeless for the task.

Surprisingly, it went like clockwork. I controlled the mob by lining them up. This allowed me to get names, while the press and Christine shot pictures. Various blogs and publications were very happy. Sheila took my cues like we had practiced all week. If someone was being rude, Sheila's lethal wit punctured their bubble. If they were press, Sheila greeted them and I directed them to the appropriate corner, where the theater and ballet people were klatsching. Occasionally, we would get one seeking Mistress Cynthia, Sheila's stage name. Those I formed into another pool.

The event was a huge success. Everyone had a chance to meet and speak to Sheila. Many posed for pictures. I had no idea someone would find me of interest, but I was in many of the published pictures. Several of the pictures proved valuable when I went into politics. Nothing serves as an introduction like a press photo, with both you and the person you wish to see. There was more. A month later, I was shocked when a major bridal magazine ran a full page article on me, using some of those pictures. I was just the help.

Saturday was the wedding. Properly, that should have been about the bride and groom. Francine's so called wit had other ideas. She sent a package of maternity clothes to the Residence. Security handled it as a bomb. Face-palm time. Sean, at Sheila's suggestion, delegated payback to me. I will not get into what happened late Friday. It suffices to say that Francine and I were already not speaking politely. When Sean's message came, my smile must have been evil. Christine's answering grin certainly indicated so. She held out her fist, knuckles vertical. It says a great many things that I needed no elaboration.

Christine set everything up. I simply walked into the room, picked Francine up and dangled her out an open window. Christine recorded it all, streaming it to a disk in Security. When Sheila asked me to pull Francine in, I pulled the memory card from the camera and gave it to Francine, for which she has never forgiven me. Fortunately, Sheila made peace. She chose that moment to thank Francine for the emeralds.

Once the tears had dried and the makeup was repaired, we trouped down and did the ceremony. Ritual is never completely empty, but rarely does it reach the level it did that day. Societies create weddings because people like Sean and Sheila show them the way. I just wish they had done it on shore. Several of us almost fell off the floating catwalk.

There was a tedious reception line. At the tail end, Lars introduced himself to Sean. My husband is almost two meters (6'6") tall. He does not sneak up on anyone—except me. His first line, "So, Frau Doktor...", is still a favorite of his and I still get chills. Though they had barely met, Sean already knew that Lars had intentions. It is a bit frightening how close the two have become, almost like Sheila and Christine.

After Lars scared the hell out of me, Sean wanted pictures. That meant the merry-go-round. You've seen them. Everyone has. They still call it the merry-go-round wedding. For some reason Sean wanted to pick on me. While I attempted death by embarrassment, Lars commented that I had good color. He's an asshole, but he's my asshole.

The next hurdle was the gown. I can say, with certainty, that a week before I would have committed murder, rather than try the thing on. Now I have it under glass in the foyer, with a picture of Lars and I dancing at the ball. In a week of eye opening mirror images, that was the best. Not only did it make me look damned good, none of those bitches from high school could wear it. Maybe I am a bit petty, but there it is.

The ball was fun, which is yet another thing I would never have expected. Lars and I both knew just enough theory of dance to be a bit ahead of the crowd. I was turning down offers from good looking guys. Amazing. In fact, I was one of Jason Porter's fifty girls. That picture was in my suitcase as I returned to Hanover. The most fun was dropping the hammer on Sheila and Francine. I say from experience, pranking either is hard as hell. Both at once is worthy of Christine.


"Little" Sister Pt. 02



You needed to be at the reception in Manhattan to understand how much of Sheila's soul is invested in ballet. Susan Farwell and Lisl Rhinehardt, two of the best known ballet names in the western hemisphere, sang her praises for hours. All Sheila wanted to talk about was the art. The scary thing, from my perspective, is that all those graceful people would stop talking, just to watch Sheila walk across the room. Even I could see Sheila had more grace in her flow than the others.

That was what made the Sugar Plum Fairy so obvious. It put Sheila and Francine on the spot, but there was no way in this life that they would refuse. You have seen the video. They did that cold. Ten minutes before, they had no idea that they would be dancing. Francine is such a show off she would have done it if I asked. For Sheila, I needed a pitchfork to push her out. Even Christine, the Mistress of Pranks, thought the joke was good.

Getting the newlyweds off took just a few moments. Sheila was wearing garters because she wears garters. The one they used was not a spare put on for the occasion. It was one more reason for her to blush and they had not even joined the Mile High Club, yet. I donated my Army boots to drag behind the limo. Francine said, "Well good. It's about time we got rid of those." I never told her that it was a mismatched pair. I had the other two in New Hampshire.

Gerald watched them go, quoting the Bible. It was fitting, because we were left behind, just like the eleven disciples. When Gerald turned to me and said I had done well, I was so shocked I went a little light headed. It was not just me. Mouths fell open. Stories of the moment are told to this day. Going back to the house, and my soon to be fiancé, was anticlimactic.

Chapter 8 -- After the Party

The day after started like the week before. I had too little sleep and there was a lot of work to be done. Sean had promised an open house after the wedding. It was Sunday morning, so the Amish were holding their service in the ball room. The merry-go-round was shut off, in deference to the Amish service, but a lot of the staff's families were playing the games. About ten o'clock the Amish joined the party, so we could start the carousel. Some of Francine's people even played their roles on their own time, which touched me.

At one o'clock the catering truck arrived. All week it had been cold sandwiches and chips. For Sunday we received fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, creamed corn and iced tea. Sean must have asked the chefs to do it, because this was quality stuff. There were decent rolls, but the Amish supplemented it with bread from the wedding and pickles and condiments from the barbecue. On behalf of the staff and family, I thanked them for all the work they had done. Elder Neufeld thanked Michael and Mitchell for offering the work. We all agreed that God had blessed it.

The rest of the day was a welcome break. I met with the senior Amish women to set up a method of communication. Evaine Schaeffelker would be going to Pennsylvania with them, so I promised to drive over and pick her up. She suggested a train, but I was firm. It would be too easy for Evaine to keep pushing back her departure time. I wanted her back before she joined the community. As it was, I expected at least three boys to try to follow her during their Rumspringa.

Yet another of my misconceptions was that Amish have churches. Not. They meet in homes. None the less, I followed through on giving them the wood fired stove. I did not know which house received it, nor did I wish to know. I also handed out many smaller gifts. The house library has many farm and orchard books. The storage rooms had many implements from a century ago and longer. Some I kept, because Sean intended to start using the land again. Others, such as an eight mule harness and a lumber hauling wagon, had no place in our future plans. I made a gift of it all. The wagon was stout enough to haul the stove.

Even that took only a day. Tuesday was full of departures. With a few exceptions, my students went home or back to Hanover. The Amish drove their wagons to the train station and loaded up. Francine flew back to California, which left me holding the bag on Sheila's business. When things are that transparent, often there is a good reason. I just wanted to know what it was, eventually.

Christine woke me in her usual fashion, with her lips. No student can survive without being able to get up before seven, but I was getting used to rising at five. Given the late nights playing Mistress to a bunch of horny grad students, this did not make for cheery mornings. I grumped and pouted as Christine led me through the ablutions and mandatory caffeine.

Next stop was Security for the daily update. I was not meeting Gerald in a corset and robe, so I added the basics—stockings, shoes, bra and panties, skirt, men's style shirt. Make up, jewelry and jacket would come later. It says something that I considered a bra one of the basics, much less the corset, but I was in training.

Gerald was as precise and correct as always. It may have been my imagination, but he seemed to brace to attention before delivering the report. Many things were ongoing, most of which were clean up from the wedding. Most of the Amish had gone, but three families remained and more were expected over time. A crew would be breaking down the merry-go-round for moving. That would take two days. Basic clean up of the ballroom and front of the house was complete. Detailed cleaning would be ongoing. Sean had approved additional staff. Contractors would be in to take measurements.

For new business, my brother George would arrive, three days late. Security would meet him at the airport. He could have the guest room I usually used. My old room was getting comfortable. I made a note to have Mitchell Gilbert begin preparing the old servant quarters for long term use. My second note was to get bids on a new gas stove and installation. Anything else could wait for the evening.

I thanked Gerald. He gave me a sharp nod. As I left the room, I heard, "Who would have ever thought we'd see..." cut off by Gerald sharply calling a name. My look was new, but I was still scaring the staff. Christine was silently laughing. When did she show up?

I went by corporate offices to see how Sheila's new offices were coming along. A four office suite had been set aside, which told me volumes about where the new division was in the social pecking order. At a nearby office I found Sheila's new personal assistant, Roxanna. She was sorting piles of paper as I walked up. Before I reached the desk, the phone rang. She gave a practiced smile and raised one finger.

"Good Morning, Richards Enterprises, Digital Services. How may I direct your call?"

"I'm sorry, but Mrs. Richards has not yet assumed her duties. We are expecting her to be available after June 12th."

"Yes, ma'am. Sheila Schwartz-Richards. She and Sean Richards were married Saturday. Surely you heard of it, the merry-go-round wedding."

"That's quite all right. May I leave a message that you called? Do you wish to record a voicemail?"

"Very good. Thank you for calling."

When she hung up, I asked, "Client or prospective client?" Roxanna nodded. I asked, "How many do you get?" This call was the 5th or 6th in a day and small change. "Get a hold of Harlan Lipton, please. We are going to start diverting this his way."

Harlan Lipton was loosely related to the Lipton tea family. His own money came from a legal practice that, locally, was second to none. He had been one of Sheila's clients for years, even though he was past sixty when they met. Arthritis and gout forced him to give up on his patronage of Mistress Cynthia, but Sheila spoke fondly of him at the wedding.

The call to Mr. Lipton made me wish I had looked at all my email. There was a note buried in the spam folder. It gave the address and time of a meeting. Since I was expected to be there—expected to run it most likely—it was a good thing I found it. I also had a heads up from Richard Foster, but not from Francine. She was out of town, but the little bitch was getting under my skin. I told Roxanna to refer future callers to the email, since mine had been swept by the filters.

I needed to collect Christine before I went to the meeting which reminded me of something. Even though Christine was sleeping in my bed, in theory she was Roxanna's roommate. Sheila was subletting them her apartment, until the lease expired. I asked if things were OK with the apartment, since Christine was not around. Roxanna's face blossomed in a smile.

I'm a student of life and social interaction. Roxanna did not need to tell me that this was her first place solo. Even when Christine moved in, it would be temporary. Christine would get a room at the House, because she was going to be the nanny. For as long as it lasted, that fairly nice apartment belonged to Roxanna and she loved it. Then her smile turned a bit sideways and she asked me if I wanted to see it. I was tempted.

Instead I said, "I'm on the Board of Directors. That makes me your boss. It also happens that I am getting serious with a tall German gentleman. My life is not as free as it was a few weeks ago." I thought for a minute. "I'll tell you what. Sean gets back Saturday night, if all goes well. Saturday morning I will take you for a drive in Shadow. She's my BMW 503. Do you like open roadsters?"

Roxanna's motor was definitely running. We made the date and I left, wondering about the effect I was having on people, women in particular. Roxanna was only the most obvious. Women on the staff deferred in ways they had never done before. It was not just Gerald. All the men in Security, most of them former military, gave me space. It was something to chew on.

Picking up Christine was a hassle. She was back at the house, dealing with the contractors. The meeting was a just mile from the corporate offices, but I needed to make the trip home first. That's life. I drove home, picked up Christine and drove back. The meeting was in an old apartment building, undergoing renovations. That fit. Harlan Lipton was in the property group that would be redoing Sheila's warehouse district. On the door were several lists of group meeting times—self defense, AA, cancer support, Alanon. It was a great cover. We were Self Respect Enhancement.

Harlan called the meeting to order, but quickly turned it over to me. Since seats were in rows, I went to the front. Christine followed like a shadow. I introduced myself as Dr. Richards. I would be available for one-on-one counseling, at the usual rates. All details could be arranged through my assistant, Christine. However, regretfully, I was not yet able to offer visual support. I then introduced Richard, as counselor in training. Heads nodded as if this all made sense. If anyone had recorded the meeting, you could not have proven in court that BDSM was involved.

On the way out, Richard wanted to speak to me. One glance told me why. Maria, with whom I was intimately familiar, was one step behind him. Richard wanted to date Maria. I told him that his first responsibility was to ensure Maria stayed faithful to her family and her church. His second responsibility was to ensure she had nothing to confess to her priest.

Since Maria was a firecracker with a wide submissive streak, I wanted the basics crystal clear. As the Dominant, it was Richard's job to look out for her reputation before either his or her gratification. This was not going to be easy for either of them, but shared trials are a bonding experience. When the situation calls for it, there is plenty of time for sex after the wedding.

I emphasized this with my best Dr. Richards glare. Richard swallowed, as first year students often will, then nodded agreement. Maria was looking on with a mixture of longing and amusement. When I asked to see his emails to Sheila, both their faces fell. A couple of minutes showed it was even worse than I thought. Maria and Christine went to do whatever submissives do together, while I tried to make sense of Richard's reporting.

An hour later, I had shown Richard a few shreds of best reporting practices. Warning him that Sheila was a much more exacting Mistress, pun fully intended, I gathered Christine to go. As we left the meeting, Christine kissed me on the cheek and said, "Thank you." Before I could wonder why she was thanking me, she started to chew on my earlobe.

Before we went home, I stopped at a bookstore to pick up a German self tutorial. While I was at it, I bought a guide book to Germany, a German/English dictionary, some books on German history and began the process to get a visa. That evening I composed a letter to Lars Gunter. Using an online service, I translated it. Then I went through and checked that the literal translation meant what I thought it did. It was late when I sent it off.

Christine kept me company while I worked, massaging my shoulders as I became tense. I could seriously get used to having her around. That was when I heard George. My other brother is many things, but quiet and tactful are not on the list. I had said, on occasion, that all you needed to do was listen to George and he was your friend for life. That was because listening to George was nontrivial, occasionally ascending to difficult. It could be interesting when he met Motor Mouth Martel, but Francine would probably just avoid him. Most people did.

I looked at Christine. She rolled her eyes. I said, "Leave him alone. It's no fair picking on the defenseless. He may be smarter than I am, but he's really stupid too." Christine cocked her head as she considered this. When she smiled and nodded, I said, "Get your gag and cuffs. Nipple clamps too. Bruises or not, you are getting a spanking tonight." Christine jumped up and scurried to get her things.

George was having a discussion with a Security tech about how and where to run the data lines. Sheila might have been interested, but I was not. I just slapped George on the shoulder and kept walking. I was in the hall before I heard, "Hey'ya sis." As Sheila says, Oi.

The rest of the week was largely in that vein. As Dr. Richards, I had several appointments to meet Sheila's clients. My basic approach was to immobilize them, naked of course, then ask them where they liked the lash/flogger/crop. Naturally my assistant took notes, since minor variances were important. In several cases, I allowed Richard to handle the implement of choice. This was particularly true of Mario.

That was an interesting session. Mario always worked with a dog collar and lead. Christine got naked on the floor with him, so I unhooked the lead and let them roll around on the floor like child and puppy. Mario nosed around Christine's fading bruises with great interest. When I asked if Mario wanted a set just like them, he broke character and nodded. I told him I would do my best, but only til he flinched. Richard and I alternated a bamboo cane on the buttocks and a dog quirt on the legs. It took seven strokes before Mario broke. When I released him, he kissed my feet. Christine dashed away to email Sheila.

Friday was interesting in another way. I had allowed two of my grad students, Conrad and Kerin, to stay over and examine the attic storage. "Attic" is somewhat misleading, though much of the pre Civil War furniture is up there. Most of the storage was on the ground floor or in old root cellars and the like. If it stayed dry, someone put things in it. Damp cellars is not one of the house's problems, so there were a lot of places. Even as a child exploring the house, I had not seen all of them.

Conrad and Kerin started with the attic. Temperatures reached ninety degrees during the day and many of the spaces were not ventilated. In self defense, they settled into a work all night, sleep during the day pattern. At about seven AM on Friday they came to me with a basket of papers. Literally. It was a bushel apple basket. They wanted to to take them to Hanover. Not no. Hell NO! That was just the start. Before one PM I had Dartmouth full Professors on the phone. Not no. Hell NO!

I could see where this was going, but they would pay and keep paying. I kept saying no until the Dean of History, Dr. Lang and the Chief Archivist of the University Library, Dr. Chernikov were on the phone. That was when I started demanding payment. This was nothing so crass as money. That they had or could get. I wanted favors and recognition and I had them over a barrel.

When the smoke cleared, there would be a Richards exhibit in the library archive. Conrad and Kerin could do the grunt work as part of their thesis research. The university would get full digital access, but the physical paper was restricted to one pound total. I referred to it as their pound of flesh. These papers were on loan. I never expected to see them again, but legalities are important. Who knew a Continental Army Colonel in the family tree could be such fun?

Saturday would be the end of my reign as Lady of the Manor. I was more than ready. Friday night I stayed up late, shooting pool with George. The dodo bird had never applied his knowledge of physics to the table. After five straight wins, I told him he needed work on his Geometry. George won the New Jersey Math Olympics in Geometry, twice. He was so mad he was quiet. I pitied Sean, but not really.

Saturday was not a gorgeous late spring day, perfect for a drive with the top down. It was sticky and overcast, with a strong chance of rain. You make do. I picked up Roxanna at 9:00. After determining that she had eaten breakfast, I laid out the ground rules. I was her superior, so she had to come to me. Naturally I phrased it as protection against sexual harassment. The end result was the same. Any physical contact would be initiated by Roxanna. To induce such contact, I took her into the hills of Appalachia and let her see how well Shadow could corner. She was not quiet about her feelings.

I found a nice riverside turn out and stopped the car. Roxanna was all over me. I grabbed a blanket from the back and took her to a clearing near the water. I held both her hands over her head with my right hand, finger fucked her with the left and applied lip suction to her face. She came three times before I took my top and bra off. The next hour was nice. Roxanna lavished devotion on my tits, while returning the finger fuck. We did not break up til the car security beeped my phone. It turned out to be nothing, but it was time to get back.

We took two cars to JFK. Russell drove Sheila's Volvo, while George (security tech, not brother) drove Christine and I in the Mercedes. It was not really necessary, but I hate city traffic. George let us out at luggage pick up and pulled the car away. He and Russell would circle rather than park the cars. If all went well, it would not be long. Right. When has everything gone well at an airport? We spent an hour waiting for luggage that did not come, then filling out missing luggage paperwork. It gave Sheila a chance to show off their souvenirs, which was quite a haul.

They had a whole locker full of small touristy stuff, much of it handmade. There was also a flower print dress for someone Christine's age or younger. Sheila had pictures of herself in the dress. Woof. I always said I would have married her myself. Some of the stuff was off the wall—magnets with Iraq pictures, a left hand leg holster, a bag of beach rocks. Christine's hand went to those and her lips parted. It took me a second, but I made the connection—homemade ben wa balls.

Naturally, for Sheila at least, there were folders of pictures. Some were harsh—a storm swept beach—and some were sweet—Sheila having tea with a young girl. One interesting folder was full of shots of a rusting ship, sticking keel up from the sand. Many of the shots were taken underwater, so there had to be a story. Another image that caught my attention was of Sheila giving a macrame bracelet to an older woman. I looked at Christine, then we both looked a Sheila. She told us the woman, couple actually, would be coming for Thanksgiving. One more story.




"Little" Sister Pt. 02



Another picture was of an oriental man, labeled Danny Ngo -- Lawyer 1. A Slavic looking man was labeled Tigran P -- Lawyer 2. Sheila did not tell us why she had pictures of lawyers, but the Board of Directors has need to know, I had been briefed. Sheila showed us a picture of Sean with a fish as long as Francine is tall, with lots of teeth. Sheila produced a few of the teeth in a baggy. Then she rubbed her stomach and said they ate it.

I took the stomach rubbing to mean she was full and the food was good, but Christine's eye got wide. She looked at Sheila, who fought to keep a smile from her face. I swear those two are telepathic. Still, it did not take a genius to figure out that Sheila was expecting. Correction, Sheila thought she might be expecting. That is why we have pregnancy tests and OB/GYNs. I cocked my head. Sheila shrugged and said, "We can stop at Walgreen's on the way home." Everyone cracked up at the reference to Maria. Sean wanted to know what the joke was. Sheila kissed him and said, "Girl stuff."

Sean looked like he caught the reference, which was good for a guy. Then it hit me. I was one of the girls. I had never been included in this sort of conversation. Christine wrapped her arms around me. Did I mention she was telepathic? If I had not met Lars, I would be tempted to marry Christine. I asked her if she wanted to help me move back up to Hanover. Christine checked with Sheila and I had a plus one. I did not look forward to telling Elspeth.

The trip home was interesting, mostly because there were men in tow. JFK is well south of Manhattan. You take the Belt Parkway to the Narrows Bridge, across Staten Island, then Elizabeth. Our route went past everything that had happened the week before, except the party at Civitano's. As we passed The Crow's Nest, I told Sean that Francine owned the restaurant and club next door. Christine turned red and Sheila turned white. There is no way Sean missed that, but he said nothing.

Something must have occurred to Sheila, because she pulled her phone out. After a quick talk, she told Russell to head for downtown Elizabeth. It was late Saturday, but Julian was willing to open his shop. Surprisingly, Sean needed no explanation. As we pulled to the curb, Julian came down to meet us. He led Sheila down to the workroom. I led Sean up to the waiting area. Maggie was there. I never saw where Christine went, but she was not with us.

Maggie said, "Well Miss Siobhan, when Julian said Miss Sheila was comin', sure I was that ye would be comin' as well. And lookin' fine if I'm sayin' so me'self. But, who'd ye bring with ye? Is this himself? Aye. It must be. I c'n see the family in ye both." That was a first. "Where's the wee miss? Nay. Don't ye be tellin' me. She be down in Julian's place without a bye 'is leave, the scamp. They be right along. 'Tis nothing but takin' what's already been fixed.

"We be seein' your pictures in the press. 'Tis right handsome ye looked in that suit. And the merry-wheel. I'd a not thought o' that. Was that your idea, or was it this fine man here?" I knew Maggie was at least a bit lesbian. Now I could see she was bisexual and a flirt.

I said, "Magdala, may I present Clarence Sean Richards, head of the Richards/Sparks/O'brien clan of New Jersey. Sean, this is Maggie. She is the one to talk to if you want anything from Julian. I doubt that will be soon." Maggie's hands rushed to her mouth. I continued, "At least nine months, unless I miss my guess."

To my surprise, Sean was laughing. I turned to glare at him, but he waved it off with, "'Girl stuff', indeed. You need to be either more candid or more circumspect. Unless I miss my guess, Julian already suspects it. I doubt he comes down here on Saturday for most people. Am I wrong, Maggie?" Sean can be a real stick when he wants to.

Maggie's reply was cut off by the door opening. Before we left, I told Maggie I would want at least one more corset, for a Boston blue blood. That pricked her interest, but I left her to it. The ride back to the House was quiet. In Union, I saw an ice cream store, but Sheila wanted none. That would change in the months ahead.

Chapter 9 -- Another Party

I may be gullible. I had Sean and Sheila at the airport, thenall the way home. Nothing tipped me off. Christine was also on the drive home, but she lives to keep secrets. In any event, we piled out of the cars, grabbed luggage and headed into the house. Not unexpectedly, George shouted for me to come to the pool room. I dropped Sean's suitcase in the hallway (he and Russell carried the footlocker). It was not til I saw George's grin that I knew something was up. A heartbeat later, he yelled, "Surprise."

It was not my birthday yet. That was on June 6th, Wednesday the next week. I can forgive that, because the opportunity was so perfect. They got me, though Christine could have managed better. I'm quite sure my surprise had started to fade before the phones and cameras started clicking. My initial shock paled beside the list of people attending. All nine of my grad students had either stayed or returned. Mimi was there from Boston. Also, "So, Frau Doktor. We meet again."

Mimi attending forced me to reconsider an earlier thought. I said I left no friends in Boston. That was not true. Rather, I did not recognize when Mimi became my friend. I am unsure if I introduced her to Lars or her to him. Regardless, both were putting faces to names they already knew. Funny that. With Lars, I was not surprised he had checked my past.

I did not know that Mimi cared enough to bother. Under the circumstances, I could only do one thing. I gave her the full just-for-family hug. Do I need to mention that Christine was nearby? I introduced them, then went to talk to Lars. They might have had a difficult conversation, but maybe not. Christine listens well and Mimi reads faces for a living.

Regardless, they got on well. Lars and I, not so much. His English was better, but I was completely tongue tied. Eventually an unlikely reprieve came. My bother George wanted to meet Lars. Siemens does a lot of data handling, for automation and such. George wanted to get some information on specific issues concerning transatlantic protocols.

In less than a minute, PDAs came out. Before much longer, the conversation was over my head in two languages. I'm not sure Lars recognized when he lapsed to German. I'm very sure George never noticed. I glanced over, to find Christine quietly laughing. I had to join her. Having a much smarter brother is often a pain, but there were times I was glad to be the slow sister. Christine mimed shooting pool, so I picked a cue and racked the balls. For someone with no formal instruction, she was pretty good.

Toward the end of our second game, Sean and Sheila came in. Sean watched me line up a shot, while Sheila hugged Christine. I dropped the eleven and fifteen, then lined up on the eight ball. Sean was thinking that my game was much better and that he should not play me for stakes. Then he laughed. I didn't catch much of his next thought, except Sheila's name. It was enough. I motioned Christine over and told her to have Jerry teach Sheila the game. Christine's whole face crinkled with laughter, but not a sound came out.

The rest of the party was a success. Sheila thanked each of the nine grad students and submitted to a picture, taken by Christine. Naturally, Sheila would do the processing. That would become part of the story. I could easily imagine some future Antiques Roadshow appraising a framed picture of, say, Sheila and Elspeth. For provenance, there would a set of the local paper, NY Times Magazine and Unique Bride issues containing the wedding coverage. That was very easy to believe. Harder was the thought that a picture of Elspeth and I would also be in the collection. Christine hugged me. She often does when I feel unworthy.

The star of the night, surprisingly, was Mimi. I had worried she might feel out of her depth. Instead, she was a minor celebrity, thanks to my dissertation. I was beginning to wonder how many people had actually read the thing. The only exception in the room appeared to be George. That was so wrong. No one reads dissertations, much less mine. Christine said, "...because it's yours." That made me feel more inadequate. Heroes have no flaws.

That was my mood when Mimi looked up and waved me over. With her were Elspeth, Evaine, Conrad and someone I did not recognize. I gave the woman my once over out of reflex. Young, well dressed but not flaunting money, professional, but dressed casually, attentive, poised. It pointed to a high level bureaucrat, here to see me. It came as an almost physical jolt. This, yet unnamed, woman was here to see me. She was keeping company with Elspeth and Evaine, which likely meant something to do with the Amish.

I was out of time. Turning to Elspeth, I nodded. She said, "Senator Robertson, may I present Dr. Siobhan Richards. Jo, State Senator Morgan Robertson." Two last names.

That was funny, so I used it as an ice breaker. "Excuse me for laughing. I was just noting that I have two first names, while you have two last names. Perhaps we could swap one. Then again, Richard Morgan does not suit me either. Would you want to be Siobhan Robertson?"

She tried not to laugh. She tried hard, turning red in the face. When she broke down, we all laughed with her. It took a full half minute for Senator Robertson to return to speaking composure.

She said, "You're good. I was warned that you might be a bit much to take, but not that way. I was expecting massive, face piercing, punk, lesbian bull. I am pleased to be misinformed. What?" Everyone had become very still.

I said, "Christine, show the Senator one of my before pictures. Senator, I had a major makeover last week. This should give you a baseline for comparison."

I should note that I had no idea where Christine was when I started speaking. I still had no idea til she held out a PDA, presumably with my image showing. Sean says that you need to assume your people can do their job. Christine's job was to be ready when I needed her, and invisible the rest of the time. It was a job I could not come close to doing. Regardless, my ploy had the desired effect. Senator Robertson fought to keep her jaw from dropping. I gave her points for managing.

The Senator and I looked at each other while she processed the information. I had been in her shoes, metaphorically speaking. It never helped when someone demanded attention. Besides, it usually does not take long to reach a decision and it did not.

Senator Robertson extended her hand, "Perhaps we can start over. I'm Morgan, no nicknames. It seems we will be working together. I am recently come to the opinion I'd not wish to be working against you."

I took her hand. "Call me Jo in public. Siobhan is reserved for people that pronounce it correctly. My friends are willing to learn."

With that I had a political ally in Concord. She would be a matron at my wedding and become my Chief of Staff when I moved to Washington. I reintroduced her to Elspeth as my aide and Evaine as researcher. Only then did I learn the gist of the proposed center. It reinforced a lesson—know your people first, then get to the details. Even allies of convenience need to be trustworthy in their sphere.

The proposal was for a half-way house. Many such houses existed for people trying to readjust to life after drug rehab or prison. This one was for entering life in the USA after life in a third world country. Everyone was in favor, but no one wanted to fund it. Conrad had encountered the proposal during his thesis research. That made Evaine's presence obvious. It could also serve as a halfway house for Amish on Rumspringa. Possibilities multiplied, but it was not time for anything more concrete.

I had something better—Sean, the Chairman of the Richards Foundation. In practice this would likely mean Sheila, so Senator Robertson had come to the right place. I looked around til I spotted Christine—three feet away, naturally—and sent her to get Sheila. Morgan looked after her with interest.

I said, "Christina Renée Collingsworth, with a "g". She prefers Christine. You will also encounter the last name shortened to Collins. She would be the perfect aid and troubleshooter if she were not already attached. She is fetching my sister. You know her from the green dress at the merry-go-round wedding. In case no one told you, we have been cleaning up from that wedding all week.

"The period theme and lawn party were Sheila's idea. The merry-go-round and Amish carriages, not to mention the dress, came from my brother Sean." Senator Robertson's eyes were big and her mouth opened in an "O". I continued, "Don't look so shocked. I haven't mentioned Francine Martel, Angela Molinari, Edith Dryden, Susan Farwell or Lisl Rhinehardt. If you know anything about theater, Pedro de la Garza calls her diosa, goddess."

Obviously Morgan Robertson was a theater buff, because she started at Francine's name and her mouth fell open over Pedro de la Garza. I could not say anything more, because Sheila was there to speak for herself.

She said, "I see Siobhan has been playing jokes. She's bad that way. Almost as bad as Christine. I am Sheila Richards—it still seems odd to say that. How can I help you. Christine was short on details."

I stepped in, just as I had at Civitano's. "Sheila, allow me to present the Right Honorable Morgan Robertson, State Senator from New Hampshire." Sheila nodded and they shook hands. "This is properly an issue for Sean, since it involves the family charitable foundation, but I have a feeling he will delegate that role to you. Tell me I have that wrong."

Sheila laughed, "No. You know your brother. Anything with a business aspect would be up his alley. This smells more of politics. So, Senator, what can the Richards Foundation do for you?"

The conversation went on for an hour. Morgan laid out the basic idea, then added the recent modifications. Evaine explained how this would be an asset for the Amish who were looking to expand their horizons. Sheila nodded and said nothing til the informal presentation was complete. She took no notes, but I would lay tall money that Christine recorded everything, not that it mattered. Sheila would not forget anything important.

Sheila's first question to Morgan was a doozy, "How much difference would it make if you only needed to supply maintenance money?" Morgan's answer was written on her face. Sheila turned to me, "That makes your job clear." Damn straight. Sheila said her partings and went back to Sean.

Morgan asked, "What just happened?"

I had to laugh, "Welcome to the wonderful world of Sheila. Gerald, who has twenty years as an officer in the Army, says Sheila can deliver a thirty minute briefing in fifteen seconds. You just received a sample. When she talks to Christine, sometimes words are omitted entirely. I have a story for another time.

"The unpacked version is that the support of the Richards Foundation is pledged for the fund raising stage. Actual money may come at some point, but that is down the road a ways. The basic plan is for you to go back to Concord and start promoting the—there's no name. Try Beacon House—as a going concern. My job is to do start up funding and supervise construction, as well as liaise with Dartmouth."

Looking at Conrad, I said, "The Social Sciences departments can help in several ways, for example volunteers and university staff on loan. It will be a great place to get dirt under your nails. Research possibilities abound." Conrad and Elspeth were both nodding. I nodded to Evaine, "For example, an outreach to the Amish and similar closed communities." Evaine smiled back.

Turning back to Morgan, I continued, "Conrad can return with you." He nodded. "I will follow in a few weeks, as official representative of the Richards Foundation, among other hats. Something tells me I have been appointed project supervisor while I was doing something else. Elspeth can be my personal liaison. Did I forget anything?" Christine smacked her forehead, which made everyone laugh.

That gave me a chance to go pry my future husband away from my two brothers.

Chapter 10 -- Loose Ends and Split Ends

One of the reasons my engagement to Lars went smoothly was that he got along with both my brothers. This was no small feat. Sean liked having him as a business contact for Germany. Richards Enterprises deals more with personal property than industrial equipment, but both need to know the regulatory landscape. Lars relationship with George was pure geek to geek. Over time, Lars taught George to seek advice on presentation, meaning Sheila.

It does not hurt my pride to say that Lars and George would both have married Sheila if Sean had not been there first. I felt the same way. Because of that, it is a source of pride that Sheila relies on me as a buffer. She is so smooth and so knowledgeable that it is easy to miss how private she is. Shy even. She does not deal well with pushy idiots or noisy crowds.

I have the size and demeanor to deal with both. God help them if we need to resort to Christine. You may have seen the video she posted of Howard Jones saying Sheila was an airhead bimbo. Alongside, Sheila was telling Winifred Smith how learning hurt, because of the loss of innocence. Howard Jones ran from town with his tail shoved up his ass. I'm not sure Sheila knows that Christine posted that one, but I do. Do not fuck with Christine's people. Just don't.

All that said, Christine is quiet to the point of disappearing. I cut a big silhouette. It used to be with my nipple rings showing through a thin shirt and punk fashions. More recently, it was power suits and posture. Either way, no one misses my presence. What makes me a better deterrent is that, when push comes to shove, I can get down and dirty. Sean does the same thing in his large sphere of influence, but he lacks my pass to the women's room. Gerald has a Sean-ism on his wall. We protect those who serve.

My services as guard dog were quickly necessary. Sean was doing a massive upgrade of net access to the House. It started as a home office for Sheila. That evolved into a 24/7 executive suite for the whole corporate structure. If either Sheila or Sean did not need to press flesh, they could stay home with no loss of functionality. For Sheila, this played to her shy/private nature. For Sean, it was a command center that did not require a drive into town.

All this required people setting things up. Sean and Lars were helpful, but there was only so much they could do from their workplaces. Sheila was solid with security and also very good with tech, but she is misplaced in a conflict. George could handle the technical questions, but he was hopeless with construction or security concerns. Once again, I was project leader by default. Someone had to have the last word.

If it sounds like chaos, you have a small taste. The first major issue was where and how to run the trunk line. Security, correctly, assumed it would be to their existing office. What they did not anticipate was that this would effectively evict them. Gerald set the example by giving up his office. Locations for servers and state of the art image processing soon took over the security suite. The pool tables moved into the smoking parlor. George moved back into his room in the old house so Gerald could have an office.

On the side, I started my own small fiefdom. I was going to spend most of my time in New Hampshire, but it made sense to set up a base of operations while everyone was setting up theirs. One of the small guest rooms was converted into an office. I had Harlan Lipton set up two companies, one nonprofit and one for profit. If you ever wondered about the FD in FD Consulting, it stands for Frau Doktor. I was a lobbyist before I went into politics. Beacon Light Services is the nonprofit on the other side of a computer firewall. All the office furniture is the same.




"Little" Sister Pt. 02



As confusing as it was, the whole project took only two weeks. We had Sheila's home office ready for her first day on the job—June 12th. By then she was fully up to speed on what her dedicated server and workstation could do. Doodling with CAD software on a laptop, she made an uncanny rendition of my old room. Soon she was able to set up a laser scanner and get a millimeter accurate drawing in seconds.

What she did for Hollywood defies belief and it was not her top priority. I was able to watch her rough out the key scenes of a Will Smith movie. The movie is an hour and forty seven minutes. Sheila contributed to twenty nine minutes. For that, she received a high five figure check, an Oscar—Best Film Editing, 20xx—and residuals you would not believe (she could retire rich off the one flick).

Sheila spent twice as much time designing loft apartments for her new warehouse renovation. See Architectural Digest and AIA Journal, April 20xx and New Jersey Architectural Quarterly, 2nd quarter. Michael Weston is the credited architect, but the designs are hers. The woman is frightening.

While that was going on, I dealt with mundane things like running electrical/data conduit in a 200 year old house and figuring the placement of central heat and air. I thought as a child that the fireplace did a poor job of warming my bedroom. It turned out that reality was usually much worse. My bedroom fireplace had an innovative, for the mid 1800s, radiator built into the fire grate. Similarly, there was a wind powered ventilation system built into the house, between attic and roof.

That drew attention. We had some very excited people from the Architecture Department at NJIT in Newark. They did a feature article on the all the renovations in the official quarterly journal, with a subarticle on the 19th century modifications, see New Jersey Architectural Quarterly, 3rd quarter. I never did get rid of them. They saw some of Sheila's rough work and stayed around to write up her lofts.

Everything ends. While the planning and design was tricky, actual work on the house was relatively brief. By the 4th of July, we had the nursery and nanny rooms complete. Christine moved into her official room and proceeded to never use it. She preferred life as my alarm clock. I was not so lucky. I needed to return to Hanover to wrap up my fellowship, defend my second dissertation and spearhead the halfway house project at the state capital in Concord. I did not owe, but it was off to work I went.

When the time to leave came, Sean wanted to throw a bash. No one throws a bash like the owner of a catering company. Add Sheila's influence and you get a memorable party. I must admit, the merry-go-round makes a statement. Naturally, I have pictures. They have proven useful through the years. The best part came first, in the form of Lars.

He worked in the City, while I was in New Jersey. That was close enough to be frustrating, because it was too far to be practical. We made do with emails and work correspondence. Phone calls were frustrating. Since spoken German was in real time, I was frustratingly slow. Lars did better. He was learning English by immersion, but even then his progress tended to be work related. Texting provided more manageable obstacles.

Since I was moving to New Hampshire, he was given a short leave to say goodbye, with the caveat that we would both return to his office. The night he arrived, Lars made a formal proposal of marriage and gave me an engagement ring. As with Sean and Sheila, the ring was historically important, in this case a family heirloom. It belonged to his great, great grandmother, who was one of the lesser German nobility. A replica was made for my hand.

George spoke fluent German, but he had returned to California. Sean suggested his best man, Curtis Albrecht, to act as interpreter. Curtis also happened to be Richard Enterprises corporate counsel. Since there were substantial legal issues for families of both Lars and I, this made sense. Still, it was awkward talking through a lawyer. I suggested that Lars and I go somewhere and not talk. It was not a casual suggestion.

Preparations for this event were impressively thorough. Since Sheila was involved, this was not surprising. For example, she arranged several live demonstrations of beginning and advanced heterosexual technique, performed by Christine and Jason Porter. Also viewing, though bound and gagged, were Elspeth and Maria. In case you were wondering, that part was Christine's idea. It should be noted that Elspeth, Maria and I were all heterosexual virgins and Sheila had less than a month of experience. Elspeth and Maria were lavish in their thanks, which I quietly seconded.

Not satisfied, Christine went to the extent of getting Lars to approve some "lab work" between myself and Jason. She even took Jason to the City to meet with Lars. Evidently, Jason had every woman in the building swooning. Francine sent a two hour video lesson in anatomy and physiology as they apply to women and sex. It involved getting naked, touching myself in every conceivable place, using everything from barely touching to firm wet friction—and slapping. The sensations had to be recorded in a journal. I thought I knew my body fairly well from years of masturbation. Wrong.

When Jason arrived for our session, I was already hot and bothered. For his part, Jason was just as clinical as Francine. That did not prevent him from making me come at least a dozen times. Days later, watching the video with Lars made me hot all over again. But, that was later. Jason taught me a great deal about how men are like women sexually, but even more about how they are different. I'm was glad for Francine's primer, because it enabled me to look up more dry clinical detail later.

I discovered something surprising, to me at least—I liked giving oral sex. My feminist friends would be shocked and appalled, but many other women confirm it. There is a sense of control associated with bringing a man to climax. I was new and could not deep throat. Jason was an experienced connoisseur and wearing a condom. Still, I was the one that could dictate the pace. Sheila was particularly helpful in refining my technique. If anyone knows more about male genitalia and the associated trigger points, I do not know who it may be.

It might tell you something that Lars sent me the results of a recent medical examination. It was his way of proving his freedom from STDs and of sperm viability. As with Jason and condoms, something practical can also be extremely erotic. By thinking of my continued health, Lars proved his interest was for the long term. To make the story short, when I asked Lars aside for some serious necking, I was not a virgin. I cannot claim I was not blushing. Necking we did, then I went down and achieved my first taste of sperm.

Reading through this, it seems almost robotic. In a sense, that may be true. Lars is a major league geek, so he approached marriage from a very practical direction. I am an Ivy League trained social scientist. I can be clinical and observant under duress. Like Emily Deschanel in Bones, there is heat under the scientific surface. Rather than clinical, I found the whole process reassuring. I also wanted to throw Lars on his back and slam my hot cunt down on his shaft. The thought still makes my pussy twitch.

The next day was my going away party. Sean wanted to try out a new venue. The merry-go-round was so popular at his wedding, he decided to find a permanent location and build a conference center around it. By the middle of July, there were two buildings—one for the carousel and one multipurpose. Between the buildings is a circular amphitheater, with a stage and a fire pit. Off to the side were playground equipment, volleyball courts, horseshoe lines and a softball field. Not bad for five weeks, but I'll stack my wedding in four days against it.

The party started at noon with pulled pork BarBQ, followed by outdoor games, then a dance in the multipurpose building, finishing with toasted marshmallows and s'mores at the fire pit. I played volleyball against Lars (we were team captains), danced a dozen dances, was doused by a water balloon (pictures) and turned my first three marshmallows to charcoal, while Sean gave a speech. While Sean was still on stage, Christine and I drenched him with red Gatorade.

It was great fun, while it lasted.

Chapter 11 -- The Board Room

In the morning I said goodbye to everyone and headed for the City. Lars worked in the financial district and his bosses wanted to meet me. They received an open invitation to my party, which some of them accepted, but this was the official meeting. I suppose I should have been nervous, but I was more irritated than anything. Sean explained that Siemens did not like their young guns wasting time dating. The attitude was familiar. Yale and Dartmouth felt the same way. It was just as unrealistic and annoying in a business setting.

I had a quick chance to see Lars in his office on the 14th floor. Together we went up to the 56th. Nice view. The locally senior people were having coffee in the conference room. This was just a ploy to throw me off stride, but I had been there and done that. I asked for tea with lemon, so that I could settle for coffee with cream. Lars made a good stone face, but I caught one of the other executives flinching.

Another way the coffee ploy backfired is that I could watch everyone take their places. It was not hard to sort the pecking order. Georg Karl, the Vice President of American Operations was titular head, but a much younger man took charge. His name was Robert Swenson, Director of International Relations -- USA Branch. What he did not say was that he was local supervisor of Lars' training program. Effectively, he was Lars' boss's boss. He offered to shake hands, so I stepped six inches too close and used a firm grip.

In another setting it would have been funny. Sheila had selected a dark charcoal skirt suit and red silk top for me to wear. I knew I looked good, so confidence was easy. With my now usual three inch heels, I was at least an inch taller than Mr. Swenson. He tried very hard to stand straighter and look down on me, but physics was against him. He was also uncomfortably close, which ruined any attempt at dominance posturing. With the much taller Lars, Mr. Swenson would have known better than to try, but I was a girl. Silly boy.

The clutch took only seconds. I released Mr. Swenson's hand and took my indicated seat. Lars stepped into the gap and introduced me as Frau Doktor Richards. This caused a ripple of comment. It appeared to be new information to several of the men in the room. There were three women. None of them were surprised. They all looked openly interested. Nodding to Lars, I rose and addressed them all. From Mr. Swenson's reaction, this was not according to plan. Tough noogies.

I said, "Thank you for inviting me here today. As Lars said, I have a PhD from Yale and soon expect to receive another from Dartmouth. My name is Siobhan Richards. I was born and raised in upstate New Jersey. You may know my brother Sean, CEO of Richards Enterprises." Another ripple. More new information. "Lars and I met a few weeks ago at a club.

"The occasion was the bachelorette party for Sean's wedding. Francine Martel hosted us at her restaurant and club. You may have heard of the hot sauce challenge. That was the night. I insisted on gloves, because they had Mad Dog 44 Magnum. The stuff causes blisters. I'll never know how Christine kept it down without a fire extinguisher. No one else has.

"Lars was impressed by Christine and my sister, Sheila. You know her too. The merry-go-round wedding. She wore an impossible green dress, with hand crocheted lace. You might also have noted me. I wore an English style suit, with a walking stick and top hat." Eyes widened around the room as everyone placed me.

I concluded, "That's me in a nutshell. Do you have any questions?"

One of the women asked, "Did you have anything to do with the wedding planning?" Fish in a barrel.

I took a moment to decide how to phrase the response. I knew this would come across as either hesitant and thoughtful, depending on the listener's bias. I had a sledge hammer for the negative biases, but first I played to them.

I said, "With the planning, no. Sheila wanted the garden party and the ball to be in an early 20th century theme. Sean, who is a bit of an evil genius, provided the merry-go-round. The dress was also his. That was all settled before I arrived. Even the Amish carriages were Sean's idea. Pretty much all the planning was done when I took over."

Mr. Swenson took the bait, the hook and most of the leader. "What do you mean, when you took over?"

I said, "I'm sorry. I was unclear. I was in charge of the wedding preparation, along with nine graduate students. We had set and costume people from Francine's production company. We had the house and grounds people from the Residence. There were mechanics for the merry-go-round, events people to set up the booths, catering people to do the food, about a thousand temp workers, performers and, of course, the Amish. It was a zoo."

Mr. Swenson looked shocked. "Are you saying you were in charge of everything." It was too easy.

I laughed, because I could get away with it. "I'm sorry. I should not laugh, but that is exactly what Lars said, only in German. 'Was? Alles?'" Lars pinked a little. "I did not mean to go on so long. Did you have any specific questions?"

One of the women asked, "So you have known each other just over a month?"

This was the real crux of the matter. I suspect Mr. Swenson wanted to work up to it. Companies value stability, so impulsive behavior is discouraged. Lars was not an impulsive sort, so I only needed to point that out.

I said, "That is an excellent point, Ms...?"

"Johnson. Tamara Johnson."

I continued, "Thank you Tamara. As I said, you raise an excellent point. Since all of you already know Lars, I will point out that he is very traditional and a major league geek." This brought affirmative laughter. "Since he is traditional, he approached the head of the family, my brother Sean. Lars, what did Sean promise?"

Lars answered, "Disziplin, Kraft, Kinder." No pinking this time.

Everyone looked at Lars and heads started to nod. When the understanding was general, I moved on, "I wear a suit well, but you can see he was not smitten by beauty. I think my posture has a bigger impact. I know my accomplishments do. His pet phrase is "So, Frau Doktor..." Lars had used the phrase just a couple of minutes before. When I called Lars a geek, heads nodded. When I claimed I was no beauty, more nods. When I said, "Frau Doktor..." there was laughter. That was when I knew we had them.

To wrap things up, I said, "For my part, Lars is already like family. My brother Sean is fiercely loyal. It's one aspect that attracted Sheila to him. God knows it wasn't his looks, though this"—I waved at my face—"is less unattractive in masculine format. My other brother, George, is much smarter than I am, but he has the social skills of a rhino with a toothache. He and Lars get along like peas in a pod." To judge from the room, I should do stand up comedy. It was time for something more serious.

I smiled at Lars. "He is never going to be Prince Charming. That is OK with me, since I am not Snow White. What I am is a student of human relations. Standing next to Sean and Sheila as they took their vows, I considered that they were the sort of example that traditions, like marriage, are built around. Such things are important to me, as they are to Lars. I'll settle for someone to work with, raise children and grow old beside. He'll do that, don't you think?" There were a couple of claps, then general applause.

If Robert Swenson was ever going to say anything, he lost his chance. Georg Karl rose to his feet and extended his age spotted hand to me. As we shook he said, "Most impressive. Young Gunter good judgment has. Far he may go, but here he will stay, I think. Most impressive."

I was not sure what to make of that. A week later, Lars was transferred to Tokyo. Germans traditionally believe in long engagements, so that the husband is able to establish his financial footing. Ronald Reagan said to trust, but verify. It's an old European maxim. As much as I hated to admit it, Mr. Karl made his point. If this was to be a real marriage, it could stand the test of time. Lars would be well traveled, but he would come back. I would have to wait, but I could do that.

In the interim, I sent Mr. Karl birthday and Christmas cards—two each.



"Little" Sister Pt. 03



Chapter 12 – Storming Hanover

After the meeting with the local powers of Siemens, Lars walked me to the car. I had the Mercedes, with Russell driving. Loaning me Russell was the sort of generous gesture I learned to expect from Sheila. I was also glad she sent Christine, who makes a great human comforter. It was good that I did not yet know about Lars' transfer. I would have worried all the way to the garage in Manchester.

God must have been paying attention, because the clerk at the garage was the same clerk that would not let me pick up the beater car two years before. He did not recognize me, again. To add comedy, I no longer looked like my ID photo. He had a small point, which made living proof that having a point does not make you sharp. Christine shook with laughter, but I think I was the only one who noticed. Before the clerk could really embarrass himself, again, the owner came out to see who the Mercedes had dropped off. I winked at him, as he shouldered the clerk aside. Even his eyes widened when I pointed to several half healed piercing holes. 

I once counted the piercings. Including ears, my face had 27 separate holes. By then I was down to nine, seven in the ears. Check all my photos. My hair may cover the earrings, but there will always be discrete studs in the left eyebrow and right nostril. I liked the one in the eyebrow. Reasons for keeping one in my nose are more obscure. For that matter, I could not explain why my left ear kept two, but the right ear kept five. 

That was the sort of thing I was pondering when the exit to Hanover came up. In a heartbeat, my thoughts jumped to all the feminists, lesbians and activists that might think I went mercenary and sold to the highest bidder. In truth, I did sell out. I sold out to the idea that I was not a freak. The philosophical content of that statement would take some chewing. 

I had a more immediate issue. I needed to let everyone know I was back without favoring anyone. Once again, Sheila came to my service. She broke the news of her engagement by walking into the HR office and letting them announce it. At Richards Enterprises, HR is grapevine central. Suitably modified, I could use the same approach. 

Deans are politicians; it was probably written in the job requirements. My Dean's office could substitute for HR. With this battle plan, I walked up to the Dean's secretary. "Hello Anne. I see Karol is in. I'll only need a minute." 

As I walked toward the open door, Anne Wilson sputtered, "You can't just walk in. Wait...Who are y... Oh my Sainted Aunt. Dr. Krelinov, Dr. Richards to see you."



Dr. Karol Krelinov, Dean of Anthropology, was not one of my fans. He looked up from his work, did a double take, then rose to extend a hand. "Good afternoon, Dr. Richards. You are looking well. What can I do for you?" I liked that. Even for a politician, it was smooth.

I said, "Nothing at the moment. This is a courtesy call. I just returned to campus and wanted to let you know I was back."

Dr. Krelinov nodded, "Thank you. The courtesy is appreciated. You have been the source of much talk. It will be useful to let a few people know you are about. Anne can assist you with that. Shall we meet Monday at four?" This foreshadowed improved relations within my own department, which was not a bad place to start. 

I thanked Dr. Krelinov and turned Anne loose on the rumor mill. The whole event took less than five minutes. I spent more time walking to and back than anything else. The impact was hard to gauge, but substantial, so I have used the protocol ever since. Powers That Be always like being first to know, so the courtesy is never wasted. Sometimes, as in this case, it is useful to let them tell everyone else.

Returning to my car, I reflected how much different it was to drive Shadow. My never named econobox could stand an upgrade, maybe a ten year old Lexus or Infiniti. I would get more comfort and have this car to donate to some organization. Pulling up to my apartment complex, I anticipated more of the same. This would be a more difficult transition, but I could start with a house cleaning. Better yet, a house cleansing. I was an anthropologist. Ritual is central to my course of study.

Gift economy concepts were trendy. I would have to address the potential issues in my thesis. Though I respected Malinowski's work, on gift economies in the South Pacific island people, I preferred Mauss' position in their debate. Some of the ideas could be taken to radical extremes. For example, the International Feminists for a Gift Economy. They had some good ideas, but it was mostly another group that wanted to run the world. Their problem was the denial of the efficacy of naked force.

I liked Mauss and those that followed him. My situation was an opportunity for an experiment testing his theories. Even mercantile societies like the USA had sphere's of gifting. Blood and organ donations are often cited, but community service also fit the description. Scout leaders and softball coaches gave up large amounts of their free time and often their money. I was embarking on a new life path. I could do worse than to begin with some generosity.

To that end, I went to my office and created an invitation. 

Chrysalis

Siobhan Richards invites 

you to a celebration of 

change and regenesis 

7:00 PM

22 July

Marbury Hall

Tea will be served

I printed twenty copies. The small number was to force me to be selective. Two went to Drs. Krelinov and Steele, my dean and thesis adviser. Two more went to my graduate assistants. A fifth was for the editor of the department newsletter. That covered the academic side. 

The social side was more complex. Two would go to supportive faculty from other departments. Three would go to the heads of campus organizations that I had found helpful. One would go on the bulletin board at the house. That left nine for the students that helped me with the wedding. My eyes went misty when I wrote out their names. The first was to Elspeth.

I was glad Sheila had loaned me Christine, but Elspeth was much more practical. She, among other talents, was a gifted researcher. She was also tied into the entire network that is New England, of which Dartmouth's campus was a small part. I could give her the job of tracking stray people down. I left Christine sorting my things into piles—keep, donate/gift, burn. I went back to campus.

As before, I began with Dr. Krelinov. He was out, but Anne was a suitable surrogate. Dr. Steele was in. Back in New Jersey, Gerald told me to savor the first look on my adviser's face. With that in mind, I had my phone on video record when I knocked on Dr. Steele's door. His expression was everything I could hope for. I forwarded the clip to Sheila, asking for a couple of stills.

Once over his initial shock, Remmy invited me in and made small talk. After a few minutes I began to wonder if he was ignoring the envelopes in my hand or stalling for time. It was the latter. Dr. Harrigan walked up. 

Glancing at me, he said to Dr. Steele, "Remmy, what's this about? She was sighted at the Dean's office an hour ago, but there is nothing since. I already promised to let you know as soon as I saw her."

Dr. Steele smiled, "A promise you have already broken. But, my manners. Dr. Harrigan, I would like you to meet Dr. Richards." I was recording again. James Harrigan nearly collapsed from shock. 

People would stop using that expression if they ever saw it happen. Dr. Harrigan's blood drained out of his face. He stopped breathing. His eyes bulged in his head. He staggered to a vacant chair and dropped into it. Soon he was gasping for breath and fanning his face like he had run the 400 meters. 

This all happened in under ten seconds. The silence was filled by the sound of heels coming up the hallway. Elspeth came around the corner, saying, "Dr. Steele have you seen her? Anne said she was..." I was recording this as well. There is another another expression—surprised by joy. I had just enough time to brace before Elspeth slammed into me. 

I needed a hug, so I gave Elspeth one of my best. She reciprocated. For several seconds I held her close and stroked her hair. Presently I became aware that Drs. Steele and Harrigan were staring. I can be slow, but it dawned on me that they thought Elspeth and I hated each other. Truthfully, I did not expect this big a reaction from Elspeth. We had only been apart about five weeks. 

Rather than explain, I extended to Dr. Steele his invitation. While he opened it, I dug in my bag for Elspeth's. Dr. Steele was succinct, "What's this?" For some reason my prepared remarks had fled.

Instead, I said, "It's a ceremony of sorts. Many things have changed." This produced three coughs of laughter. "Since I cannot return to the cocoon, I wish to pay suitable tribute to my time there. I gave an invitation to Dr. Krelinov, for the whole department, so you are also invited Dr. Harrigan. Elspeth, I have nine invitations. I think you know who those are for. Would you help me run them all down? It would be greatly appreciated."

It is sufficient to say that I dropped no more unexpected invitations. In fact, I made no calls. They called me. I never tried to be popular. For some reason I was anyway.

Christine stayed three days. It was comfortable, but I came to realize she was out of place. Rather than send her off, Jason Porter showed up to collect her. You should have seen the chaos on campus. In six weeks, Jason had gone from nobody to Justin Timberlake in terms of popularity. Fall semester was still weeks away, but he could not go anywhere without a string of girls following him. 

It was sweet to watch their faces when he wanted to talk to me, but more satisfying to see his face when Christine caught his attention. They never married, but Justin fathered all of Christine's children. Other than a possible threesome with Sean and Sheila, Jason may have been the only male in Christine's love life. Half the young women and girls on the East Coast wanted into Jason's bed, but Christine had a standing invitation. Make of that what you wish. 

For me, it was another learning moment. Much as she suited me, Christine belonged elsewhere. The House in New Jersey—I might as well start calling it the Residence—was her home. Sheila was there. Soon the baby would be there. Christine might as well have been born to be a nanny or a mother. Here she could be neither. Nor could I, but that was a less urgent issue.

Sending Christine off became a production. Jason had driven Sheila's Volvo. There were things in it for me, which he had neglected to mention. Nothing much—some Halston silk shirts, two pair of heels, a dozen pair stockings and an array of silk scarves. The scarves were probably Gran's, but the rest was from Elizabeth or someplace similar. I was thinking of how to phrase the thank you email, when something clinked. Knotted in one of the scarves were earrings, tied in pairs with ribbon. Sweet.

There was more. A suit bag lay on the floor behind the passenger seat. Inside was a school teacher costume—dark skirt, back buttoned blouse with a cheat zipper in the pleats, faux early 20th century shoes, also with zipper, wooden pointer stick, metal edged ruler, even a couple of grammar school texts. There was also a note. 

Siobhan,

Please do not thank me for any of this. After all your help, it is little enough. Much of it was already yours. However, there is something a little more personal. Check under the passenger seat.

SR

The suit bag was on the floor behind the passenger seat, but Sheila said under the seat. I went fishing. When I felt something like hair, I gasped. There were two floggers or lashes. I was not sure of the technical term. Wound through the strap of one flogger was a string, with a piece of paper attached. It was a baggage claim ticket for a bus line. 

It was not what I wanted to do right then, but that's life. We drove to the bus depot to pick up the bag, which proved the correct term. It was a large gym bag. The zipper was locked, but Christine had the key on a string around her neck. Alarm bells were sounding. I asked Jason how he felt about a little tie-me-up before the trip home. There was no need to ask Christine. She was bouncing like a kid in a candy store.

Since we were going to do it, I decided to do it right. I called Elspeth and told her to get two enemas and bring them to my room. We were back in my apartment with plenty of time to spare. Jason and I cleared the living room floor and put out towels. Jason and Christine stripped. I posed Jason for Indian meditation—lotus position, hands palm up in the knees. Christine dropped into second position—kneeling on heels, knees apart, hands clasping elbows behind the back. They both looked ready to wait an hour, if necessary.

I am not so fortunate, but I could move. While we waited, I went through the contents of the bag. It was everything the suburban housewife might need for weekend entertainment, except some form of flogger. I now had two of those. I selected a gag, two belts and two blindfolds. For costume, I needed only remove clothing. I did this quite well in heels, stockings and corset. Panties and bra are optional. I elected to keep them, since this was a friendly session.

Elspeth knocked on my door. Whatever she might have said died when she saw my attire. Instead, her nostrils flared as I let her into the room. She paled when she saw Christine and Jason, but there was a question in her eyes. To answer, I smiled. 

I said, "This is being recorded. Take Christine to the shower and see to each other." I handed her the two blindfolds, the gag and indicated the enemas. "Jason has enough children for the moment. We will not risk any more." I have to hand it to Jason. Even with a shot like that, I managed only a small smile. 

Ten minutes later, we were deep into the scene. Elspeth was gagged and blindfolded, with her ankles belted to her thighs. Christine, also blinded, was on knees and elbows, eating Elspeth. Jason was on his knees, pounding away at Christine's ass. I held the lighter of the two lashes, flicking as close to randomly as I could manage. That was when the phone played Sean's ring tone. He would love this.

"Hey Sean. What's up?"

Phone: Hi sis. Have Jason and Christine left yet?

"Not yet. We're making a porn video right now. Keep it short. It looks like Elspeth may drop her ball."

Phone: Oh. That's good. That's very good. Of all the women that want to make porn videos with Jason, you have a lesbian. 

"Be nice. Elspeth is not a lesbian. She's bisexual. Right now Christine is attempting murder by stimulation, because Elspeth does not have permission to cum. As soon as she does, Jason will collect one of her cherries, while I try this lash thing on Christine. One second."

I spoke to my video subjects, "Five, four, three, two, one, blast off. Jason, when you are ready, roll Elspeth over and have another go. Feel free to play with her til then. Elspeth, once Jason rolls you over, no touching below the waist. Come if you can. If not, I can help with the lash.

"Sorry, Sean. Jason was close and I wanted everyone to cum together. Then we needed to reposition everybody. Christine, you may get your favorite plug if you wish. Sean you were saying?"

Phone: Sheila wants an ETA. It's every bit of six, more like seven hours. That's if the traffic in Connecticut cooperates. Get food in them and get them on the road. I'd say send the video, but I know Christine will anyway.

"Yes sir, Mr. Bossman, sir. Ten more minutes tops. Then we can hit Murphy's. Christine will love the mac and cheese. Has Sheila's diet changed yet? I'm not sure how long that takes."

Phone: Right. Christine would get mac and cheese at a place like Murphy's. I could go for the steak tips myself. Sheila wants to hire the winning chef from the rehearsal dinner. He's too important to have at the house full time, but we may work something out. So far, he just does Sunday dinner and the food ordering. I think I might have him train a nutritionist. We'll see. Talk to you later.

"Bye Sean. Thank Sheila for her gift."

I turned to Christine. "Your Mistress wants you home safely. So we will cut this short. You may come any time you wish. Then we'll go to Murphy's for dinner. Elspeth, do you want to come along? They do vegan. Jason, pull out and slap her pussy. She's ready."

Even with clean up and dinner, Jason and Christine were on their way by seven PM. As I drove Elspeth home from the restaurant, I realized she was laughing. When I asked her why, it took her a moment to regain her composure.

Wiping a mirth tear from her eye, she said, "My first hetero experience was with Jason Porter, it's anal and I came buckets. Which part of that is least believable? I came over to check on your metamorphosis night. Mercy be. The Goddess has a strange sense of humor." I had come to that conclusion myself.

A thought occurred to Elspeth which sobered her. She asked, "She's gone, is she not? Christine. She went home to New Jersey and will not be back. I was so glad to see you, but she was there. I could never compete. Now I'm here and she's gone. I do not know if I should laugh or cry."

I said, "Neither. Just be glad you met her. She has gone to be domestic with Sheila. You met the bride. You saw how that worked. How would Christine fit in on Beacon Hill?" Elspeth shuddered. "There is someone I want you to meet, but it will take some time to arrange it. 

"For the moment consider this. Angela Molinari is married to Pedro de la Garza. Whenever she attended an award night, she almost always came with Edith Dryden, two beauties together. Who did Pedro escort? You know her face." Elspeth did know the face. 

"Her name is Deirdre Walters. Multiple degrees from Columbia. Speaks several languages. I'll introduce you, then the two of you can do tea. I asked how Christine would do on Beacon Hill. Deirdre would make points with your persnickety grandmother." 

It can be hazardous to drive when someone is trying to hug you.

Chapter 13 – New Beginnings 

I did not think through my coming-out ceremony before I wrote out invitations. It simply seemed appropriate to have a ceremony of some kind. Humans do rituals. Anthropologists study them. I even did a little reading on the gift economies, but that was not really the way I was pointed. I leaned toward giving thanks to those who had paved my way. The gifts would be tokens of appreciation.

Since I did not plan things, there were a few kinks that would have been avoidable. Marbury Hall was the building that I lived in. I was vaguely thinking of having it in the common room. It quickly became clear that I needed more space. Dr. Krelinov suggested a meeting room or auditorium. As Dean, he could reserve one, though I was surprised he wanted to. I also considered using the all faith chapel. In the end, I rented the meeting room at a family steak house. They even provided tea, coffee and cheap cookies.

I borrowed a mannequin and dressed it with my ratty jeans and a favorite Clash concert shirt. Underneath I taped nipple rings, with a bell hanging out through a tear in the shirt fabric. On the floor I placed my Army boots. Next to this I set a picture of me wearing it all. That was as close as I wanted to come to any of it. Funny how that works. Images can be powerful, but change is more powerful.

Elspeth helped by pulling the corset tight. Sheila found the clamp reassuring. I could not say the same, but it did something for me. My suit intentionally mimicked the colors of the jeans and T-shirt. The heels, not so much. I was set, so I needed to wait for my cue.




"Little" Sister Pt. 03



And wait.

And wait.

We had a projector and screen set up. During the entry period, it was set to cycle through images of me with friends and colleagues. Elspeth greeted everyone while I fidgeted. I thought of all the people I had invited. Would they be disappointed. I wanted everyone to have something iconic, but how many iconic things did I own? Maybe money would work. If it's what you have, then...

Elspeth raised her voice to say, "...Doctor Siobhan Richards." Show time.

I turned the corner to enter the room. What had been a quiet buzz of conversation stilled abruptly. I was glad I was in a tight laced corset, because it forced me to keep breathing. I had prepared some remarks, but they went out the window.

Instead, I said, "When I first saw this version of me in a mirror, I asked Sheila why? She told me I was not pretty. Before I could protest that this explained nothing, she said, 'Think it through, Doctor.'" No one laughed, but there were several winces. As quiet rebukes go, Sheila's was major league and several people in the room could truly appreciate it. Almost everyone could follow the reasoning behind her directive. I gave them a moment, then went on.

"You have all seen images of Sheila in the Irish sod green dress and white lace cover. You have likely seen her on the dance floor. With that as an example, how could I aspire to less than this?" I waved a hand at myself and shut the fuck up.

I let them think...

...for a while.

It was a lot to follow, but Dartmouth does not employ buffoons or hand out degrees like candy. When eyes started to widen and heads started to nod, I knew my evening was a success. As Sean says, never overplay the hand. I only needed to tie a bow on things.

I said, "I asked you here tonight so I could pay tribute to what has gone before. As much as the future may be different from the past, the past is the foundation. Dr. Lancaster..." 

Emilia Lancaster was Dean of Woman's Studies and one of my supporters. Her head jerked when I called her name. I went to the mannequin and extracted the bell from below the T-shirt. I handed it to her with the promise of two images. Dr. Lancaster bowed her head in acknowledgment. 

Things went quickly. I gave the ratty pants and torn T-shirt to the heads of the Gay, Lesbian and Transgender Society and CGSE, along with the two nipple rings. Several items of no longer worn body jewelry went to the my teaching aides, the newsletter, supportive faculty and Triangle House. That left Drs. Krelinov, Steele and my nine wedding assistants. I started with the Dean.

"Dr. Krelinov, my gift to you is intangible. A collection of family documents is coming to the library and history departments. To the extent that goodwill accrues to me, I assign it to the department and its projects. Dr. Steele, as my taskmaster, I bring you work." I raised a document box. "These are the raw notes and early commentary from two summers in Boston. Take them in trust for all the social sciences." There was appreciative murmur to that one. 

"There are nine more. You know who you are. Please come forward." 

My nine assistants for the wedding came up. To seven I gave rings I removed from my ears. To Evaine, I gave the eyebrow stud. For Elspeth I had worn the large nose ring. If Veronica could do it, so could I. Everyone accepted their small token, Elspeth with wide eyes. One thing left to do.

"Everyone, I ask you to bear witness." Eight of my assistants stood at my sides. Elspeth opened a small box. From them I removed the ruby studs. I concluded, "These studs are a family heirloom. They represent the past, but also continuity. They have endured for generations already." I placed one stud in my left ear. "They also represent my place within my family. This I acknowledge, for myself and for generations to come." I placed the second stud in my right ear. "I present myself to the future. You are my witnesses. Thank you." There was generous applause.

I honestly had no idea what to expect. I initiated the evening because I had debts to pay. As an eyesore, many persons and institutions had defended me and supported my position through the years. I hoped my tribute repaid them in small part. If nothing else, I hoped they would not feel betrayed by my unfamiliar visage. Judging from the faces and comments, I had succeeded at least in part.

Above that, I received appreciation for making the gesture. Many people called it moving. Several offered congratulations on my statement of responsibility. This was common among the most senior faculty present. I asked everyone to sign my guest book and promised a commemorative image via email. The Dean of History chided me for giving Dr. Krelinov too big a stick. 

The line was almost done when Morgan Robertson came forward with a guest. Senator Robertson was wearing her political hat openly, so her guest was either another politician or a potential donor. She did not keep me in the dark. 

She said, "Jo, that was lovely. Had I not seen the pictures, I would have trouble believing it. It had to have caused you trouble, which I suppose is the point to the gathering. It went well I think. But, I did come to talk shop.

"Allow me to introduce Marc Brunner of Sylvania. He represents one of New Hampshire's leading employers. Their headquarters are overseas, so the Beacon Light project is of interest to them. Since you seem to be spearhead for the startup fund raising, I brought him to meet you."

Mr. Brunner said, "I am glad she did. Most impressive. Such transformation is worthy of Kafka, though I do not see you as a, ah, what is the word?"

Morgan and I chorused, "Cockroach." We did not burst out laughing, but it was a near thing for me. Germans take Kafka's Die Verwandlung very seriously. Usually translated as The Metamorphosis, it is the story of a man turning into a giant bug and dying. Herr Brunner, seeming to realize his reference could be easily misconstrued, became embarrassed.

He spluttered, "Frau Doktor, please do not offense take. Die Transformation ist sehr beeindruckend. Most impressive is..." I held up my hand.

I said, "Herr Brunner, be at ease. I take no offense. What you said is almost exactly what Herr Karl said a few days ago. In fact my fiancé calls me Frau Doktor. What did you wish to discuss?" He was not ready to go there.

"You say Herr Karl. Who this is?"

I answered, "He is Lars' ultimate superior here in the United States. Lars Gunter is my fiancé." Herr Brunner started at Lars' full name.

Thinking aloud he said, "Lars Gunter mit Siemens. Herr Karl? Mein Gott! Georg Karl höchsten Vorgesetzten mit Siemens. Wer war ich im Gespräch mit?" 

Morgan was taken aback. I tried to follow the muttered German and caught the part about Georg Karl, Senior VP. The last part seemed to be wondering who I was. I cleared my throat, which usually works with Sean. Herr Brunner looked up, a bit sheepish.

I said, "Yes. I met Georg Karl a few days ago, along with several other Siemens managers. We wanted to get their blessing for the marriage. Herr Karl also used the words 'most impressive.' He also said Lars, young Gunter, had good judgment. Is that sufficient endorsement?"

"Ja, Frau Doktor. Ganz gut." That much German I can handle. Morgan pulled me aside.

She asked, "He looks like you hit him with a rock. What happened?" 

I answered, "It was just some shameless name dropping. You met my fiancé Lars, who works for Siemens. Lars and I met with the senior managers for Siemens USA, to get a variance on their fraternization policy. 

"Lars is on a multi-year training program. They do not like the participants to be distracted, so we had ruffled feathers to smooth. I sort of took over the meeting. Lars said exactly three words. Georg Karl, the senior manager for US operations said, I quote, 'Most impressive. Young Gunter good judgment has.' There was more, but it was clear we have a go-ahead. Herr Brunner was much impressed with Herr Karl's name." He was not the only one. Morgan's mouth dropped open.

"Holy shit. Excuse my language, but holy fucking shit. Even I know the name Georg Karl. He endorsed you, as in you personally?" I had not thought of it that way.

I bit my lip, which I never do, "Yeah. When you parse it out, it is a personal endorsement of me. Hmmm. There is another shoe coming. I can feel it. But, for the moment, you have it exactly right. Who'd a thunk it?"

"Sister, you don't know your own strength." The comment came from behind. I turned to find Dr. Hiller, one of the three faculty to receive a personal invitation and body jewelry. For both my years on campus she had been one of my ardent supporters. I was relieved to see that her support would not be lost. If anything her look was invitational.

I said, "Dr. Hiller, I am so glad you could come."

"Call me Susan. I suspect we will be seeing a lot of each other. By the way, I am in awe of the way you are playing Dr. Chernikov and Dr. Lang. These papers, if my sources are good, will be a major addition to the Library and right from under Princeton's nose. A major New Jersey find and Princeton doesn't get it. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. Adding Dr. Krelinov was a master stroke. Setting the Russian against the Ukrainian. Genius." Wow. This was high praise from a master.

I said, "I will not deny some of that was planned out, but not the last. I owed Dr. Krelinov, like I owe you." That brought a peel of laughter.

"Oh, my goodness. Siobhan, my dear, one thing you must learn is that you never owe anyone for doing their job. Thanks are appropriate, since it is rare enough, but you owe the employer. You pay by making Dartmouth proud." 

My face must have shown something. She said, "What?" In response I went to my bag and pulled out my current workbook. At the top of the first page was the line, Make Yale Proud, attributing Dr. Eisenmann. Dr. Hiller's eyes widened when she read it.

She said, "Donald Eisenmann. I can accept him as good company, even if he is a Yalee. He would be, by the way. Proud. I'll give him a call. He should see your presentation." She smiled, "I feel like I have been monopolizing the bride at her wedding. Do not neglect your other guests." 

She was right, of course, though by then most had left. I gave hugs to eight of my grad students. The Anthropology newsletter wanted a quote. I let the editor watch as I added You pay by making Dartmouth proud and Dr. Hiller's name to my notebook. After a moment to flesh out the quote, I turned to the only person left.

Elspeth had done her best to channel Christine and be the invisible aide. It made me proud for both of them. Christine is truly gifted within her range, but she had none of the usual hallmarks of success. I was proud that an accomplished person like Elspeth would choose to emulate her. I was proud that Elspeth could recognize Christine's strengths for what they were. For a Boston brahmin, it was doubly impressive. 

I went to Elspeth and gave her my best hug. She clung to me like a child. Since it is important to say such things, I told her what I had just been thinking. Elspeth shuddered. After a moment I realized she was crying. Perhaps Susan Hiller was right. Perhaps I did not know my own strength.

I was never sure the impact my little ceremony had, but some envisioned troubles never occurred. The lesbian community was not overjoyed that I was switch hitting, but it was a minor thing compared to their adoration of my new fashions. It seems that Elspeth was not the only one who had wanted to give me a makeover. 

The grunge side of my life had a similar reaction. They were sorry to lose me as a member in good standing, so to speak, but they acknowledged how well the new look worked. Many of the relationships cooled, but there was no hostility. The same was true of the faculty and staff. A few were cooler, but there was no venom. 

On the other side, my access to senior people greatly expanded. Before long, that access expanded to alumni and benefactors. The prior year I had received exactly three luncheon invitations. I received that many the day after my ceremony. I quickly realized I had moved from academic asset to public relations asset. Sean refers to his time in the Army as being a trained seal. I grew to sympathize. 

In my personal demesne, things were the the same, but different. In several ways, it reminded me of my second summer in Boston. I had a new set of graduate assistants to ride herd over. They were exactly what I had come to expect. The big change was me. I had matured between my two summers in Boston. My new look may not have been maturity, but the results were much the same.

On another front, I was dealing with a familiar topic—my dissertation had run off in a new direction. Originally, I had intended to recast my Yale dissertation to an anthropological viewpoint, dealing with the evolution of halfway houses over recent generations. My first thesis would give me a current day reference from which to expand. 

Or so I thought. My time dealing with the Amish led me to focus more on the transition into an urban environment. Transitions were still the key, but the groups were very different. I would not focus on the Amish. I would let Evaine do that. Instead I would focus on the broader question of how the rural to urban migration had changed in the information age.

Much of my research was still useful. Going back into my Boston notes, there were several cases that could continue to serve. Their fathers or mothers—or grandfathers or grandmothers—had done it before them. That still left a lot of new research to do, plus my teaching and supervisory duties. On top of that was my new found status in campus society. There were at least two obligatory functions a week. Once again, I had no life of my own.

The irony was that Lars was not around to distract me. I learned of his transfer the day after my ceremony. I barely had time to get to the airport to see him off. From that point on, we were ten, or fourteen, hours out of synchronicity. Our communications became email oriented, with weekend chats. My written German became almost as good as Lars' English. I even absorbed a little Japanese.

Chapter 14 – Roast Turkey

Sheila asked me to come home for Thanksgiving dinner. I sent my things ahead. Tuesday after class I drove down in Shadow, to find the whole house had been rearranged. In many ways it was as much of a shock as my time before the wedding. I was lucky to have an established bedroom, because George's room now belonged to Christine. Next to it, in what had once been Greatgran Sparks' room, was the nursery. 

The whole third floor was again ready for occupation, with three rooms taken. One was by an Amish widow, Mother Lapp, who served as cook and unofficial head of all things Amish. At opposite ends of the hall were the men's and women's quarters. So far only two girls and three men. The girls were cleaning and laundry staff. The men were working on Sean's yacht, though that project was nearing completion.

Sean and Sheila still lived in the new wing. Sheila confessed that she did not want to give up some of the modern niceties. Sean said it was just his computerized shower. Sheila conceded a point without agreeing. I could see both sides. In addition to the bath, the bedroom was just up the hall from the private gym and their home office suite. Since Sheila was close to the end of her second trimester, it mattered that there were no stairs.

Sheila herself was a major shock. I had grown used to her being impossibly thin. Twenty five weeks into a pregnancy, Sheila's middle had expanded to match the size of her breasts. At first glance, she looked slightly overweight, rather like I used to look. It was a shock to see her with a "normal" profile, though she still moved like no one I have ever seen. The other shock came at dinner, when she ate more than I did—then had dessert. 

Avocado, lime, ginger sorbet did not sound particularly appealing. When I asked if it was a pregnancy craving, Sheila introduced me to her nutritionist, Loren Smith. He was out for a weekly weigh-in and profile. He told me that Sheila was one of his more challenging clients, partly because morning sickness and her eating habits combined to make weight gain difficult. Avocados had been a key. Sheila loved them and they were loaded with healthy fats. Mother Lapp quickly developed a range of ways to serve them, including as a sweet. 

Francine was also pregnant, though about a month less far along. She called. Francine and Sheila constantly texted about their progress, but the weekly weigh in was occasion for an actual call. Sheila brought me into a three way. Francine, as always, was in full educational mode. I learned more about having a child in ten minutes than I wanted to know, though the information might prove useful at some point. 

As it turned out, we had found one thing that would slow Francine down. After a mere twenty minutes, she was yawning regularly. Sheila was also flagging, though not as much. From Francine's monologue I learned that both of them were having difficulty metabolizing enough iron. While her tiny size was not causing problems, Francine had other issues. It was a good thing she was rich enough to stay home, because her last few weeks might be in bed.

We said our good byes, then Sheila hugged me before she went to join Sean. As she left, she said that Christine had missed her blanket. I thought nothing of it, until my bedroom door opened that night. Christine crawled in and snuggled back into my belly. I could understand missing this. Nor was that everything. I had almost forgotten how much I liked having a wake up call. 

Wednesday was so much different from my routine, that I almost felt relaxed. Christine woke me up. We played chase and tickle until I had worked up a sweat. Showering was a different sort of fun. Then we had juice, coffee and biscuits in the little kitchen. It was a good way to start the day, but we had to get dressed and go be grownups. That proved both interesting and unexpected.

I had gotten out of the habit of wearing the corset. When I closed the busks, it was surprisingly easy. While not paying attention, I had lost weight. Perhaps it was the work outs. Perhaps I developed new habits during the month or two I did wear it daily. Perhaps it was because of my better self image. Christine merely nodded and ran her hands down my sides. I shivered at the contact. It may have been the most erotic thing of the morning.

The day continued at a leisurely pace. Christine showed me her room and the nursery. There was a reference shelf three feet long. It covered pregnancy, newborn care, infant care, adolescent care, nanny law, poison treatment and first aid for children, cradle teaching, baby and child psychology and yoga. I asked about the last one. Christine said, "Sharon." That explained it. Sharon was a yoga instructor, whom Sheila trusted with her fitness clients. If Sheila trusted someone, so did Christine. Hell, so did I.

On the subject of Sheila's clients, I had several messages requesting Dr. Richards' services. I wondered how Sheila and Richard would take my accepting a session. I asked Christine. She equivocated with her hand. Either she was unsure or there would be mixed reaction. I made a mental note to check. Then I spied a certificate.

Christine was registered as an In Home Child Care Specialist with a well known nanny placement. service. I glanced at her. Christine tried to wave it off, but I could tell she was proud. I would have to look into this for my thesis. Basic nanny was a job with few legal hurdles. References were more difficult. I gave Christine a hug and told her I was proud.

From there we went into the guts of the renovations. The old house had over fifty rooms. Installing forced air heat and cooling was impractical. A storage room had been converted to a boiler room, which heated the big first floor rooms. Outside were several compressors. The old brick flues and chimneys held an insert. On one side was a double wall vent for the gas room heaters. On the other side was a line for liquid coolant. The exchanger, which looks like the vent of a window AC, was mounted above the fireplace mantel and covered by a decorative screen. 




"Little" Sister Pt. 03



Next to the boiler room was the new laundry. I found our two Amish girls folding sheets. They both recognized me from the wedding. They curtsied and refused to look up. Lord Jesus, had I been that high and mighty? I asked them their names—Miriam Lapp and Sarah Beiler. The older woman that served as cook and chaperon was also named Lapp. I learned that she was an aunt to both girls, but had no surviving children of her own. On that sobering information, I thanked the girls and went outside. 

The yard was another jolt. Just having the merry-go-round missing was discordant, but the real change was in activity. There were no crowds of workers. For that week, the yard was my personal demesne. Now, it was just winter brown grass. Still, some things were left. During the wedding party, we had an area for child care. That had been formalized into a fenced playground. 

One of my small contributions to the party was seating. I had ordered dozens of bench kits. Many of them were set near the sand box, swing set, jungle gym and under shade trees. Off to one side was what appeared to be a dog park, which was a nice touch. Nearby were two croquet courses, one flat and one hilly. Further on I expected to find horseshoe and bocce lines. Closer up was a basketball goal and a new shed. I suspected it was where the balls and equipment now lived.

Looking it over, I recognized the basic plan from in May. Some things were moved. Others were new, but the layout was familiar, only it now centered on the playground. It gave me a nice sense of continuity, but one thing was missing—a play house. I knew where to find carpenters. The noise from the boathouse had been nonstop.

Going inside, I could see why. Sean's yacht, The Other Shoe, was nearing completion. From what I could tell, there seemed to be a rush to finish something. Presently, Clayton Roberts, aka CR, came over. He was the man in charge of getting the yacht float worthy. I suspected he was well beyond that point. 

He said, "Miss Jo. Ye're looking fine. What can CR do for ye?" 

I answered, "How's she doing. She looks fit enough, though I have no eye for such things. This seems a lot of activity for this late in the day."

CR snorted. "Right ye are. She be fit as they come. She'll test out right enough, but the finish wood is another story. The cabinetry is a work of beauty, but that makes fixin' slow goin'. These Amish folk know their stuff, but... You, of anyone, knows about deadlines. I never saw such a work as you pulled together. Mr. Sean wants her to sail this week. I was hoping for the holiday. Then it was Friday. Now I'm thinking Saturday.

Why didn't he just ask for permission? Sometimes it's easier to ask forgiveness. "CR, you should not try these tricks on me. I know Sean is busy, but he would make time for this. Plan on having her wet right after Thanksgiving dinner. Organize everything you cannot finish into one job. That, you set aside. Pull those people to finish the rest. Any man that knows boats, knows the work is never done. Can you do that?"

CR looked a little shocked, but he nodded. "Aye. That I can do, and make her look good with the cabinets closed. I'll make a list of unfinished things for Mr. Sean. Mostly it's the closet in the captain's cabin. We tears it all out to replace a tension beam. Ye're right. Any boatman would know it be a big job, but one that needed doin'. Thank ye. I can see why the help thinks so highly of ye."

I was a little taken aback. Christine was grinning ear to ear, the scamp. We went back in through the ballroom. This was not an area that had many visible changes, though the lighting was up to modern standards. I wanted to see the kitchen. There the changes were quietly dramatic. The cabinets and stone counter tops remained, but everything else was new. 

Professional grade ranges and ovens were the most obvious. What had been an outside door was now walk through refrigeration. The dish sinks were gone, replaced by a door into a dish washing room. A muscular bread kneading machine was in one corner. An ice cream freezer was in another. It was all spotlessly clean and empty. I could see that this was the entertaining kitchen. That said interesting things about future chef competitions.

Just as I was about to go through the rabbit hole, to the new house, Sheila came through. It was ten AM, but she looked wiped out. I had to ask, "Morning sickness?" Sheila nodded and waved me through. I followed her back to the music room. Soft piano music was playing. Sheila sat next to a cup of colored ice cubes and stuck one in her mouth. It had to be Gatorade, or something like it. Nice trick. Cold liquids stay down better. 

Sheila said, "Most days are not this bad. I need a favor. I was supposed to meet someone at the airport. They understand Sean will be tied up. Barbara's a nurse. Just tell her what I look like. She'll explain it to her husband, Don. These are good people, but plain. I do not want to send a limo to pick them up. Since I cannot go, it would good if it was family." It had been such a slow day. 

Elspeth was driving down. The trip is about five hours from Boston, on a good traffic day. I text her that I was going to the airport and would not be able to greet her at the Residence. A few minutes later, I realized I had adopted Sheila's name for my childhood home. As Spock would say, interesting. 

We have a functional regional airport, but a surprising number of people prefer to use the hub airports in Philadelphia, Newark and New York. Silly, but true. Sean, unfortunately is one of those. He had booked the Micellis into Philadelphia. I climbed in the back of Sean's Mercedes and tried to ignore traffic for an hour. It was not easy, but Dr. Richards could cope with small distractions. 

About three quarters of the way there, my text message ring tone sounded. Sheila said there were three to pick up. The third was Kiku Toda. That seemed a coincidence, until I noticed that she was an airline employee. Sheila's messages need to be parsed like statutory language—every word matters. I wondered if the Micellis even knew Ms. Toda existed. Then I remembered Sean's comment on competent people—they ask difficult questions.

I started by assuming Ms. Toda (she had to hate her surname) was competent. I picked up the Micellis and took them to baggage claim. Don Micelli reeked of military on unfamiliar turf. Barbara Micelli gave off supportive military wife, but also other things. Interesting. She was the one to talk to.

I said, "Hello. I'm Siobhan, but you can call me Jo. Sheila sends her regrets. She has a bad case of morning sickness. If I understand correctly, you know more about that than most. Sean, as you know, is buried in the office. I'm his little sister. Since neither of them could make it, they sent me. Don, you can call me Dr. Richards. It might be easier." I was not Sheila, but I tried to cram everything in.

The reaction was gratifying. Don stared a moment, then relaxed. Barbara watched Don, then relaxed. I was picking up more than the usual husband-is-in-control vibe. Barbara was demure, though not on Christine's level. She was going to love me. Don, clearly, was already fixated on Sean. We could make this work. That was when Kiku introduced herself.

Sean has good taste in people. Sheila has good taste. It can be a fine distinction, but there it was. Kiku was a Sheila person, though Sean would approve. For me, damn Skippy. I wanted to take Kiku somewhere and investigate her toenails and everything above them. Wow. It took a conscious effort to reign in my libido, but Dr. Richards does not lack for control. Instead, I introduced her to Don and Barbara Micelli. 

The ride home was stressful. I put Kiku in the front and sat with the Micellis, sitting next to Don. This was entirely necessary. Kiku needed to be as far from me as possible. Barbara needed to be on the other side of her husband. Heaven help us if we were unchaperoned. I might eat them both. What would I say to Elspeth?

Still, a tense ride is only a tense ride. In a reasonable time, Russell was turning into our drive. At the motor pool, we met Sheila, looking much the worse for wear. Barbara ran to her, relieving me of that burden. That left Ms. Toda, who showed patience worthy of Christine. As if on cue, Christine appeared with refreshments. This was the garage. Why serve refreshments here?

The answer, as with many answers, was Sheila. She should have been up in the main house, taking it easy. Where she went, Christine would follow. Hence, refreshments in the garage. I urged everyone into the house. On the way, I made a mental note to consider wheelchair access. It was enough of a concern that I almost missed the Micellis staring at me. 

Don spoke first. "At the airport I almost didn't believe it. I would not question what Mr. Richards tells me, but you didn't look at all like him. Now I get it. You have the same guard dog mentality, the same command presence. It's just that you're spit and polish and he doesn't give a damn." That cracked me up.

They wanted to know what I found funny, but I waved it off. Sheila would show them the whole thing in pictures soon enough. Instead I focused on Barbara, who was being very quiet. Christine quiet. That was the clue I needed. No wonder Sean and Sheila got along with them. Don understood Sean at a basic level and Barbara was submissive. Rather than ask rude questions about their love life, I gave Barbara a wink when Don was not watching. Bingo.

Everyone was in the music room. Sean and Sheila both love classical music, which irritates me. Still, soft piano music can be soothing. At least it was not John Tesh or some such. I wanted Sheila to have some girl time with her friends, so I offered Don a game of 8-ball. Playing a decent game of pool is almost a job requirement in the military. Don did not disappoint me. 

We split two games and were working on the third when Sean walked in. It was only three o'clock, so he must have bailed early. I left to let them to catch up. In the music room, Barbara was all Registered Nurse. She had Sheila lying in the recliner, with her feet propped above her heart. It was the perfect opportunity to steal a march. I walked up, removed one of Sheila's slippers and started massaging her foot. I was right, because Christine turned pink.

The conversation was about diet and exercise. Barbara was impressed with the first and should have known better than to raise the second. Perhaps she was trying for an area of comfort. Knowledge is like that. It feels good to know. The interesting part, for me, was watching the plus one in the room, Kiku.

We established at the airport that Kiku did not know the Micellis, but knew about them, and vice versa. She seemed to have her measure of Barbara, which is not surprising. Barbara was not a complex person. Christine was being invisible, so that left me. Kiku seemed to find me fascinating, though not in a sexual way. She was pretty interesting herself. I wondered how she would take Jason Porter.

All that was cut off by my phone buzzing. Security was letting us know that Francine had arrived. This I had to see. I made eye contact with Kiku and tossed my head at the door. She gave a trace of a smile and followed.

For a multi-millionaire, Francine travels in junk cars. Part of this may be her dreadful driving, but she also does not care about appearances. Fortunately for the people of New Jersey, she had a driver. Roxanna was Sheila's personal assistant, but also a former employee of Francine's. I was guessing this was more than just a visit, since both were dressed to go out. I gave them each a hug, then introduced them to Kiku. 

I did not bother to ask about the clothes, because Francine would soon tell me. She did. Later in the evening, we would be going to a sneak preview of a new movie. Francine was a producer and Sheila had done some of the film editing. Rather than listen to her talk for the next hour, I led Francine to the kitchen. After a small snack, I led them to the music room. Barbara took one look at Francine and told her to sit down. I was hoping for a mercury thermometer, which would quiet Francine for a couple of minutes, but no joy. Things were just settling down when Security called again. Elspeth was at the gate.

The afternoon soon turned into evening. Dinner was served in the new dining room. Deja vu again. The last time I was there, we had a competition of chefs. This time it was modern prenatal diet, prepared by Mother Lapp. I ate too much for the corset, but spent most of my time watching the others talk. 

Kiku was still watching me, joined by Roxanna, while Elspeth watched both of them. That was odd. I could understand Elspeth. Roxanna and I were once lovers and my interest in Kiku was probably transparent. Kiku and I had just met and she was as straight as straight gets. Yet Kiku also watched me. I could almost feel Dr. Richards take over. 

In The Last Dragon a kung fu fighter searches for "the Master". At the end of the movie, he realizes that he is the Master. It was like that. Words came back to me: Christine, "Strong."; Sheila, "raw pulsing power"; Dr. Miller, "you don't know your own strength."; CR, "I never saw such a work as you pulled together." There was even a line from the Bible, "he spoke as one who had authority." Whatever caused people to follow, I had it. I was a leader, whether I liked it or not. 

The first irony was that my looks would not be a hindrance. Some of history's great leaders were ugly—Attila the Hun, Martin Luther, Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Jackson and Winston Churchill, to name a few. Hell, Eleanor Roosevelt. Not everyone can have the Kennedy nose or the Reagan hair. Distinctive was also good and I had distinctive in spades. At the time we were about to go to watch a movie. The second irony was that I was thinking about Reagan and his Hollywood looks. That closed a loop in my head. Although I did not notice it at the time, that was when I decided to go into politics.

The movie showing was surprisingly low key. There was no press or fanfare, not even a poster. Francine told us the special showing had some radio ads, but nothing else. That said, there was a nice crowd.

Francine had reserved seats for everyone. We trouped down to a roped off row. The theater manager brought us complimentary drinks and popcorn, which made me think (correctly) that Francine owned the local franchise. As soon as we were settled, the lights went down. There were two trailers, then Will Smith jumped out of a third story window into history.

What can I tell you about Hard Time that you don't already know? Movies that are nominated for Best Picture and make a gazillion dollars get a lot of ink. This I can say. Ten seconds into the movie, I knew what Sheila had contributed. That is how long it takes for the first still image to pop up. Every few minutes, something would happen, which earned a still image enlargement. 

Halfway through the movie is the first fight scene. Still images isolate the weapons before they are picked up, the lackeys before they interfere, the bad guy's getaway exit and, of course, the key piece of evidence that gets lost. This all happens in fifteen seconds of screen time. 

That was what got everyone. We know that many things happen quickly. There are dozens of expressions that refer to the fact. The genius of the movie is that you never doubted the witnesses that claimed they never saw anything. It only took fifteen seconds. You were there. You watched in real time. You understood.

I was looking over, to congratulate Sheila and Francine. I saw something that still makes my blood run cold. Sheila was miming a fight, but it was not the one on the screen. This was a flash back to Sheila's fight in Hawaii. Christine picked up on it, no surprise, but so did Barbara Micelli, which was interesting. As Sean says, simple does not mean stupid.

The moment passed and we went back to the movie. According to Francine, the original cut was nearly an hour longer then this one. I believed it. The last thirty minutes flew by. Simultaneous action was done split screen. One nice touch was stills of both cell phones whenever a connection was made. The big fight and the big chase scenes took only five minutes, but probably cost half the budget. 

Will Smith jumped out of his window again. The first time it was ten seconds into the movie. The second was with ten seconds left. The camera pulled back. Other shots joined and merged. Still enlargements multiplied. Everything froze for a heartbeat, then a cropping block appeared. The images outside the crop faded away. Those inside transferred to a computer screen, under the LA Times banner. A caption appeared under the image as the frame enlarged. Under the computer screen credits started to roll in silence. 

The silence was not just the soundtrack. There was an uncanny hush in the crowded theater. As the theme music came up, so did applause, followed by whistles and yells. When the half lights came on, Francine jumped up on the arms of her seat and faced the crowd.

"Thank you all for coming. That went well, I think. Do you think it might make me some money?" She got a few laughs. "When I go west again, I'll tell Will and Ben that you liked it. Good night. I think I need to throw up." 

I could see it coming so I was already moving. I picked Francine off her perch and put her on the floor. Christine handed me a popcorn bucket, which was immediately full of nasty stuff. I told everyone it was morning sickness, which brought nods and looks of sympathy. After a half minute or so, I passed Francine a lidless drink and told her to wash out her mouth. Instead, we endured some dry heaves. I noticed Sheila looking away, probably trying to control her own stomach. 

Everyone else was looking at me. Why was I in charge? Doh! I was in charge, because I took charge. Sean looked amused. Don looked impressed. Roxanna, Elspeth and Barbara looked, for lack of a better word, adoring. Just what I needed, groupies. Kiku looked alert and she was near an aisle. I motioned toward the door. She got everyone moving.

A few minutes later, while Sheila and Francine were in the washroom, I asked Roxanna what she thought of the audience reaction. She probably expected a question about the movie itself, so she needed to switch gears. 

She said, "That's a very good question. The answer is, I'm not sure. Silence before applause is always good. It means the audience is waiting for more, which means you have their full attention. This is a good reaction, very good. How good is the question. Of that I'm not sure. Let me make some calls." I never heard back from her, but the movie buzz was everywhere the next day. I decided to keep my ticket stub. It went in a drawer and I forgot about it. 

Instead, I was back in my old role as supervisor. Thanksgiving dinner would be for about thirty people, so the ballroom was being dressed up again. It was like coming home. Michael and Mitchell Gilbert welcomed me back. Later I would meet their families. The Chef Johnson and Mother Lapp needed some boundaries set. Mostly I just said, "Keep going. It's fine."

Fortunately, both Sheila and Francine looked much better. Sheila said the morning sickness came and went. Yesterday was her worst day in a week. Today she was almost normal. I flicked a look at Francine and told her I was glad to hear it. Sheila made no sound, but her lips fought a smile.

I sent Christine to fetch the boombox. If all went well, we could have some dancing later. I tipped Roxanna, so she could partner with Francine when the time came. Until then, we forgot everything in a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. There was roast turkey, ham, four styles of potatoes, two bean casseroles, dressing and gravy, cranberry sauce from fresh berries, succotash, fresh baked rolls and a dozen relishes. I had elected to skip the corset, so I watched my helpings closely. I still ate too much. 




"Little" Sister Pt. 03



Plates started to slide forward and chairs back. Sean stood and rang his water glass for attention. "Thank you all for coming. This is a year for which I have much to be thankful, so I am pleased to have you all to share this small repast with." Sheila must have used that turn of phrase. Sean is not that eloquent. Never mind. He was working up to something.

Sean continued, "I have a new wife and soon to be child to be thankful for. I just wish she could enjoy the food more. I think Francine also has much to be thankful for." Really Sean? Stilted much? "She is expecting a child and appears to be part owner of a hit movie." Applause. "For Sheila and I, we have a wealth of new friends." More applause. "But I am most thankful for my sister." Wait. What? 

Sean held up his glass. "To my little—or not so little—sister, Jo. Six months ago she saved my ass. For the week before the wedding, I expected a dozen calls an hour, asking me to sort something out. They never came. To those who have never been in charge, you do not know how much a manager appreciates a silent phone. I have no one who could have done it better, including me. I have very few that could have done it at all. Along the way, she chose a much nicer look. Here's to you, Jo." This time the applause went on and on, while my face kept getting hotter.

Music came to my rescue. The opening strains of The Blue Danube were coming from my boombox. I saw a hand in front of me. It was attached to someone very tall, Gerald. He was asking me to dance. Oh boy was I out of it. Gerald led me to the open floor and swept me through the rest of the dance. For the second piece, Sean and Sheila joined us. Then several other couples. Gerald and I danced through four Strauss waltzes before he retired from the floor. 

I never lacked for a partner, but my last dance was with Elspeth. After an hour, things started to break up, so I announced a final dance. There was a line of candidates, but I chose Elspeth. Afterward I took her to my room, gagged and tied her, then forced her to climax half a dozen times. I never heard Christine enter, but there she was, kneeling naked on the floor. The three of us slept spooned together.

 

Chapter 15 – White Plains

 

In the morning, I chased down Francine. She was doing tea and toast. That had to suck, given her three pot a day coffee habit. Still, Francine was looking upbeat. I assumed the news on her movie was good, so I did not ask.

I said, "You look better. The news on the movie must be good."

She said, "It is, but the real news is that Sheila is feeling better. I don't know why, but I catch her morning sickness. You did not find me to inquire about my health or the movie. What's up?"

I said, "Deirdre Walters." 

Francine's eyes flew wide. Before I could say another word, her phone was out. In minutes I was invited to Sunday dinner with Angela Molinari and Pedro de la Garza, at their home in White Plains, NY. Naturally, I was to bring my assistant. I did not need a road map, but Francine laid one out anyway.

"Angela will play hostess, but her health is frail. Don't expect to see much of her. Pedro wants to see you again, which probably means he wants people to meet you. Put your phone on record and make sure the battery is charged. With Pedro doing the introduction, anyone and everyone there will at least read any resume or proposal you send. This is a very big deal, but you can handle it. Just remember the party in Manhattan and you'll be fine. 

"Now, can I borrow Little Miss Cums-a-lot? I have a serious itch and Jason is in California." Francine Martel, you have to love her or strangle her. 

She went to find Christine, while I went to tell Elspeth. It turned out they were together. Elspeth was trying to learn something about something. With Christine, that is a recipe for frustration. I mimed a keyboard, to which Christine smiled and nodded. I bumped two fists together and nodded to Francine. Same song, second verse. As they left, I heard Francine say something about teaching body language.

Elspeth was worried. I explained that I had arranged a meeting for her, with Deirdre Walters, which caused excitement. As I explained the whens and wheres, she became steadily more excited. When I was finished, Elspeth threw her arms around me and danced. The meeting was for her, but she was excited for me. 

Sean was just as bad. He started making calls to see who would be at the dinner. Sheila rolled her eyes. Ten minutes later she produced a list. After an hour, Sean gave me half the names. As usual, Sheila's point was subtle but effective. Sean tried to tap the grapevine. Sheila went to the source. I gave Sean's list to Elspeth as confirmed attendees. I called Sheila's list "possible others". Elspeth just dropped Sean's list to grab Sheila's. I said she was smart.

By late Saturday, I knew enough to be scared spitless, while Elspeth was deeply impressed. The first time I met her, Elspeth was with a mid level accountant for First Boston National Bank. The CFO of Chase Manhattan Bank was on the list. It was a money list. These were not the decision makers; they were the check writers and the bankers. I wondered what that meant, til I realized that this list was for Elspeth. It was the start for her Rolodex. Damn Skippy.

Sean was sending the Mercedes with the bags. That being the case, I decided to arrive in the chauffeured car, with Elspeth bringing the sporty one. I could send Russell ahead if things were going well. When I gave Shadow's keys to Elspeth, I looked her in the eye and willed her to understand how much I loved my car. I think she understood.

It was a gated community, no big surprise. Russell stopped awhile at the gate. As we drove up the lane, he told me he was checking on arrangements for Shadow. I felt like I was smuggling Elspeth in, which in a sense I was. 

The dinner was a lesson for me in a number of ways. I was rubbing elbows with some very influential people. In another part of the house, Elspeth was meeting with their staffs. My first lesson was that I had no control over the second part. Elspeth was being thrown in the deep end. I could only hope for the best. The second lesson was that this was about me as much as about Elspeth.

Angela met everyone at the door, but I never saw her again. Pedro was standing beside her. He said, "Encantado, querida. Usted muestra una gran mejora. Come. There are many for you to meet." He was not kidding. These were chief financial officers and leading bankers from all over Manhattan. It put things in perspective to think that I was their entertainment for the day. Certainly everyone wanted to know about the wedding. Pedro was introducing me as the architect and planner for the whole thing.

Lord, it was hard to be humble. Every time I would praise someone, it was taken as suitable deference. The next question was sure to deal with a time that person had a conflict. There were a lot of those. Still, these were money managers, not people managers. They knew the personnel tune and could dance to it a bit, but they wanted to know about funding. I tried my best to give credit to Sean, but one fact was beaten into me—I held the checkbook.

In hindsight, it was true. Sean was the one with the big ideas. I was the one that made the ideas work, using available materials and personnel. 90% of the labor was either from existing staff and their families, from Sean's temp service or from the Amish. I received major kudos for my handling of the Amish, Evaine Schaeffelker not-with-standing. After all, I was the one who said, "I want you so far inside that Sean has to deal with wedding proposals."

We probably spent almost $100,000 on labor, but it could easily have been three or four times that. Consider what a wedding contractor would have charged. Our short time frame kept costs down, which is the reverse of normal. Time crunches mean overtime rates and next day delivery fees. Francine billed at Union minimum, but sent her best people. I was the one that kept her best people happy. 

For that matter, I was the one that kept Francine Martel happy. That one shocked me a bit. After all, I did hang Francine out a second story window. Francine told me she more than made up the lost revenue through referrals, plus she met Michael Foxworth. For that she was willing to forgive a lot. I thought she wanted to bear Dr. Foxworth's children, though that may just have been me. The other guests informed me that Francine was billing her services at $250,000, with a waiting list.

Interesting and important as all this was, it paled beside what happened when I mentioned Georg Karl. I swear, all conversation in the room stopped. Herr Karl did not say much, so I could repeat it word for word, "Most impressive. Young Gunter good judgment has. Far he may go, but here he will stay, I think. Most impressive." 

They made me repeat it four times, then argued about the way to parse it. It was so much like academia, I almost felt at home. The fact that Herr Karl complimented Lars' judgment was discussed. Several of them had done or considered business with or through Lars. I could tell Lars' name was getting an important gold star. Though he was 10,000 miles away, they noted he would be returning. The fact that Herr Karl had called me impressive, twice, was the talk of the rest of the day. 

Hours later, I asked Elspeth how meeting with Deirdre Walters had gone. Elspeth thanked me with an enigmatic smile. Once we were in Hanover, Elspeth produced a ball gag, metal edged ruler and pre-tied rope restraints. I could do better. Pet stores sell these very useful things called figure-eight tug toys. Richard tipped me to them. I had several in Shadow for just such an occasion. I gave Elspeth her spanking on the quadrangle, in full public view. She thanked me for weeks.

I could not remember what we ate for dinner in White Plains. Did we have chicken? It bothered me.



"Little" Sister Pt. 04



Author's note: Virtually no sex this installment. Siobhan goes into business and gets pulled into politics. 

Chapter 17 – Office Politics

The dinner in White Plains would echo for years. I am very glad I had no true understanding of the importance, because even Dr. Richards might have frozen. That said, it had little impact in Hanover. There is a reason higher education is referred to as a tower, ivory or otherwise. What happened in the real world took its time filtering into our world. For example, it was nearly Christmas before someone inquired if I had seen Hard Time, then were shocked when I said I had.

Part of it was the work load. I had classes to teach, papers to grade, TAs to supervise and research to do. On top of that was my new social calendar. Mother would be shocked to learn that I knew how to deport myself at a proper tea. Once the Powers That Be learned the fact, I received a great deal of practice. To a degree it was like ballroom dance. Early training was not entirely wasted.

To a larger degree it was having an example, even if she was fictitious. Frau Doktor was Lars' term. In my own mind, she was Dr. Richards. The result was the same. She was above petty annoyances. She could listen to the worst sort of crudity, without reacting, but never miss a word. Real life examples like Sheila and Christine were helpful, but neither would do well in politics. As Gerald said, soft handling of fools was not one of Sheila's talents. However, it was one of Eleanor Roosevelt's many skills.

I was glad for the impulse that moved me to think of ugly leaders. I was, obviously, no Lincoln or Churchill, but Eleanor Roosevelt was someone Dr. Richards could admire. Part of this was her ability to handle the press. Another part, just as significant, was her ability to cope with a self absorbed, philandering husband. I spent so much time reading and considering Eleanor that my wardrobe started to mimic hers. When I noticed, I decided this was not a bad thing. It even came up in interviews a couple of times.

Wardrobe was an issue that I had never needed to deal with before. In this, Elspeth proved invaluable. While I had a good start from Elizabeth, it was only a start. For example, I had little of business casual and nothing for outdoor use. Once again I was buying jeans, but the boots came from Lands End and the shirts from Pendelton. This led me to my signature piece—the leather topcoat.

Have you ever noticed how many movie posters show the hero in a flowing overcoat? Neil (Keanu Reeves) in Matrix is an obvious example. I leaned more to Selena (Kate Beckinsale) in Underworld. Regardless, winter in New England is harsh. I had two British style trench coats and a quilted down jacket, but none were really suitable for heavy snow. Elspeth came to my rescue, in a backhand way.

When I returned to campus in late July, many changes occurred. I was no longer one of the pure lesbian sisterhood, for example. This was not easy. Every social group has an "Us vs. Them" mentality. Since I was no longer a member in good standing, I was suddenly an unwelcome outsider. Countering this was a wave of appreciation for my new style. Many of my old acquaintances expressed appreciation and offered to talk shop, meaning shopping.

Somewhere to the side of this, with overlap, was the bondage role playing culture. I had known of them all along. I had dabbled a bit, but never took time to get serious. That all changed Labor Day Weekend. There was a back to classes party planned. Elspeth wanted us to attend as a couple. Part of this was Elspeth's desire to show off her new corset, so I allowed it. Elspeth would attend wearing her corset, Victoria's Secret lingerie and a velvet choker. I wore my familiar underwear, corset, heels and attitude. 

To say I was a hit understates things considerably. If I had not had the experience in Brooklyn, I might have thought I was impressive. As it was, Dr. Richards simply acknowledged the attention as her due, without believing she had ascended to true mastery. She was gracious, but declined adoration. This attitude was well received by both Doms and subs. For the rest of my time in Hanover, I had a secure position in the BDSM community.

A sidelight of this were contacts in the custom leather market. I was somewhat aware that there was such a market. Sean once showed me pictures of a Hollywood collection of bondage leathers, which sold for well over a million dollars. Sheila gave a flogger to Sean, which involved shark skin and kangaroo hide. When I did my summer session with Mario, Richard used a viscous two stranded whip called a dog quirt. Someone had to be manufacturing them.

My new contact was more in the apparel line. Everyone was impressed with Julian's corsetry, but felt other things could be improved. For example, one of the Doms wore thigh high boots. Leather briefs were common on both sexes. Leather harnesses could be found on almost anyone. That first night, I contracted for lederhosen and suspenders. A picture of me wearing them, wool stockings and not much else, was part of Lars' birthday gift. 

Two weeks after I returned from Thanksgiving, New Hampshire had it's first winter storm of the season. London Fog makes an excellent raincoat, but it is not up to blowing snow and single digit temperatures. My coat from the previous winter was (supposedly) a Soviet military coat. While it had seen better days, it was warm, sufficiently long and a suitable color. I set about trying to find a newer version of the same thing. 

To some extent I was frustrated. I found a workable substitute coat, which pulled me through the next week, but I was not thrilled with it. For one thing, it was much shorter. My military coat came down to my calves. The new one was only thigh length. It was also a men's style, which made it tight over my bust. Even a trip to Manchester produced nothing better.

I might have suffered through December, but I chanced across the man who made my lederhosen. We greeted each other, then he asked how the leather shorts had worked out for me. I described my bare picture on the bear rug, which he appreciated. I commented that the lederhosen was not suitable for recent weather. He laughed and said I needed a longer coat. An hour later he took my military coat as a pattern, promising three custom coats. The price was obscene, but I never regretted a cent of it. 

The pay off began almost immediately. Dartmouth is on a session schedule, which is fairly close to trimesters. Finals are the center of campus life for the first half of November. Once they are over, the Holidays begin. From Thanksgiving to New Year is one fairly continuous party season. My first leather coat arrived the day before my first obligatory reception, thrown by Philis Harmon, the President's wife. Almost worse than a blizzard, the weather was a "winter mix" of freezing rain, sleet and/or snow, varying with the temperature at the moment. 

Driving around campus was difficult, but parking was next to impossible. With a full length coat, I elected to skip the issue and walk. In the six blocks, I passed two traffic accidents. When I arrived, my coat had acquired a layer of slushy mess, so I asked for a small towel. Mrs. Harmon quickly provided one. As I dried the leather, she asked how far away I had needed to park. I told her I had walked over from campus. 

I thought nothing more of it, but he next day the story was all over the department, possibly the whole graduate school. I am convinced people dropped by just for a look at my coat. Thursday another coat was delivered. This one was sealskin and I loved it on sight. The dark gray color would go with almost anything, yet it was fur lined for warmth and almost waterproof. The timing was slightly less perfect, since the storm did not hit til Monday afternoon. Even by New England standards, this blizzard was impressive. 

Tuesday classes were postponed, but the snowfall stopped by midday. Wednesday morning was clear and bitter. Though the streets were open, I elected to walk rather than risk black ice. With good boots, the fur lined coat and a wool cap and scarf, I was fairly comfortable. That made one. Half my class stayed home. Those in attendance enjoyed a dead easy (attendance graded) pop quiz, while I saved the lesson for another day. 

It might have ended there, except for the campus paper. Naturally, there was a cover story on the storm and the snow day. The associated picture was of me, walking through the middle of the quadrangle in my past knee length coat. I was simply striding along. What made the picture interesting were the people at the edges of the shot. All had normal winter wear and were huddling against the cold. It was so good I requested a digital copy to send to Sheila. Again, I thought nothing of it. 

The full nickname is The Dark Queen of Winter. This could be a reference to my hair, which Sean compares to Mila Kunis'. More likely it is a reference to the sealskin coat. Queen is more clear. Even I think the picture makes me look disdainful of the cold. After all, Dr. Richards is not distracted by petty things like weather. 

The nickname was not the original caption for the picture. Someone scribbled it at the bottom of a copy and tacked the picture on the message board of the Union, next to the tutoring ads. It must have been around for a week or more before I heard it. By then it was too late. The photographer titled the image "Queen of Winter" when she entered it in a regional photo contest. 

They say reputation for power is power. For me that is certainly true. The nickname morphed into several versions—Dark Queen, Dark Lady, Winter Queen, even Ice Queen, though that was sarcasm when spoken. Add that to the distinctly British style of my suit at Sheila's wedding. The common thread is royalty, or at least nobility. To this day people ask for my title. I tell them I was American born, but the titles stayed in Europe.

The sealskin coat became iconic. If you saw the headless politician skit on Saturday Night Live, that was Francine inside the same coat, wearing heels to keep the fringe from dragging the floor. What I thought was screaming funny was Francine playing me using stilt shoes. The jacket came to her knees and the slacks had to have a meter (39") inseam. Francine moves so well that most people noticed the wig. How could you not see the T-Rex arms?

Regardless, during one spring semester I acquired a nickname and signature fashion piece. What really helped was acquiring the name recognition to go with it. It happened during the Presidential primaries. I must give talk radio its due. A lot of people listen to it, though sometimes I wish they never heard of me.

New Hampshire's first-in-the-nation Presidential primary is a very big deal. Interest starts in earnest around Labor Day the year before. By the voting in January, literally every house in the state will be called by the pollsters, often a dozen times. Since I had been on Sean Hannity's program once, I was on call lists for expert opinion. Between job, research, social functions and my dissertation it was easy to beg off. But, eventually, I was cornered.

They wanted Susan Miller, but she was home sick (she says). She recommended me to be her stand in. Under the circumstances, I could not refuse. I intended to not say anything controversial, but their other expert was a vapid twit. When she cited my family money and challenged my ability to relate to common people, I countered with two summers in Roxbury, part of her hometown Boston. I personally knew many of the people she misquoted and said so. We went at it. A lot of this was lost in commercial time, but some juicy parts went on the air.

My next day was surreal. It was like the summer before when people came just to look at me. Dr. Krelinov cautioned me to use restraint. Susan Miller told me I hit a home run. Elspeth kept laughing all night. She and the twit knew each other for more than a decade, from primary through high school. Elspeth made the grades for Holyoke, but the twit had to settle for Fisher College, "so she could ride her bicycle to class." I called the Residence and asked security to find the twit's cell number, so that Elspeth could rub the salt in.

Whether because of the fight, or some other reason, I was soon getting many requests to comment on air. To make matters worse, the University approved. Purely in self defense, I set out a schedule of times I might be available, then let Elspeth deal with the prioritizing. It never occurred to me to be careful about using my brother's first name. 

On the Hannity show the oversight tripped me up. I said, "Sean says..." meaning my brother, not the host of the show. I was very embarrassed, but no one else noticed. It was exactly the kind of thing Sean Hannity might have said. Sean Hannity and Sean my brother are temperamentally similar. Both believe in consistent rules, gun rights, paying bills and butting into someone else's conversation. 

Sean Richards is called 'The Bear', partly for his lack of tact. I leave it to you what that says of Sean Hannity. Regardless, I found it very easy to work with Hannity, even though we agreed on almost nothing political. For his part, he comes across as unexpectedly egalitarian. I became a semi-regular Tuesday afternoon guest on his radio program.

Back in my life, such as it was, I was almost ready to propose to Elspeth. She had developed into the perfect aide. In addition to her own studies and research, she did a great deal of work on mine. I needed to track down two or more prior generations of people who had moved from country to city. Since my original work was in Boston, so were most of the leads. Elspeth developed a pattern of returning to Beacon Hill on weekends, by way of some working class neighborhood or retirement home.

In other ways she was generally useful. Many people keep appointment books, or the electronic equivalent. I had Elspeth. If I needed a phone number, Elspeth would get it. If I needed an internet search, Elspeth would do it. If I needed to blow off steam after a trying event, Elspeth would massage my shoulders. She took care of my leather coats and showed every sign of enjoying it. My highest compliment was to say that Christine could not have done it better. All she wanted in return was a hug, a snuggle and an occasional spanking. 

All that changed one weekend. School was out between sessions, about when most schools have spring break. I told Sean Hannity's people that I was unavailable for my usual Tuesday slot. Once they found out I was going to drive down to New Jersey, Sean Hannity personally asked me to come in for a television broadcast on the way south. There are problems with being comfortable with someone. One is that they can talk you into doing things you would normally avoid. With a sense of foreboding, I agreed to visit the New York studio and tape a segment.

As usual, I let Elspeth handle the details. I dislike driving in the City, so they agreed to have a car meet us in Connecticut. I had to drive the beater, which irritated me, but what can you do? We were picked up and driven to the studio. I spent an hour in makeup. Rather than have Elspeth doing nothing, I told her to mingle and exchange numbers with some the other aides. I was led to a waiting room somewhere backstage. 

That was where I met Ann Coulter. For once, Francine did me a service. Ann Coulter is like a taller, halfway caffeinated version of Francine. Her first words to me were, "So you're the ice bitch from up north. Why has Sean got you on this time?" 

Instead of replying, I did my usual deconstruction. Ann Coulter was attractive and knew it, but she was fifty plus and working harder to show well than she used to. She was chewing gum at a manic rate, so it was probably for nicotine. She was brash and pushy, but under it was a fine mind and attack dog instincts. No wonder everyone hated debating her. In fact, her instincts were good enough that she was tracking me.

She said, "Damn. No wonder Sean likes you. You could make a living in Washington, just doing that. Does it always work?" 

It had not worked just then, but I did not say so. Instead I told her about meeting Sheila at the airport. Since I was talking about someone iconic, Ann immediately started making connections. First the PDAs came out, then I opened the laptop for a better screen. Before long we were deep into the images from Civitano's. Ann knew at least half the people personally.

We talked for an hour before being interrupted. One of Sean Hannity's aides told us that our segment was being bumped for late breaking news. That was cool, since I was enjoying the conversation. Unfortunately, Elspeth came in right behind the aide. She saw Ann Coulter and hissed. In reaction, I did something ill advised.

I said, "Elspeth, be polite or I will not arrange any more sex with Jason Porter."

I instantly knew that the words would keep going and going, like the Eveready bunny. Even Ann Coulter had nothing to say, for a moment. When the moment passed, chaos broke loose. For what had been a quiet waiting room, there were an astonishing number of people present. Everyone wanted to know exactly what I meant, but the most obvious meaning was true. Elspeth had had sex with a national heart throb. 

Whatever her other virtues and vices, Ann Coulter is decisive when she wishes to be. In short order the three of us were in a private room. I apologized to Elspeth for the embarrassment. Then I began the long explanation of how Jason Porter came to be a personal friend. I started by showing the cover shot of the catalog. Not surprisingly, Ann had seen it, though not in digital format. 

I told her that I had met Mistress Cynthia, who is also in the image, but that the image editor was the important one. To support this, I pulled up the list of Academy Award winners. There, next to Hard Time, was the name Sheila Schwartz-Richards. Once again I pulled up images from the reception at Civitano's. This time I told Ann to assess the pictures based on composition and framing of the shot. 

Not satisfied with her own expertise, Ann summoned a video geek. That was the event that changed everything. In the process of explaining why Jason Porter would be willing to do me a favor, I introduced Elspeth to W. Richard Willingham IV. I am not sure what it is about geeks, but I seem to live knee deep in them.

Ann called him W, in an obvious reference to former President Bush. I asked for his full name—Warner Richard Otis-Willingham IV. Elspeth (Otis-Endicott) jerked when he said it. Time proved that they were related, distantly, by three distinct lines. They were raised in similar circumstances, though in separate cities, so several areas of their lives overlapped. Elspeth looked at Richard Willingham seriously, for the first time since he entered the room.

Ro (from his initials ROW) was impressed with Sheila's work. When discussing technical questions, he was fine. When Ann Coulter asked him a personal or family related question, he was flustered. I asked him to wait a minute while I talked to Ann. Elspeth picked up that I wanted her to stay with Ro. She may have missed that their conversation was the point, not the sidelight. 

It took only a few minutes to explain that Sheila had asked Jason to initiate a couple of lifelong lesbians to the bisexual world. Soon things were back to normal. As I collected Elspeth, I told her to get Ro's personal contact information, in case we needed some more background. Sheila calls it her inner yenta. We all have it. 

It was not as if Elspeth and Ro fell madly in love and eloped. In fact, they never seriously dated. However, Elspeth did introduce Ro to his cousins in Boston. For her, openly spending time in the company of a male relieved some pressure. Tolerance is the ideal, but rarely the reality. More than that, for Elspeth having a friend—and Ro was a lifelong friend—of the other sex proved enlightening. I think they became friends with benefits, but I never asked. 




"Little" Sister Pt. 04



At the time, I picked another two new contacts in the political sphere. Ann Coulter and I had an adversarial relationship through the years, but it was a friendly one. Unlike some of her right wing friends, Ann could be counted on to do the basic research. If you did not know the facts, she would bury you with them. This is not to say she was not also a mistress of spin, but that's how politics is played. Like Sean Hannity, Ann Coulter was in my Rolodex and I in hers. This would prove useful when I moved to Concord.

Though he was not a national figure, like Ann Coulter or Sean Hannity, Ro Willingham proved to be just as valuable through the years. If I wanted information, but did not want to cause waves, Ro was one of my more reliable sources. Not surprisingly, he got on fine with both of my brothers and my fiancé/husband. Somewhat more surprising was his long term relationship with Elspeth. When she chose someone very like Ro to marry, it came as no surprise. 

That was still a ways away. Personal events came first—Sheila gave birth. While this was expected, the event came as a surprise. Sheila delivered just over three weeks early on Sunday, February 12, after two false alarms and four hours of labor. Initially, her OB/GYN tried to end the labor, but the efforts failed. Sean called me at 10:30 PM, telling me that they were going to deliver. He was very firm when he told me not to come. 

That did not mean I could not make the baptism. Lutheran baptisms are typically done in the first few weeks, even earlier if the baby is in distress. While my niece, Cindy, was only three pounds, seven ounces at birth, she was never in infant ICU. The baptism was held the day she was two weeks old. I arranged for someone to cover my Monday class and drove to New Jersey.

I arrived early in the morning on Saturday. Sean was up, waiting for me. Sheila was sleeping. Most of the day we spent talking of inconsequential things and waiting for other arrivals. An interesting one was a senior executive from Sony's home office in Minato, Japan. Kiku was also there to translate. It was one time having Lars in Tokyo proved handy.

Francine flew in from California on Saturday afternoon. Roxanna picked her up and brought her to the Residence. Why Roxy was still Francine's designated driver remains a mystery. Perhaps it was because Francine served as her admission pass to things like our home. I must admit, we could be entertaining.

Sunday, we all dressed nicely and went to the church. In the middle of the service, we went to the baptismal font (a simple bowl with water) and held a short ceremony in front of the local congregation. After the service, there was a cookies and punch reception. While nothing unexpected happened, the event remains ingrained in my memory. Even now, I can close my eyes and picture the minister's hand holding a scallop shell, from which he poured water over Cindy's downy head. 

After the service, Sean took us to Albert's for dinner. Everyone wanted to see the baby. My best recollection is of Christine eyeing everyone who came close, while Sheila smiled indulgently. After nine difficult months, Sheila seemed battle tested. For Christine, the baby was a new level of responsibility and she takes any responsibility seriously. I could have written a publishable paper on the two of them. There was a sense of completion about the day, though it did not apply to me.

My completion had a ways to go. First I had to finish the term of my Fellowship, submit and defend my dissertation and gather another sheepskin for the wall. Same old song, different verse. At Yale I had done all the research myself. At Dartmouth I had my own research to draw on, plus Elspeth and a small host of groupies. After the wedding, and the accolades it brought, I may have been the most sought after adviser on campus. In addition to my own two, almost any grad student in the social sciences might show up to ask advice. In self defense, I assigned them homework.

It was all very up front. I would give them a point to research, inform them that it related to my own dissertation, then critique their work. It was usually not difficult to guess why they were having problems, so I tried to make the assignments relevant. Still, all the work went into my research file, not theirs. For some reason, this did not slow down the demand. In fact, I had two particular students that would take an assignment almost every week. They both claimed my assignments were more interesting than their own work. I had mixed feelings about that.

For whatever reasons, I spent the March break at the Residence, culling a large pile of research notes into a manageable stack. Once that was done, I hoped the thesis would become follow the dots. It worked, to a point. The first draft emerged on the Saturday night and Sunday morning before classes began on Monday. After crashing til two PM, I woke to find a note on top of the printout. 

Sheila suggested I shift from simple chronological sequence to grouping by origin or occupation. She had a point. The date ordering made look ups simpler, but provided no insight. Reworking into clusters of some sort might provide additional grist. I ruminated on the idea all the way back to Hanover. I spent most of the week finding the right cluster. It turned out to be surprisingly simple. Success bred activity. 

It did not matter if a person was successful in blue collar, white collar, performance or athletics, every success seemed to inspire more attempts. Sometimes success bred competition, but just as likely the new attempt would go off in its own direction. The example was more important than the specifics. Once I understood that, everything seemed to fall into place. Oddly, this seemed to be true of my group of students, including Elspeth and the two weekly visitors. On the first of May, I took what I hoped was my final draft to Dr. Steele.

Unlike my Yale dissertation, this one was compact. Without the notes and appendix, it was only eighty six pages. Add the footnotes and it grew to one hundred twelve. Fully documented it was 358 pages, but more than half was a collection of case studies. As I turned it over, the whole thing seemed light and flimsy. Dr. Steele did not contradict my misgivings. Instead, he promised to have comments in a week.

Brevity may be the soul of wit, but no one claims the same of scholarship. That said, the fewer words needed to make a point, the more powerfully the point is made. See, for example, the speeches of Abraham Lincoln. There is a reason school children used to memorize the whole Gettysburg Address. It only counts 262 words. The Declaration of Independence is many times longer, but no one forgets the first paragraph. I kept telling myself that short could be good, but I didn't believe it.

My worst fears seemed to be realized when I received a request to call on Dr. Krelinov. It became even worse when I reached his office. Ann informed me that our meeting was moved to the conference room. That meant other persons sitting in, for example the disciplinary committee. For once Dr. Richards abandoned me. I squared my shoulders and prepared for the worst.

It was even worse than I imagined. Sitting with Drs. Steele and Krelinov were Dr. Fidelas, Dean of the graduate school, Dr. Wheeler, Vice President of the University and Dr. Hanson, President. I greeted each by name, then cast an inquiring look at Dr. Steele. Dr. Steele's lips twitching was the first clue I was not in trouble. Dr. Wheeler said, sub-vocally, "Damn. She's cool under pressure." Never in my life was I so glad to read lips.

I said, "Is this a prank, or did you really like it that much?" Everyone in the room choked. 

Like with Dr. Harrigan collapsing from shock, this was not an expression to use lightly. Everyone seemed to swallow down the wrong pipe. It took a full minute before they were all back in control. By then, Drs. Steele and Fidelas were chuckling wryly. 

Dr. Krelinov asked, "What gave us away?" 

I said, "Gentlemen, Ma'am, you need to keep your smirks on a leash." Dr. Hanson looked thoughtful.

Dr. Krelinov continued, "We will take that under advisement. To answer your question, yes. We liked it that much. I will admit, I was concerned when Remington told me you were doing yet another major revision of your thesis. Please, feel free to revise away. This is everything I hope for and rarely see. 

"Now, if you have no objection, we have some questions. You may consider this your formal defense, unless you would prefer the more traditional setting." I felt a little light headed, but assented. "Very well. In the second paragraph on page sixteen, you assert that..." That is not how oral examinations are given, but if the Pope offers to officiate your wedding, you get married.

An hour later, I returned to my office. Elspeth was waiting. She immediately asked what was wrong. I was too drained to play her along. Instead, I told that I was done with my oral defense and told her who would be signing off on the thesis. Oddly, I was still surprised when the degree was granted Summa Cum Laude. I get humble at the strangest times. 

The next week lived in surreal and visited bizarre. The story of my unique oral exam was all over the department by morning. I still needed to do a final proofing of a thesis that had already been approved, though official word of the approval took til Wednesday. Students in my class would fall silent when I came close. My own TAs were wide eyed the first time they met me that week. Naturally, the thesis itself was available for download. That happened over a hundred times the first day it was up. 

I asked Dr. Steele about the attention. He started to reply, then asked me to sit. For the first time, he called me by my given name. 

"Siobhan, it has been an honor and a privilege to serve as your faculty adviser. I must admit, my first impression of you was otherwise, and I had read your first dissertation. That was Magna Cum Laude, but this one is much better. It is already serving as an example of how a good thesis paper is written. That will continue for years. Be aware that it will be, has been, read far outside the confines of these walls.

"That brings me to the subject of your future. In case you had not figured it out already, there will be a tenure track position available for you, here at Dartmouth. As the saying goes, that ain't hay. But, I doubt you are leaning in that direction. The changes in your life have been profound. I have been privileged to witness them, even to receive a belly button ring. My wife thinks that's hilarious, by the way. At this point in your life, I doubt academia will satisfy you.

"So", he reached out his hand. I took it and we shook. "This is not 'goodbye', but 'til we meet again.' When you tire of the world, rest assured you will always have a place here." 

I pulled him from his chair and hugged him, crying all over his shirt. I'm such a girl sometimes. 

Chapter 18 – Breaking Ground

Nothing is ever as easy or simple as it looks from afar. I had finals to give and papers to grade. If anything, the number of students asking advice increased. Still, I had unusual amounts of free time. I used much of it to check in on my nine assistants. Evaine was also in Anthropology. Her paper on Amish adjustments to the 21st century would be Magna Cum Laude. 

Elspeth received her PhD, though without honors. I felt badly about that, considering how much time she devoted to my paper, but it was her choice. In truth, she was probably happier with the attention I received than she would have been for herself. I recognized this as true, but it was still difficult to accept. In any event, it came as a shock when she invited me to Boston to meet her parents.

The occasion was Elspeth's graduation party. Sean wanted to throw me one, but I told him it was too soon after the baby. Cindy was born three weeks early. The birth was normal and the baby healthy, but the early labor was a scare. Francine had Michael on March 12, one month later to the day. In the confusion, no one noticed he was also born on his father's birthday. I could almost relate. Mother and I are only two days apart.

My return to Boston was surreal for a number of reasons. Rather than drive, I flew to Logan International Airport. A limo and driver were waiting. Rather than going to Roxbury, we drove to Peabody House on Cambridge Street, which the driver informed me was designed by Charles Bulfinch. Apparently the Otises, the Peabodys and the Rices maintained the historical landmark, using it for private parties and important receptions.

The reception was exactly what seven years of Ivy League led me to expect. The buffet was vegan, the bar was home grown and the politics were left of left. A year before I would have been as out of place as a real bull on Wall Street. That was a year before.

What a difference a year makes. I was verging on celebrity status. Three fourths of the questions related to how I had survived Sean Hannity and Ann Coulter, Ann in particular. How could I say that both were easier to deal with than my own family? Sean Richards and Sean Hannity would enjoy a game of pool and beer. George is no one's ideal as the third sibling. My saving grace was Ro.

Richard made the journey to support his shoestring cousin. Since he worked for the evil-right-wing-syndicate, he was the lightning rod for all the criticism. When Elspeth defended him, shock waves went through the party. Make no mistake, Elspeth was a born and bred liberal, but she would not allow her friend to be railroaded. Friends were more valuable than politics. To divert attention, I told everyone that I was supporting a new half-way-house in New Hampshire. 

Unofficially it was the beginning of my career as a lobbyist. In certain circles, half-way-house is a buzzword for get-out-of-jail-free. Beacon House was nothing of the sort, but I downplayed that aspect. By Massachusetts' standards I was a raving conservative. Since I already knew Ann Coulter and Sean Hannity, I knew how far that was from the truth. My first conscious political decision was to ignore the fact. If they wanted to dedicate money to a half-way-house, I was not going to say no.

I suppose you could read something into the fact that Elspeth showed up at my hotel room at 3:00 AM, wanting abuse. You could probably make some hay with the fact that I tied her up and wore her ass out with a horse hair lash. For me, what mattered is that one of my people needed me. Nothing more, but nothing less. If Elspeth wanted to be punished, sobeit. Surely she deserved it for something. When the chastisement was finished, Elspeth would still haul my ashes. That was what mattered to me. Call me selfish if you wish.

The upshot of the trip to Boston was that I needed to get serious about moving to the state capital. Sheila said we needed to present Beacon House as a going concern. That meant we needed an actual location, with real people. This proved surprisingly easy to produce. I wrote a check for a three month lease and violá, a halfway house. We had a list of volunteers from the university. Newly graduated Evaine Schaeffelker was the first Director. It would look good on her resume, though she would not assume her duties for several months.

I always expected accusations that it was all a sham, but they never materialized. Part of this was because Beacon House found genuine clients the first day. Somehow, we hit an existing need. Who knew? By the end of the first week, my made-to-order charity was a going concern. Even the IRS had no problem when Beacon House applied for non-profit status. Out of fiction, reality.

This gave me something to do. Once my second PhD was in hand, I was out of a job. A new Teaching Fellow covered my class for the summer session. My TAs reported to him. When the lease was up in August, I did not renew my room in Marbury Hall. Instead I rented a room in Hooksett, halfway between Manchester and Concord. This put me five minutes from Beacon House's future site, just north of Manchester, and ten minutes from the state capital. 

FD Consulting rented a small storefront in Concord. Beacon Light Services occupied a corner. I was the Director. Elspeth was the secretary/gofer/janitor. She actively enjoyed being assaulted in her office. I once tied her up and left her stewing for several hours. Richard Willingham drove up from New York to "rescue" her. It was an anxious couple of weeks before Elspeth's next period. I told her (tied up on my desk, with welts on her ass) that she should at least inform men when she was not on the pill. Elspeth was disappointed when her period arrived on schedule.

There is a funny thing about politics. If people think you have influence, you really do have influence. As the visible face of a charitable organization and a lobbying firm, people started showing up at my door. Many were crackpots, though even a crackpot theory can be interesting. Most were a total waste of time. Most, but not all. Carlton Weber walked into the office one afternoon, asking to see me.

Carlton Weber was the son of James Weber and Fiona Endicott. Fiona was one of Elspeth's many shirt-tail relatives. I gave Carlton thirty minutes to make a case. He only needed five. The short version was that Fiona was fired, because her husband James was caught selling drugs. I might not have paid any more attention, except that the drugs were magic brownies for cancer patients.

Some of the facts were clear. James had quantities of a controlled substance, with intention to distribute them. The state and federal government did not care if the recipients were unable to keep food down, or that James' brownies would help their chronic nausea. I, through Beacon Light, made inquiries. The District Attorney's office had no problem issuing a statement of facts, which made it clear that the hemp was used for therapeutic purposes. The rest was leg work.

To make the rest of the story short, after three weeks and many calls and meetings, a meeting took place. I met with the District Attorney and the Governor's designated adviser on paroles and pardons. Neither man was at all interested in discussing James conviction. He would serve the minimum, then be considered for parole at the usual time. 

However, in view of the circumstances, the DA was willing to make a statement, including a direct phone call, to the effect that Fiona was not complicit in any wrongdoing. Moreover, the Governor would take the case under advisement. Future medical use cases would get fast track attention. For my part, I would publicize that Fiona had regained her position and why. You scratch my friend's back; I scratch yours. 

To me, it seemed as if nothing much was done. Fiona had her job back, but she would soon leave for another firm. James spent the entire minimum sentence in lock up. He did make parole, but I had no influence on that. None-the-less, Elspeth and Fiona thought I walked on water. If everything was so easy, anyone could do it.

Word of mouth is a strange thing. Any marketing professional will tell you it is the best sort of advertising. The downside is that expectations are sky high. Once Fiona's results were known, I was the extenuating-circumstances-conviction faith healer of the month. Every person with a guilty-but-justified conviction wanted my attention. As with most things, 90% was bullshit. Of the remaining 10%, at least ¾ were too close to call. That left three cases.

I have a brother who was a mathematical prodigy. I knew, from George, that self addressing loops are unavoidable. Read Gödel, Escher, Bach, by Douglas Hofstadter. Even mere sociologists find this stuff fascinating. It means that it is mathematically inevitable that there will be cases where we wish the law was written a bit differently. James Weber was peddling drugs to cancer patients, who could not get them legally. Marion Sanduski made the elopement of young lovers possible, by faking birth certificates. Joanna Smith simultaneously married seven times, to keep ICE off her "husband's" back. 




"Little" Sister Pt. 04



All of my "clients" did something illegal, with the best of intentions. Lawyers talk of mens rea and actus reus. In English, that is the guilty mind and the guilty act. I was awash with people that conceded the guilty act, but wanted to challenge the guilty part of guilty mind. Shit. 

Part of me wanted to sympathize. Part of me wanted to pick their motives apart. In Joanna Smith's case, that worked. She was paid quite well to provide coverage from ICE. In good conscience, I could tell her she was fucked. She lost her house, but I never looked back.

Marion Sanduski was a pre-marriage counselor, who leaned toward taking the plunge. If it took falsified records, sobeit. Like St. Valentine, he provided marriage to people the government said could not marry. St. Valentine was executed, but I hoped for something less permanent. It took some work, but Marion Sanduski was allowed back into pre-marital counseling—with a state representative looking over his shoulder. 

Marion's story made the front page of section C. Along with the result for James Weber, I became locally famous. In some ways it helped. Mostly it was a hassle. I had never envied Francine. My own experience with fame taught me sympathy. It could be worse.

Jason Porter appeared on the cover of an auction catalog. Within weeks, he is one of the most sought after models on the East Coast. That sells things short. He was also the symbol of unreachable sexuality for the younger generation. Flocks of girls and young women would follow him anywhere he went, including the bathroom. 

Stories of his size reached fantastic proportions (I once held it in my mouth. I knew better). Stories of his appreciation of fellatio were not exaggerated. Jason really did know all there was to know, from the male perspective. It was no small part of my sexual education to understand that even Jason deferred to his partner in terms of pacing. Therein lay the conflict. Some feminists saw fellatio as the ultimate debasement. 

Others, like myself, saw fellatio as woman empowerment. It all depended on who was getting off and why. I have had similar conversations with subs. They will tell you that there is a sense of power in a scene expressly constructed for them. As a Dom, I could understand how much attention is devoted to achieving the correct stimulus for the sub. For example, Mario's flogging—bamboo cane and two strand whip alternating, seven strokes each, just to get a small reaction. 

Politics is almost as convoluted. The distinctions of right and wrong fade. Even with win and lose, things get murky. The real standard is supplicant and power broker. At least at one stage, that is always clear. Once in the system, the mesh of favor and favor owed becomes very difficult. Even the terms of legal and illegal can go awry. This is how Congressmen get in trouble with the law. It is sufficient to say that I was an advocate of convicted felons, before I was the advocate of half-way houses.

FD Consulting was a lobbying company for all intents and purposes. To be sure, we received a number of requests for analysis or expert opinion. My first official appearance in the General Court (New Hampshire's House and Senate) was to testify, not to lobby. The State had an issue with foster placements going badly wrong. FDC was asked to quantify the problem and compare the numbers to the rest of the nation. 

I subcontracted the statistics to one of my nine students, but I signed the report and I needed to defend the numbers. The questioning was so mundane as to be humorous. Yes, I ran a consulting firm. Yes, I also ran a nonprofit. No, there was no conflict. Beacon Light Services had no interest in foster care at that time. No, I did not crunch the numbers personally. I had an MIT graduate do that. Yes, I approved her work. No, I did not plan to wear a men's suit to my own wedding. My husband could do that. Yes, I would consider adopting if I could not have children. No, I did not think a skirt suit set a bad example.

It was crazy, but my report was well received. Oddly, both sides seemed to think I was an extremist for the other end of the political spectrum. Dr. Richards is patient with the ignorant or ill informed. I thought of how Elspeth looked, with her panties hobbling her ankles and her ass bared for a spanking. The various Representatives seemed to get the idea. My firm collected a nice check and we went on.

Still, Beacon Light Services and Beacon House were not coincidental titles. I named my nonprofit after the planned facility. People came to know me in my FD Consulting hat, but recognized me when I wore my Beacon Light hat. Very few were so slow they did not make the connection of names. When it came to fund raising, it did not hurt that I could use the magic words, "Matching Contribution." Sean signed off on up to $50,000.

Things started slowly, as one might expect. In August we collected less than $500 toward the eventual house. That was enough to rent a storefront (with me guaranteeing the rent) and start looking for volunteers and clients. Christine, while still in New Jersey, was a God send, writing letters to all the area churches and religious affiliated charities. While very little money came from the churches, we did recruit volunteers successfully. 

For clients, the priests and ministers were happy to give us more referrals than we could handle.

Chapter 19 – Holiday Cheer

By Halloween, we had a full time staffer (paid minimum wage) and half a dozen regular volunteers. One successful ploy was to offer space for quilting and craft clubs. Many of the participants were raised in rural areas. Some were Amish. 

Our Amish connections in Pennsylvania were a big reason why we could afford even a minimum wage staff member. Young people on Rumspringa are supposed to pay their own way. However, their families want to keep in contact. We could help with that. As it became clear we were a good place to learn the ropes of the city, interest in the home community grew. In November, Evaine Schaeffelker took her place as Director. Both activity and support exploded. By spring, it was clear a permanent location was feasible.

Technically, I had nothing to do with the Beacon House project, except as a contracted consultant. The contract was for $1 a month and expenses. Everyone in the the General Court knew that I was supporting the project. In practice, I held the fort until Evaine could take over. After that I spent more time in Hanover working to get long term university involvement. In effect, we were shooting to coordinate a trifecta—initial construction and start up costs, University sponsorship and ongoing State funding.

The first element proved easiest. As expected, the Richards' Foundation matching funds primed the pump. Much of the support from Amish sources was in kind (goods not money), but an authentic Amish quilt can be worth $200. Canned produce sold at $50, or more, per twelve jar case. Our volunteers made cloth caps and gift cards for individual jars, which we sent for a $10 donation. Local churches held bake sales and other fund drives. By Christmas we had over $100,000 in hand, with pledges for that much again.

On another front, Dartmouth is the big name in New Hampshire higher education, but there are other colleges. Getting Ivy League schools to "play nice" with state colleges is always an issue. One of my hats was as good will ambassador to all of the other schools. The state's second largest college, Southern New Hampshire University, is in nearby Manchester. I had coordinated my summer research through them. In the state capital is Granite State College, which is part of the state university system. Though GSC primarily focused on online students, colleges could not get any closer. Both could provide local resources and manpower, if they were inclined. 

In the halls of state government, Senator Robertson was marking time. She had votes lined up, but not enough of them. An actual building would be important, but a set of annual financial statements would be very helpful. We were waiting for the end of the year, to close the books. With all this as background, Morgan invited me to a holiday reception at the Governor's House. 

I was not sure what to expect, but I would at least be able to meet Governor Russam and her husband. I had hopes for getting her support, because she was reputed to be an avid theater buff. She was also a Weld from Boston. Elspeth knew several of her cousins, a generation removed. I was not prepared for the possibility she knew of me, but when I was introduced her eyes lit up. She stepped forward to shake my hand.

Her exact words, "My Goodness, Adele didn't exaggerate. You really do make a statement. I love that top, but I cannot wear lavender. I'll have Jerome bring you by later, so we can sit and talk. Enjoy the party." With that, she turned to her next guest, while a dozen heads turned toward me.

I have never been able to hide. Even as a child, playing hide and seek, I was the one everyone found. Part of it was clumsiness. Part of it was being bigger than everyone else. While it occurred to me that a low profile might be helpful, I made no attempt to escape attention. Instead, I made sure my phone was on record, then pressed as much flesh as I could manage in an hour. 

I knew what crowds could be like. If you spend time with Francine Martel or Jason Porter, you understand that people will just walk up and start talking. This was the first time I was the person they wanted to see. Such is the power of the Governor's attention. I recalled the reception at Civitano's and did my best to cope. 

Most of the interest was simple curiosity. If the Governor was interested, so were all the groupies. Their interest might have waned, but someone recognized me from a wedding picture. Did I mention the full page article in Unique Bride magazine? That article had two pictures, both in a suit. The larger picture was of me in the morning coat and top hat. The smaller photo showed me in a suit very similar to the one I was wearing. 

Once fashion was in play, there was no escape. Before long someone found the picture with the sealskin coat. Another found my two graduation pictures. Talk about before and after. When someone found the one with Angela Molinari and Edith Dryden, followed quickly by one of me with Francine, I was an instant celebrity. Someone asked if I had seen Hard Time. I forgot to be coy and mentioned the special showing. Someone said, "Oh My God. I was there."

It's a small world. Her name was Amy O'Connor. We attended the same high school, five years apart. She knew of my reputation growing up and knew that Francine was local. Most of all, she knew about my relation to Richards Enterprises. Nothing puts the damper on liberal adoration like ties to capitalism. Amy saved things by asking if I really did the whole wedding. We were back to the article in Unique Bride. 

For the next half hour I told stories of the wedding preparations. Everyone wanted to know about the merry-go-round. Since half the problems involved making room around the damn thing, I was well equipped to spin yarns. Eventually I moved on to the ceremony and the reception. A surprising number had seen my picture on the wooden horse, but none had connected it to me. From there we moved to the gown, the ball and the duet dance. 

Everyone had seen that, so they started talking. I a chance to look around, but I could not see the edge of the crowd. In hindsight, I must be a very good story teller. Even without mentioning the bondage dungeon or hanging Francine out the window, a lot had happened that week. Press attention was world wide, so that much was given. I seemed to have the knack for making it come alive. However, I saw a young man waving for my attention.

Jerome took me to a parlor near the reception area. As I sat and received a cup of tea, Jerome whispered in Governor Russam's ear. As I waited, she stirred her tea, then said, "Jerome tells me you dazzled half my guests. Do tell." What could I say?

I tried, "I was telling stories about the merry-go-round wedding. I supervised the preparations, so I know most of the good ones. If you can name drop Francine Martel and Jason Porter, it's easy to get attention." I was sort of proud of that. 

Another assistant came into the room. This one had a stack of magazines. Uh oh. Sure enough, one was Unique Bride. Another was the New York Times Magazine. Below that was the Fortune edition with a feature story on Sean. After those, the articles were printouts, but there were several. Two had my graduations. Another covered my recent dissertation. Several mentioned me in relation to my work in Boston or Manchester. It had the look of a quick search, but by someone good. 

Gov. Russam rested her hand on the pile. They had made their point. She said, "You didn't make waves until five years ago. Since then, they keep getting bigger." She reached for a manila folder that was on the the table when I entered. "This is your dissertation from Dartmouth. You are probably aware that we keep an eye on their top students, but you were flagged from your time at Yale. A PhD four years out of high school will turn heads. Doing it at Yale, well..." 

She tapped the folder with my dissertation. "I am going to read this tonight. An old friend suggested it. That", she gestured at the magazine stack, "tells me I should. What Jerome tells me suggests it may be urgent. You have decided to go into the political arena, which means I need to know who you are and what you are doing. Don't be too alarmed. This is simple prudence on my part.

"Now, since you are here, we can have a friendly chat. Understand that I would ask most people what I could do for them. You are not most people. Your pet project seems to be a half-way house of some kind. Tell me about that."

I did. I told her about how Morgan brought me the idea. I told her about hitting Marc Brunner with a rock. I told her about Sean Hannity and Ann Coulter. I told her about JFK, Ronald Reagan, Abraham Lincoln and Eleanor Roosevelt. I told her about Lars and Georg Karl. I told her about Sheila, Sean, Christine and the baby. About halfway through, my phone battery went dead. 

When I wound down, Gov. Russam simply nodded, then stood. My time was up. She walked me to the door. Her comment was cryptic, "Adele never overstates anything. I should have known."

In the reception room, almost everyone had gone. Staff was beginning to bag trash and collect chairs. I felt a pang of recognition. Morgan Robertson was waiting. Her face was full of questions, but she dragged me to a coffee shop before saying anything. Rather than answer, I pulled out my phone, which was dead. I pulled out a backup battery and played our conversation. It wound down just after Eleanor Roosevelt. 

We sat in silence. Morgan broke it, "You know you spent more time with her today than most of the Court have in the last year, more than I have in eight years."

It did not surprise me. I asked, "Who's Adele. She mentioned Adele twice. Who is she talking about?"

Morgan did not know. We talked about the project, then parted for the night. At my apartment, I asked Elspeth, who turned completely white. Adele Cabot was the unofficial Empress of Beacon Hill. All young girls of good breeding addressed her as Grandmother. Elspeth once told me she would correct Cotton Mather's sermon notes. I once referred to her as Elspeth's persnickety grandmother. 

Adele Cabot evidently had an opinion about me. Who knew?

Chapter 20 – Spring Planting

My time with the Governor was quietly seismic. Though no one said anything, it was clear the ground had shifted. On one side of things, FD Consulting was soon turning down business. I hired a full time secretary and a 24 hour message service. It still was not enough. My reputation with Paroles and Pardons soon expanded into sentencing issues and similar criminal law concerns. A law firm contacted me about a bill with an upcoming vote. 

In case it was not obvious, legislatures pass laws. Representatives, Senators and interest groups need lawyers to give advice about what wording will work best. For this reason, most lobbyists are either from a law firm or are hired to represent one. I set up my shingle as a consulting firm, but it could not last. The question was exactly how to take the plunge into advocacy. When I was first openly approached, I decided I needed time with my own adviser and my guru, Sean and Sheila.

I contacted the law firm, asking for permission to talk to my family in New Jersey. There was no nondisclosure agreement, but manners are important. As long as it stayed in New Jersey, they were willing. The trip down was a trial. A late winter storm had left mud and slush everywhere. I took the Toyota and vowed to get a decent second car before I came back. Beacon House could have the beater.

I was so glad to turn into the gate, I almost did not notice the lights lining the drive. At the wedding, we had purchased dozens of batter powered LED lights, in several colors. A paper bag and some sand turned the lights into luminaries. I think Sheila must have liked the idea, because little lights were everywhere. 

Sean met me at the garage, which meant Sheila was reluctant to bring the baby. That was cool. Protectiveness runs in the family. Sean gave me a big hug, then signaled for a security tech to help with the bags. I snorted as I recalled my attitude of two years before, when no one but me touched my bags. Live and learn.

As expected, Sheila and Christine were in the nursery. Not surprisingly, Sheila was nursing the baby. Christine was carefully not hovering. In a sense, it was comical, but her devotion was fierce. Do not fuck with Christine's people. Just don't. 

It was about six weeks since I had last seen Cindy. I could see she had grown. At the christening, she had been tiny, less than five pounds. When I left in August, she was still under eight pounds. At Christmas, she was much bigger. Sean told me the first few months had been a bit slow, but she made up for the growth during the fall. Two weeks before her birthday, she was over twelve pounds and growing at over a pound a month. Everyone was breathing a bit easier. 

The feeding did not take long. Sheila passed the baby to Christine. Cindy's open mouth showed at least two teeth. Recalling my nipple piercing, I winced. Knowing both Sheila and Sean, this had to be a conscious choice. I wondered how long they planned to continue, but I was not about to ask. Instead I inquired whether Cindy could eat solid food yet. Sheila smiled. Sean said she would eat mashed carrots and loved avocado. Like mother, like daughter.

Cindy, which was her legal name, was a very alert baby. One test I knew was pulling a bead through a tube. Cindy's eyes would track the position of the bead from one end to another. For under a year, that was very good. I was convinced that she would be at least normal when it came time for school. She was also adorably cute. I had mixed feelings about that. On one hand I felt an urge to praise her. On the other, I could not forget my own childhood. 

In the end, I decided to call on Dr. Douglas. I contacted her office and said I would drop by for a courtesy visit. She made a couple of minutes available, PhD to PhD. The short version was that she would call me if Sean and/or Sheila developed a serious case of denial. Otherwise, she confirmed that Cindy was a well adjust baby, working on toddler.

Mollified, I went back to the Residence and packed for New Hampshire. I think I mentioned that Sheila was a bit telepathic. She came to my room, carrying a large box. It was full of things from the "attic", meaning any of the many storage rooms around the house. The highlight of the list was a case of jewelry. Nothing was costume, but there were also no highly valuable stones. Rather these were ordinary pendants, cameos and brooches. 




"Little" Sister Pt. 04



In sum, this was the everyday jewelry of my great-grandmothers. One smaller box contained a number of hair pins and combs, suitable for styles a hundred years ago. Silk scarves and wool shawls were much of the remainder. Winters in New Jersey were mild compared to what I was used to. On E-bay, I could get several thousand for the lot, but not several hundred thousand. That changed with a single small box.

The box was custom made and the top said Tiffany, which gave me some warning. It was a set of custom designed jewelry. There were four pieces, diamonds and rubies set in finely worked gold—two earrings, with pendant teardrop rubies, a diamond and ruby pendant necklace and a diamond and ruby bracelet. The gold weighed at least half a pound, which was the least of the value. Stamped on the back of the necklace were the initials LCT, for Louis Comfort Tiffany.

Also in the box was a piece of paper that may have doubled the value. It was a Tiffany and Company bill of sale, detailing the four pieces. It was written to my great grandmother Blanche Sparks, dated 11 June 1898, for $45,000, signed Charles L. Tiffany, Proprietor. Charles Lewis Tiffany founded the firm and ran it til his death in 1902.

Simple inflation would put that at well over $1,000,000. Because it was well authenticated Tiffany, I suspect Sean would get more than twice that at auction. The box should be carried in a Brinks truck, but Sheila treated it like a nice tennis bracelet. 

Knowing Sheila, there would be more. Sometimes being smart is good. Sheila smiled as she produced another box, also from Tiffany. The bill in this one was for $35,000. It was a very good reproduction, using manufactured gemstones, though the gold was still gold. Also included was a thumb drive.

What do you do for something like that? The set was arguably already mine. The real gift was the care it had taken to research the provenance. I had not looked at the thumb drive, but I knew it would contain dozens of images and documents detailing the history of the jewels—measured pictures, newspaper photographs, safety deposit box records, plus the details on every graded gem in the set. 

I hugged Sheila close and promised her daughter could borrow them when she was old enough to understand. Then we set about dressing for a portrait, with me wearing the real jewels and Sheila wearing the new set. On a whim, I insisted on another portrait of Christine holding the necklace over Cindy. You can see that one on my desk in Washington. 

I gave the real jewels and bill of sale back to Sheila. Security could put them in suitable storage. I drove back to New Hampshire. Though I had gone home to discuss the offer from the law firm, somehow it never came up. Instead, Sheila showed me how much I was worth to the family. Marking your reference points is never a bad thing. I asked for a meeting with the head of the law firm.

It was Monday at lunch. The Senior partners were named Martin Pyle and Sandra Piatowski. Martin was at least seventy, so Sandra probably was the day to day manager. The weather was nasty, so I wore my trademark seal coat over a wool St. Johns suit and a Burberry silk top. I was also wearing the full reproduction set of jewelry. The effect on Ms. Piatowski was worth every penny.

For lunch, I declined soup, because of the silk top. I had a lettuce wrapped steak sandwich, with beans and baby carrots. She had the sandwich with ratatouille and broccoli. I hate broccoli, but the ratatouille looked good. Point for her. Mr. Pyle had French dip, extra cheese, with fries and a pickle. Right. Obviously his advanced age was not because of a lifetime of healthy eating.

We discussed everything but politics for fifteen minutes. As a Yankees and Giants fan, I was at a disadvantage, but sports did not really count. The first break came when she asked about the necklace. I told her it was Tiffany, a reproduction of a 19th century set. She asked me if I knew who owned the original. Too easy. I shrugged and said they were too valuable for casual wear. After a heartbeat she caught the unspoken message. 

I must give her credit. When I sandbagged her on the jewelry, she stopped to do a full reset. Burberry and St. Johns, with Tiffany made knock offs is one thing. Owning the original Tiffany is something else. Ms. Piatowski dipped her head, acknowledging the point. 

She said, "You're good. I have never had someone say they had hidden depth quite so well. Stories of you and the Governor make more sense. The question is whether we can work together. So far, no one is even sure what party you represent."

I answered, "Thank you. That's high praise from a professional of your stature. The answer is another question. Work together on what?"

That was how I came to front for a Republican highway bill. The bill morphed into an amendment, which was tied to an omnibus finance bill and passed. That counted as a win in lobbying circles. My next project fared less well. It was a variant on the so called Castle Doctrine. The bill never made it out of committee. I turned down two more Republican initiatives, waiting for the right one. 

New Hampshire is unusual in that neither Democrats or Republicans dominate. While the state had only voted Republican in the Presidential election once since the 1980s, it was for George W. Bush, when he squeaked out the 2000 election. Four years later, New Hampshire voted for next door neighbor John Kerry, who was the only Presidential loser since 1976. Politically, the state is close to the balance of the country. Believe me when I say that the residents are aware of the fact. 

On another side, rural New Jersey is also no stronghold of the Democratic party, despite the states very blue reputation. That comes from the New York and Philadelphia suburbs, which outnumber the rest of the state substantially. Frankly put, the only reason I would lean to Democrats was because I was bisexual. That did not seem like a lot. On the other hand, Mother was a flaming liberal, concerning everything but her own household. 

I was of two minds, but I knew I did not want to be pigeonholed. A sure way to do that was to pick a so called "women's issue" as my hallmark. When it came to both abortion and lesbian rights, I tended to think both sides were more wrong than right. Equal pay sounds good until you start dealing with hard numbers. 

On the other hand, the glass ceiling was sometimes very real. Sheryl Sandberg's Lean In had a number of good points to make about that. That said, she is more a lifestyle coach than a political force. Besides, she and I were of very different temperaments. Her brand of play along to get along works for team players, but I was not one. That was funny, in a way, because I had a team coalescing around me.

I decided I was an free thinker, who did not fit well in either political party. That being the case, I needed to ride the fence as long as possible. Since I had played two Republican issues, I started looking for a Democratic issue for balance. Elspeth found a good one. 

As with most cities, Manchester is reluctant to spend serious money on upkeep. This led to a cluster of dangerously old "red listed" bridges. One was being fixed. The issue was that the detour went exclusively through blue collar neighborhoods, even when it made more sense to go another way. Not-in-my-backyard is an eternal political fight. Since one of the major routes used school zones, the teacher's union was leading the fight. 

I was hoping to get my toes wet, but the blood was already ankle deep. Our side had media support and community involvement. The other side had a major Boston law firm on retainer. Every protest met with an injunction. Every story met with expert contradiction. That was where I was supposed to come in. I was not expert in bridge engineering, traffic flow or anything else related to the project, but I was an expert on human interactions. More to the point, I had a secret weapon.

City politics are video recorded. One of the advantages of having a Cal Tech brother is that he could get me the best video cleaning programs. We washed about three hundred hours of video for maximum resolution. Elspeth tagged three major players and reduced the three hundred to about forty. One weekend, I sat and watched them chronologically, making notes wherever I could read the lips. Elspeth cross referenced everything against then current events. Monday I started on the first of three pitches.

The first pitch was to the people who hired me. I needed to convince them to change tactics. One given was that the Department of Transportation was cracking down on bridges. A disaster in the Midwest was prodding higher levels of enforcement. Our immovable point was that the bridge would be rebuilt and we wanted it rebuilt. The monied interests, on the other side of the river, just wanted to redirect the local traffic consequences to our side. My point was that we had a product. What we needed was a suitable price. 

Once our people wrapped their head around if-they-want-it-they-have-to-pay-for-it, smiles started coming out. Losing a fight is one thing. Getting paid to step aside is something else. They knew they were losing, so my idea looked very good. Naturally, everyone wanted to know how much they could get. That was where my video reprocessing came to play. I told our group that I had been able to get some information from sound filtering of old meetings. It sounded good enough that I earned the go ahead for a formal meeting.

The next pitch was easy. Mayor Gettys wanted to be seen as being involved. He made the call to the homeowner group, offering to mediate a non-binding "exploratory" session with the Teacher's Union. We offered not to picket, provided there were no lawyers, except the city's regular attorney. The conference table would seat twelve, with wall seating for twenty more. We settled on the mayor plus eight from the city, eight from us and eight from the other side. That was perfect. We brought three level heads and five of our worst rowdies. They could scowl all they wanted, but were told not to say anything. 

I did nothing for the first hour. Both sides rehashed positions and hunkered down. The Mayor was beginning to look put upon. I raised my hand to be recognized. The mayor was not pleased with our side, but eventually he granted it. 

"Mr. Mayor, Aldermen, concerned residents, I have not come to honor this dispute, but to bury it. As has often been the case, might makes right. Perhaps it would be better said, money makes right-of-way. Morgan – Brown – Campo & Lynch have been enforcing that right of way." This brought a protest from the head of one property groups. I gave him the fish eye til he backed down. 

I continued, "We have no access to MBC&L billings, but we can make educated guesses. There is usually a three lawyer team at any meeting of the Board. I estimate $2000 an hour, with somewhat lower rates for the committee meetings. Add consultations and other fees, the totals vary from $50,000 to over $100,000 a month. That's well over half a million dollars to date, with a long way to go. I propose you redirect that money to stay in Manchester, provide a few jobs and even some good will. If we can reach an agreement, your attorney bills can end today." 

There is nothing like large amounts of money to hold interest. You could have heard a pen drop. I held up several folders. They contained previously defeated projects for things like installation of a stop light and pedestrian crossing signals, resurfacing pavement, funding of crossing guards and so on. All would benefit the area disrupted by the diverted traffic. 

"We propose you pay for a pedestrian bridge near the Charter School. Here is an estimate for $210,000. In addition, you will withdraw opposition to these five proposals, which were narrowly voted down in the last two years. What's fair is fair. If you want something, pay for it. We'll even help you take money from your lawyers to do it." 

When I said, "pay for it" one of our rowdies said, "Damn right." When I said, "take money from your lawyers" he said, "Screw the blood suckers." which brought general laughter. So began the battle of the citizens of Manchester and the law firm of Morgan – Brown – Campo & Lynch. My speech was only the declaration of hostilities. The whole affair took six more months to unravel. Before it was done, all three sides found occasion to thank me. The lawyers chose another path.

It came in the form of an invitation, from managing partner David Campo, to visit the firm's office in Boston. We dickered on the specifics, but made the appointment. Elspeth and I drove down in Shadow. We met the senior partners at a French bistro called le Bastille. Who names a restaurant after a prison? I had the baby kale salad and salmon tartar. Elspeth made a face when I ordered the tartar. She had the garden vegetable soup and frisee aux lardons (endive salad with poached eggs). 

Our hosts had prime rib, crown roast or porterhouse steak. Sean is a serious beef eater, so I commented that I should have brought my brother. Mr. Campo asked who I meant. That brought up Richards Enterprises and Richards Imports. The international law specialist perked up. When I mentioned that Sean put a carousel in the middle of his wedding reception, they all took notice. One of the younger partners asked if I had anything to do with the wedding. 

I bit my tongue and gestured to Elspeth. She said, "Was? Alles?", to which I laughed. I let Elspeth explain exactly what I had done for the wedding. One of the partners had heard of me from his teenaged daughter. Girls in tuxes, standing with their brother, was evidently a fad. This was the first I heard of it. Elspeth showed a picture of me in the suit, beside Sean, then me in the gown with Lars. 

I would have stopped there, but she went on to pictures of me with the Otises. That turned heads. One of the partners was a Rice. His wedding reception was at the Peabody House. He and Elspeth went off on Beacon Hill family business. The international expert, a guy name Logan Brown, rolled his eyes. Mr. Campo said, "Too bad you don't know anything about Roxbury. I could use you.", which cut Elspeth off like a knife. 

It was time for more pictures, this time of the old me. Mr. Campo knew Mimi by reputation. I rattled off half a dozen legal aid lawyers, plus a few street lawyers from the area. By this point I had their undivided attention. I spread my hands, "Why do you want to know?" The answer was predictable. They had an activist causing problems. I asked for and received a retainer and contact information on the activist. 

As we began to collect things to go, Mr. Campo told me that his Roxbury issues were the furthest thing from his mind when he set up the meeting. He just wanted to meet the person that cut through so much crap in Manchester. Laughing as he said it, he told me that if I could fix his Roxbury problem, he would back me in politics. 

I held his eye and said, "I won't hold you to that. Someday I may remind you." That sobered him up.

They all went off. I pulled out my phone. It took several calls to reach the right person, but it was worth the effort. "Hello Veronica. This is Jo. We need to meet."



"Little" Sister Pt. 05



Author's note: No sex this chapter. Nothing but politics, business and real estate.

Chapter 21 -- Deja Vu, but Not

What I intended to do had many difficulties. For starters, I was dressed to meet with high priced lawyers. For another, I was not about to expose Shadow to the south side. Most important, I was not about to expose Elspeth to Veronica, or vice versa.

To solve two problems at once, I told Elspeth to take Shadow to the garage and return with the Toyota. She did not want to go and I was not prepared to be frank with her. Rather than fight it, I decided to buy a car. I had been wanting another work car for some time. This seemed like the perfect opportunity.

Before we did that, Elspeth and I refitted me in an off-the-rack suit. I kept the silk top. It would look like an indulgence. A cheap briefcase and resale shop heels completed the step down. Looking in the mirror, I could see that Dr. Richards was still there. That said, a level was missing. It looked fairly good, but I could tell why it was second rate. I had learned a thing or two.

Next we went to the neighborhood used car lots. This was where an in-house mechanic was handy. He could listen to an engine and tell me the sticker price was bogus. It took about three cars before I could convince the salesman to give me a real price. In this, the term "cash sale" was magic. Even then it took some looking. To make a long afternoon short, I bought a 10 year old Infiniti with 110,000 miles for $7,200, including TT&L.

Since I could not convince Elspeth to leave me, I gave her a job. I asked her to go set up a face to face meeting with Adele Cabot. Elspeth understood I was getting her out of the way, but she allowed it. I think the idea of Boston's South Side scared her more than she would admit. Regardless, she and I parted at six PM, with plans to meet at ten. I hoped I could make it.

As soon as Elspeth was out of sight, I headed to a resale shop two blocks away. This was not my old neighborhood, but it was close enough I knew the major points. There, I bought an outfit—men's khaki slacks, golf shirt and, most importantly, a worn leather jacket. It was not quite my old ratty jeans and torn T-shirt, but there was a kissing relationship. The biggest differences were the heels and the posture.

To accessorize, I bought rings and hoops, to make my piercings more obvious, a bandanna for my hair and a dump-it-all-in purse. There would be no safety pins, but they would not have looked much out of place. This time, the mirror told me that I was crazy, but marginally prepared.

The meeting was at McCreedy's. This was exactly what the name implies, an Irish oriented Southie bar. I mentioned before that Veronica came across as Irish. I am Irish. It seemed a reasonable way to get her out of the old dives. Sure enough, when I came through the door, she had three guys draped all over her. I sang the line, "You can call me anything you like, but my name is Veronica."

Roni's head jerked around. At first she could not spot me, but my height gave me away. She said, "Oh my God. Jo, I heard you looked different, but I had no idea. Guys, this is Jo Richards."

This was an Irish bar, so I said, "It's Siobhan, if you can say it correctly. Roni, I have an actual car outside. Who do I talk to about keeping an eye on it?" We took a few minutes to get my new ride settled. Veronica noted the dealer plates. I told her about the Toyota and the Honda before it.

She asked about student loans. I told her not to worry. My time at Yale was covered by family money and scholarships, while my time at Dartmouth was on fellowship. I don't think Veronica ever appreciated how good I was at school, but no student loans got her attention. Interesting.

Eventually we settled in a booth, with drinks. I ordered Irish, with water back. I was drinking the water, but Roni was killing vodka martinis. She had slipped during my three years away. Still, I could use an edge, so I kept paying for more rounds.

My target was named Ariana Conor. She was leading a group of tenants in a lease renewal protest. I completely understood her point. The landlord wanted them to vacate so that he could raze the whole building. There was an episode of Cheers which was almost on point. Cliff tried to stay in his apartment, because he was there with his mother for so long. In the end, he recognizes it was a dump.

As with many other things, much of the protest ran through Veronica's hands, because she had experience dealing with the city and state authorities. One of my old associates at legal aide was backing up their lead attorney. My briefing from Morgan -- Brown -- Campo & Lynch had omitted that detail.

What I told Veronica was that MBC&L were hoping to settle quickly. This was not the sort of case they wanted to burn time pursuing. While that would mean fewer billing hours in the short term, it was worth a fair amount of goodwill with the client. There is a reason that some lawsuits are referred to as nuisance cases. Once she made up her mind to help, Roni had Ms. Conor on the phone in five minutes.

Thirty minutes later, three of us pulled in front of a much seedier bar on Boylston street. Veronica and I went inside. The third in our party was an aspiring hockey player, who would make fifty bucks looking after my "new" car. I had only had the car about four hours, but I was already attached. The heated seats and steering wheel would be perfect for New Hampshire.

We were barely in the door when someone called to Veronica. It was not Ariana Conor, but it made her easy to spot. I stayed by the door, while Roni talked to her. I could only read half the conversation.

Veronica said something. Ariana Conor snapped, "I don't give a fuck. Who's that with you and when is the rich bitch coming?

"Bullshit. That girl has bull dyke written all over her. She paid more for the shoes than the whole outfit she's wearing. I wonder if the nipples are pierced.

"No shit. She's wearing a bra now. And a stick up her ass. Did she walk around with a book on her head as a little girl. Seriously, who the fuck is she?

"Yeah, fine. She wants to pay for a round, her money spends. It ain't buyin' nothin' else. I ain't that easy and I sure the fuck ain't that cheap." I was beginning to like this girl.

Roni signaled me to come over. Instead of going straight, I went to the bar and laid a hundred down. I told the barkeep I wanted Irish with water back and a couple rounds for the table. We exchanged a look, then he shrugged and took the money. I took my drink to the table. Show time.

To open things up, I asked, "What kind of lies has Veronica been spreading?"

Ariana Conor was not the sort to let someone else speak for her. She glanced at Roni and her two friends, then said, "She claims you're some hotshot Ivy League megabrain, who's going to solve all our problems."

I laughed, "No wonder you thought she was full of shit. I'm not that smart. The rest is more or less true. A lot depends on you."

The barkeep came up with the first round of drinks. I could not read his lips, but he tilted his head toward me. It did not take a rocket scientist to figure it out. Ariana Conor gave him an irritated look, as if I were too small to worry about. Cocky thing.

Going on, "I had lunch today with representatives of Morgan -- Brown -- Campo & Lynch." Everyone at the table became much more serious. I went on, "I had to dress up, silk top and everything. It was at a place called le Bastille. Anyway, there was a message from David Campo himself. He wants to end this." I had their undivided attention.

"Now, let me tell you about myself. I have been living up in New Hampshire. I negotiated a quick settlement to a long running case in Manchester." I gave them enough details to look things up. Why lie when the truth helps? It was time to invoke scores of bad movies.

"Just to be clear, I am strictly a money conduit. If we can come up with an amount, that you will take and he will pay, this all goes away. For other alternatives, Mr. Campo would refer to other people." Never use the carrot, without showing the stick. Sheila would say, make the client handle the restraints.

I let them argue about it. Before long, Ariana shut things off. I had to give Mr. Campo credit. He had given me the name of the real decision maker. She shut everyone else up, then looked at me suspiciously.

She said, "Why should we believe anything you say?" I could not have scripted it better.

I said, "You don't. I hope you're smarter than that. Contact whomever you know at MBC&L. They will vouch that I am on retainer. Check my firms involvement in New Hampshire." I scribbled search terms on a napkin. "If I'm not an open book, I'm not doing my job. The only reason I'm here is that I know people like Veronica and Mimi Gonzalez. Call her up. She'll tell you I was half a step from Danvers and a lobotomy." Everyone thought that was funny. "That was because Veronica, here, dumped me one morning."

Yes, I know it was unfair. Yes, I bitch slapped Roni on purpose. Yes, I was serving my own point. All that said, I overdid things. No wonder Roni was sucking down vodka. Her guilt must have ridden heavy on her. She didn't crumble so much as shatter. I was out of the booth, to hold her, before anyone else realized how bad things were.

Somewhere in the three years, I had passed Veronica. When I was serving my time as an intern, she was the definition of control. She controlled everyone and everything else, just as much as she controlled me. Seeing her out of control was nothing like a day dream. It was scary as hell. Fortunately for my sensibilities, she melted into my embrace. I stroked her hair and told her all was forgiven.

After several moments, I became aware of all the eyes staring at us. I sat Roni down, then turned back to Ariana Conor. Her eyebrows were tented. I shrugged.

I said, "I have been told I don't know my own strength. If this was an example, I need to be more careful. Five years ago, Roni was leading me around like a puppy on a leash." I touched the ring in my nose. "She had me pierce this, so she could have her ring in my nose." That got a laugh from one of the guys nearby. I stood up, well inside his personal space.

"Don't laugh asshole. I'll break you in little pieces if you even think about messing with her. Try me. Right here, right now." He backed down, apologizing. No one fucks with my people, least of all a half-wit ass-kisser, like this dick wad. Ariana, and all her friends, looked amused.

I said to Ms. Conor, "My apologies. I doubt we can do anything else tonight. Have some people check me out. Roni can get a hold of me. She may be a heartless bitch, but she's my heartless bitch. Better yet, call Mimi. She has a meeting room we can use." How did I fuck a promising situation up so fast?

I took Veronica out of the bar and drove half a mile before I pulled over. We were in the heart of our old stomping grounds. I knew of three clubs within walking distance of where I parked, not that we would be going to any of them. Veronica needed help, not alcohol. Still, familiar ground is familiar ground.

I said, "Hey, you. I need some directions here. There's a church a couple of blocks up. Do you want to go to confession?" Veronica was almost as anti-Catholic as Madonna. It may not have rattled her, but I did get a reaction.

She mumbled something that might have been "Take me home."

I said, "Fine. Home it is. Do you still live in the same place, with your bitchy roommate?"

Her response was incoherent. The only thing I caught was a denial of my question. The last thing might have been a name. The next thing was more clear, though it took a lifetime of deciphering Sean to make it out. She wanted to know why I was being nice. I guess she felt guilty, because Roni did not used to be a maudlin drunk. I would have been willing to sort things out, but I needed to meet Elspeth. Stronger action was needed.

I said, "Veronica Lynne VanKampen, where is your apartment?" She reacted like I slapped her. A few minutes later we pulled up at her building. I was worried that I might have to carry her up five flights, but she pulled herself together, at least enough to climb the stoop unassisted. Her hands shook as she worked the keys, but she managed to get inside. In those last few seconds, I saw a trace of the feisty bitch that was my first love. You go girl.

Learning hurts, because some of your innocence has died. Veronica was no longer one of the monsters under my bed. She was my first love, my first real lover, my mentor and many other things. She was no longer a threat to my equilibrium.

Maturity sucks.

Chapter 22 -- Tea and Conversation

There was no time to dwell on it. I had my own follower to worry about. As soon as I thought of that, thoughts about myself vanished. I had sent Elspeth off, both of us knowing that I would be meeting an old lover. How could I have been so callous? Rather than risk Boston traffic, I phoned. Elspeth picked up on the first ring. Doh!

I had no idea where Elspeth wanted me to go. The GPS in my phone led me to a large house with an iron fence. Someone opened the gate as I drove up. In another context, it might have made a good horror movie scene. I parked the car in the drive and walked to the front door, past caring how I looked. The door opened before I knocked. A man, presumably the majordomo, held the door. I marched in to face the music.

Looking back, at no point did I think of Dr. Richards. In hindsight, that strikes me as unusual. It was rather like my meeting with the senior faculty, just before orals. I entered as Siobhan Richards. Whomever I met would not stoop to mispronouncing it.

She was a small woman, who reminded me a bit of Diana Rigg. There was the shrewdness you see in Game of Thrones, not to mention the wrinkles. I was expecting Elspeth's mother, but this could only be Adele Cabot. Fortunately she had Sean's habit of talking to herself.

She said, "I suppose I cannot complain about you wasting time." You might have chanced a bath.

I said, "My apologies. I felt that things were urgent. If you wish to lay out tea, I could change."

Mrs. Cabot pursed her lips. Not bad. Thinks on her feet. "An excellent idea. John will show you to your room." We will see what she considers presentable.

I said, "Thank you. I am afraid I have nothing appropriate, but I can improve on this. I was down south." I sniffed. "You can probably tell." That scored. Mrs. Cabot fought a laugh, though it looked rather like a frown.

She said, "Indeed. Such as you may. I shall await you." This is proving more interesting than I hoped.

I went to the car and retrieved my earlier outfit. John offered to carry the pile of clothing, which surprised me. I declined, with thanks. He led me to a room, with a half bath across the hallway. I did some perfunctory washing, concentrating on removing the make up. None was better than too much. I redid some eye liner and a slight touch of lip color.

The room, my room it seemed, was frilly in a preteen style. The drapery was blue gingham. The four post bed had a lace skirt, though the bed cover was hand embroidered and probably hand quilted. It would bring a small fortune in a knowledgeable auction. Once I noticed that detail, the room came alive. Everything in it was valuable, both by age and by quality. Sheila could die happy here.

My first thought had been that Mrs. Cabot wanted me off balance, hence the young girl motif. On further thought, I decided this was her regular guest room. She was "Grandmother" to all the well bred girls in Boston. This room told me she liked to have them sleep over, when they were ten to twelve years old. If time were not pressing, I could spend a day cataloging and analyzing the furnishings and brick-a-brac.

Instead, I changed back into my suit from lunch. It was wrinkled and not hour appropriate, but needs must make do. I removed most of the rings and replaced them with studs. One exception was the one in my nostril. We might discuss Veronica. If you have ever had to borrow a pen, when you should have had one, I felt like that. Reminding myself that perfection would not be good enough, I went back out.

She was sitting at a tea cart, with a lovely sterling tea set. Judging from everything else, it was potentially made by Paul Revere. That would make a nice teaching moment for the young girls, which made it a good place to start.

I said, "Thank you for waiting. That's a lovely tea set. Is it Paul Revere?"

I could read the gears turning in her head. Well. That was unexpected. "It is. Made in 1773. The china is a family heirloom, brought from England, though it is of German manufacture. Dresden." I nodded. She knows something of fine porcelain.

I said, "My sister would love this. The Residence was constructed in 1742 and enlarged in 1795, 1849 and 1967. Mother and Father essentially abandoned the old house when the new wing was complete. Sheila had the house refurbished for the wedding. We put it, 'Well made and enduring.'" That brought no reply, spoken or otherwise.

I decided to press my luck. "May I show you something?" My smartphone was already in my hand, but manners are important. I would have stopped if she said so. She did not, though her lips pursed.

"This is a scene from their honeymoon. It takes place on Guam, in a small tea house." I played the tea ceremony, between the young girl and Sheila.

Mrs. Cabot looked annoyed at first, but she was soon lost in the ceremony. The girl was about ten, the age Mrs. Cabot seemed to prefer. Sheila was Sheila, grace personified. Before the ceremony was complete, tears were running down Mrs. Cabot's face. When it was finished, I wanted to give her a moment to collect her thoughts. To that end, I busied myself pouring. Mrs. Cabot recovered with a smile.

"Thank you, my dear. Just a little lemon, these days. Dr. Jones thinks sugar is of the devil."

We drank in silence. Eventually, she realized I would not speak first. Full of herself, but she's rather earned it. Good sense of drama. Knows when not to speak, but not shy. Not dressed badly, but also not well. Knows it. Could do better. Could probably do much better. Appreciates fine things, but does not live for them. We saw she could get dirty when necessary. Poised. She's listening to me.

I winked at her. She slapped at me. Oh, you... "Miss Gracie, my nanny, said it was a bad habit many years ago. I told her Dr. Franklin used to speak to himself. It might have even been true."

We both laughed. She had John show me to a drawn tub. I bathed and washed my hair. There was a terrycloth robe with the towels and slippers on the floor. I put them on. On the bed was a nightshirt. I was out before my head hit the pillow. Morning came early. Elspeth was shaking me. Christine's wake up is much nicer.

Elspeth asked, "What did you do to Grandmother? She is never like this."

"Don't worry about it. I showed Sheila doing Japanese tea ceremony. She was impressed." That took time to unravel. It was one thing for Elspeth to be impressed with Sheila. It was something very different when the Arbiter of Style was also impressed.

I kissed her on the forehead. "Elspeth, you are at the grownup table now. Mrs. Cabot may have once been an unreachable star, but she's human. She is also a very good teacher. Look at this room. Anything you touch can be the point of a lesson. Students like you are why she does it."

From the door, "I might say that was presumptuous, but it also happens to be true. Siobhan, my dear, you must call me Adele. All my friends do." I thought Elspeth would faint.

The meal was not a traditional Irish breakfast (eggs, bacon and/or sausage, pudding (white and/or black), fried tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans and toast), but the cook had tried to incorporate some of that. We had poached eggs, bacon and broxty (something like hash browns), with a side of tomatoes and mushrooms, sautéed with rosemary. Coffee was strong and served with heavy cream. I would not be eating lunch.




"Little" Sister Pt. 05



During coffee, I pulled out my phone again. "Adele, have you ever seen this set of jewelry? It was made by Tiffany in 1898. My great-gran Sparks commissioned it." This was also the first that Elspeth had seen it, an oversight on my part. She and Adele scrolled through all the pictures in the album, including the portrait of Sheila and I wearing both sets. That brought a gasp from Elspeth. Once again, distant things came close.

Adele read my mind. "She did this for you, your graceful sister. You are much blessed. I am not familiar with such jewelry. As you have said, we believe in well made and enduring, but also functional. Such decoration is for others. I can say that the set is well given.

"I feel the same about Elspeth. She was a sweet child, but different in many ways. We tried to adjust to her desires, but it was not always easy. You are a gift to her, thus a gift to us. I would say, 'Guard her well', but that seems to be your nature.

"You are welcome here at any time. Indeed, I would be pleased to meet your sister, Sheila. She may also bring her daughter. I have a fondness for children."

Even my cum laude degrees did not carry this level of honor. I was genuinely touched.

Chapter 23 -- Working in the Sun

Before I went back to Roxbury, I needed a change of clothes. We drove up to Hooksett, gathered wardrobe and drove back. On the way south, we stopped for gas in Nashua. The station had the usual real estate books. Standing in line, waiting for the attendant, I was struck by the thought that I might be spending a lot of time in, or commuting to, Boston. Nashua was about thirty minutes closer than Hooksett, and it skipped all the Manchester traffic. On the other hand, it was over half an hour from Concord, should I need to visit the Capital. I shelved the idea for the moment, but it would return.

My new meeting was in the same bar, but almost everything else had changed. Ms. Conor was less combative, but her forces were much larger. Veronica was sober and showing it. They may have tried to keep tabs on me, because one of them asked where I had been. I told them one of the Cabots, on Beacon Hill, asked me to sleep over. They thought that was funny. When I told them I went to New Hampshire for some clothes, that was more acceptable.

I was wearing the same men's slacks and worn leather jacket, but the top was Michael Kors and the shoes were Naturalizer. My outfit was comfortable. I think one of the women picked up on it, but fuck looking poor to make a point. After a late evening with Adele Cabot, these people were not scary.

Everyone wanted to know about Elspeth. I said she was my assistant. No one pressed the issue. Elspeth looked the part by taking notes. There was a lot of discussion to make notes from. Ms. Conor, or one of her people, had done the digging I had suggested.

It took some time to get everyone up to speed, which let me browse what they were not saying aloud. The short version was that they did not believe my story, quite. However they could not figure out any other reason to explain why I was there. It was a place to start. When I had the chance, I jumped in.

"You probably have trouble believing I am here to do what I say I am here to do. First point, why bother lying? Lawyers are quite capable of threatening in other ways. Second point. This is not the kind of case that makes law firms look good to their clients. They will do what they are paid to do, but there is a nuisance value. Making this situation go away will make them look good. Hence me. I am here to see if this", waving of hands, "can all be reduced to a number on a check."

You would think I suggested four legged animals in their family tree. Insults and offers of violence were the least of the blow back. I did not care. I was watching the queen bee. Ms. Conor understood that I was being frank. It would be her job to keep everyone in line. I did not envy her that. We exchanged glances. She knew. She also knew that I understood what she had to do. There was a tiny hint of a nod. Good enough for the day.

Elspeth and I left. As we left, I pointed Veronica out to her. She and Veronica exchanged looks. When we were outside I called Sidney Rice, my contact at MBC&L. I told him that I had made contact and that they would discuss it. He wanted more detail. I told him that he could wait until I actually knew something. Elspeth asked for the phone. She told him that I was on a first name basis with Adele. That shut him up. There is nothing like friends in high places.

Four days later, I made the drive south from Hooksett, alone this time. Because of the bridge under construction, traffic in Manchester was down to a one lane crawl. Nashua was starting to look better and better. In south Boston, we met in the now familiar bar. For once I had food. The sandwich was exactly why I do not eat at bars.

Ms. Conor told me that she needed a ball park figure. Uh uh. I needed to know what she could do, before we worked on how much. We argued a bit. When I picked up my briefcase, she looked at me sideways. She asked me if I had really gone to Beacon Hill. I told her I didn't know. It was just an address on the GPS. She was frowning as I left.

Going north, I got off the main road to take a look at Nashua. It was not unlike New Jersey, rolling hills full of trees. The small-city-next-to-the-Big-City vibe was almost identical. There was history here, as with most of New England. However, most was further north, along the rivers. Recently it was a bedroom region for greater Boston. You should take a look at the street maps. The state line cuts off the sub-divisions like a knife.

What was not the same was house pricing. Compared to northern New Jersey, one could buy a lot of house for one's money. During my time in school, I was used to working six and a half day weeks. By that standard, I had a lot of down time. Poking around in the Nashua real estate market could be a nice distraction. I quickly ruled ot the lower third of Hillsborough county. That was elbow to elbow sub-divisions. I was looking for an interesting property, not glorified cookie cutter houses.

I spent the next week in the Capital, looking for business. Friday, I arranged a weekend meeting in south Boston. Since there was time, I decided to test Nashua. Before I did that, I took some time to check with my investment adviser. Setting up a business had been harsh enough already. For real estate, even an earnest payment would be outside my usual spending limits. Adele Cabot would have told me to live on the income of my income. I resolved to look for the kind of house she might visit.

Most people look for a house by starting with the school, shopping and job locations. Hence the phrase, "Location, location, location." I resolved to take a different approach. I started by looking for history. Like most riverside cities in New England, Nashua had important textile factories. They would have been the town royalty. Several of the old textile families' town homes were historical sites. Many of the factories had been torn down. Others were converted to pricey loft apartments. There was not much down that road.

Another business name came up—Gregg Lumber, Gregg & Son Planing Mill, Gregg & Son, Door, Sash & Blind Mfy, Gregg & Son, Inc. The Gregg name was still prominent in the Nashua area. One was an accountant with a downtown office. He was too busy to talk, but referred me to his widowed aunt, Edna Gregg.

We had tea and talked of the family history. She was a Dearbourn from Cambridge, MA. Her husband attended Harvard Law, while she was in secretarial school. Mrs. Gregg's next door neighbor was Nashua born and raised, so Edna invited her over. It chanced that she was also in the historical society. Before I begged off for my appointment, there were six middle aged, or older, ladies in the parlor. All with an interest in local history. Down the road it would mean something.

In the nearer term, I was starting to juggle a lot of balls. Governments move slowly, so I could take on several things at once. Unfortunately, that meant that I sometimes needed to be in three cities the same day. The road project in Manchester was the largest project, but most of the decisions were already decided. I was constantly called to hold someone's hand, but nothing of substance. Concord continued to generate requests for analysis/intervention/mediation, particularly in Pardons and Paroles. The situation in south Boston slowly evolved from getting the ducks in a row, to pricing the row of ducks.

Sometimes a message, or phone call, would do the job. Sometimes not. I kept running around, snuffing small fires. Whenever I had an hour or two to spare, I spent it with my ladies, pursuing the social history of Nashua. This networked the ladies of various societies. I had an academic interest in all of it, but it became very personal. Indeed, I was almost talked into learning bridge. Only a tight schedule saved me.

Spring turned to summer. The Manchester traffic situation was almost resolved. In Concord I sat in on four Parole and Pardon hearings. The Governor asked if I wished a position on the Parole and Pardon's board. Why would I? I was generating most of the firm's cash flow as a consultant. I sent a graciously worded refusal, which she probably expected. The forms of political dance are not unlike the forms of musical dance.

South Boston was another story. What had looked like a promising quick job, turned into a sticky morass. The first major blow came when Ariana Conor's sister tested pregnant. The pregnancy did not develop smoothly. Suddenly, Ariana had more important things to do. Given Sheila's problems with her first child, I was not about to tell her no.

Unfortunately, Ariana had done everything. Her semi-official retirement left a massive hole in the organization. Reluctantly, Veronica tried to pick up the pieces. Roni was another issue. I had not appreciated the degree to which she had gone to seed. Experts say that an alcoholic is someone who drinks enough to cause problems, but continues to drink. I thought it was a symptom. Veronica once lived on the edge, but she no longer felt comfortable there. Instead, she drank and lived on past glory. I was a reminder that she had collateral damage.

However, Veronica also had skills. I was not going to waste her on a bar stool, while my project was flushed down the sewer. The other tenants did not want to accept Veronica as spokesperson. I dragged Ariana Conor away from her sister long enough to squelch that. The records office had an old grudge against Veronica. Elspeth pulled the wrath of Beacon Hill down on that. Two of the tenants decided to break ranks and screw everyone else. I got them in a room and played the old Cheers episode. It seemed like every week I had to come in for something. The fee I would be getting was not enough for all the grief.

Summer turned to fall. October marked a lot of things. The Manchester bridge project was finally, fully complete. The South Boston Coalition finally made a formal offer to MBC&L. I would later need to defend the figure with my life. In Concord, I represented my tenth convict to the Pardons and Paroles committee. Demand was growing faster than I could handle the load. I did not want to make my fee oppressive, but something had to be done.

In my hobby life, something unexpected happened. The husband of a friend, of a cousin, of one of the ladies, in one of my circle of regulars, wanted to make an offer. Hillsborough County owned a property, which the County would prefer paying taxes. They might forgive a portion of the debts owing, if I would get the property off the deadbeat rolls.

I looked into it. The problem was money, as usual. There was a large, very old house. A sizable plot of wooded land had to be sold with the house. The block of land was covenanted as a single unit, so it was all or nothing. On top of that, it was quite difficult to get to. County roads did not reach the property boundaries. The house itself was a lengthy hike through the woods. My aching back.

Under new business, I was retained by a Nashua Alderman, Allan Morton, to run his re-election campaign. That was almost too easy. He was the husband of one of my ladies. I had already declined two similar requests in Manchester. This one I took as a favor. No good dead goes unpunished. More on that later.

Boston was looking up. MBC&L referred me to the City of Boston, for a fact finding commission. It had to do with demographic shift in south Boston, i.e. the same neighborhoods where I had interned, about a hundred years earlier. I brought Vivian (BS Statistics from MIT, PhD Sociology from Dartmouth, one of my nine wedding assistants) on staff and gave the job to her.

In spite of that, I turned my first profit. Who'd a thunk it? We had a party at my Concord office. Being in the black put everyone in a good mood. Unfortunately, the phone was still working. I took a call in my personal office. When I returned, "So, Frau Doktor, we meet again." Lars can never sneak up on anyone but me, which pisses me off.

Like so much else about the month, Lars' story had two edges. He was in country for a large scale Siemens meeting. Unfortunately, the occasion was Georg Karl's failing health. This meeting would be the first official act of Herr Karl's successor. Lars was hoping for a new assignment, which was likely.

However, the next logical step was back to Berlin, to wrap the training cycle. So it proved. Lars and I had a single night in his hotel room, before he flew back to Japan.

I wished I had a chance to show him the property.

Chapter 24 -- Cloudrest

One of the things about being born rich is that your analysis is different from other people's thinking. For example, I never considered the cost; I considered the value. Every buying decision was a "Should I?" question, not a "Can I?" question. That attitude took a hit when I considered buying the house. I was a millionaire. I had been since my trusts vested at age twenty one. A mid six figure check would put a bruise on my balance sheet. Worse, purchase would be only the first of the costs. Look up an old Tom Hanks movie, The Money Pit. Better yet, Cary Grant's Mr. Blandings Builds his Dream House .

I consciously put Dr. Richards in charge of the decision. Any way I looked at it, it was an outright gift, attached to a very reasonable land purchase. When you boiled out the excess, the offer was for a large, hand built house, almost a mansion, outbuildings and water rights. All of this was under $300,000. The land itself would be $4000 per acre. Some of the land was once harvested for timber and could be again. Centuries old maple trees grew wild. I had visions of Amish tenants growing apples and berries, with syrup in the winter.

What tipped my hand was the river frontage. The offer included a 'cable' (220 meters, 720 feet) of almost unrestricted access to the Merrimack River. There had to be some use for that. The irony was that the land was once owned by the Gregg family. They held it during their lumber days, though the main house was older. Some parts, chimneys, foundation and front facade, were from native stone, likely quarried from the property.

The rest was hand cut and hand shaped wood. The more utilitarian rooms, such as the kitchen and storage, used wide board pine flooring. The entrance, great room, parlors and main staircase used hand cut maple. No one did that. Still, the detail was not isolated. Throughout the house, better than the usual quality of wood was used. Often, more than the usual quantity was used as well. I suspected one of the Greggs was involved early on, since that whole family went into wood and finished wood products.

Regardless, it was an empty shell. There was not even glass in the windows. Forget electricity. This house predated wood stoves. Wherever a shutter had fallen off a hinge, weather damage, sometimes severe, was the result. At some point, the whole house had been cleaned and swept. Not even the usual trash was around. I would have preferred the trash. Something interesting might have been tossed.

The worst thing was that you could not get to the house. The closest road was almost half a mile away. The hiking trail meandered through dense hardwood thicket for three times that far. One fair autumn weekend, I walked that trail. In the fading light I took a ream of pictures. After dusk I laser mapped all the rooms of the house and outbuilding (workshop? wood shed? cabin?). It had a large fireplace. I gathered fallen wood and built a fire. I was never in Scouts. This seemed an appropriate place for my first experience with s'mores. Lord Almighty they were good.

In the morning, the house was obscured by dense fog. Since it looked like a cloud was sitting on it, I christened the house 'Cloudrest' (I must have been in a strange mood). It was a turning point. From that day on, I identified with the house. It was rough, and uncultured, by even contemporary standards, but there was strength. The hill on which it stood was solid granite. The foundation was stone on stone. After three hundred years, the foundation would be the least of my worries.

Close to the house, the soil was so shallow trees would not grow. This eliminated one potential problem. Yet, there was water. A spring boiled from a fissure, barely a hundred feet from the house. There were a pair of spring houses downstream. Further down, there was evidence of former beaver dams. Nearby was a thicket of apple trees, likely a family orchard gone wild. Sugar maple was everywhere. It was early for the best fall color, but the leaves were already spectacular.

The list of necessary repairs was daunting. One of the nice things about being a favored scion of an Ivy League school is access to some of best architectural programs in the world. I sent everything to Sheila, for cleanup, then on to the Universities. While I sent all the pictures to Dartmouth, Yale was my first hope. While Yale was not the preeminent program in the nation, it was very high up. I never intended to start a bidding war.

My first return call was from Dr. Hanson at Dartmouth, thanking me for the file of pictures. In quick succession I received calls from Dr. Singh, Yale's Dean of Architecture and Design and Dr. Lang, Archivist for Dartmouth's library system. Both were frothing at the mouth. With what must have been an evil grin, I referred Dr. Lang to Dr. Singh, commenting on early birds and worms.

The third call was unexpected. Harlan Lipton called to warn me of possible blow back. No kidding. I told him I would be balancing Dartmouth's Library against Yale's Architectural school. Harlan laughed so hard he dropped the phone. He then reminded me that I also ran a non-profit organization. Donations for a restoration could be solicited. He also mentioned that a video record would likely be marketable. I had not thought of that.

With all this churning in the background, I made a deal. Harlan and a local attorney worked out a number of waivers and tax advantages. Hillsborough County would clear, de-stump and gravel cover a drive to the house. I would cover the labor costs. A furniture firm was buying the cut trees. They had a side deal with the County to trim and transport the logs. At least three families were making some nice coin on the deal, but I was assured the County was breaking even, excepting wear and tear on the equipment. That's government.

On my end, I posted some of the pictures on the Beacon Light website, providing links to the Dartmouth Library page and my new Cloudrest website. In turn, Cloudrest linked to everyone and their sister's dog. Linking from Cloudrest to Beacon Light soon outpaced linkings in the other direction. Links to the Hillsborough County Historical Society outpaced the reverse link from day one. Sean was very pleased with the number of hits Digital Arts was getting.




"Little" Sister Pt. 05



Having a family company, with a Digital Arts division, came in handy. Sean and Sheila were doing all the webwork pro bono, because it was good advertising. Christine was the one that suggested a design contest. As soon as she text it, everyone knew it would happen. Yale was particularly happy, since a Yale student had won another famous contest—to design the Vietnam Memorial.

By spring, the project would become a monster. Sheila's Hollywood contacts were competing for the chance to document the renovations. Funds started to trickle, then pour in. Amounts started small, e.g. each of the Nashua primary schools did a collection. However, other non-profit companies wanted to get in on the action.

Through FD Consulting, I hired an experienced fund raising manager to control it all. FDC billed Beacon Light at his listed rates, but clerical time was written off. Tax compliance was a more urgent issue. The Richards Foundation underwrote our first year of tax preparation, through their usual firm. FDC and Beacon Light hired Mr. Gregg to do the accounts for the soon to end year, with one of his cousins on retainer for legal counsel.

Some hobby.

Chapter 24 - Politicking

As the holidays rolled around, so did the political season. Mid-term elections were a year away, so candidates were getting serious about the primaries. Since I, in my FDC cap, was a campaign manager, this became time consuming. It was well I had Cloudrest issues to give me another topic of conversation. City politics is tea party gossip gone wild. Elspeth made a chart of the various family trees, so that I could sort out some of the nepotism.

South Boston was doing better. Once I dried Veronica out, she started to enjoy her job. Since her regular job was only a step above turning burgers, I offered her a position and threw in an office. It was exactly the right thing.

Mark Twain said that the difference between the right word and almost the right word, is like the difference between a lightning bug and a lightning bolt. In this case, I was lucky. I needed a permanent address in Boston and someone to man it. Veronica was the obvious person. It did not occur to me that running an office was a lifelong dream of Roni's.

It was a lesson that stood me well through the years. The term "Manager" has mystic powers. It was a tiny one room office, but there was a desk, a phone and a filing cabinet. More importantly, the door read, "Veronica VanKampen, FD Consulting." It did not hurt that the address was a block north of Boylston Street. I suppose that put her uptown. In any event, Veronica cried when I showed her the office and handed her a box of business cards.

Naturally, within a week she was telling me she needed a bigger office and a secretary. By New Year, I agreed with her. Mimi provided a list of names for the assistant. Veronica chose a mousy thirty year old Iraqi immigrant, Ibraim Wardani, who happened to be a bit of a tech whiz. Since Roni was heavily to the lesbian side of bisexual, I was not worried about romantic entanglements. I never thought to worry about Elspeth, but that was later.

As I mentioned, I was lucky when I set Veronica up in an office. The reason I agreed to the new office and the assistant was Commonwealth of Massachusetts vs. John Dorne. This was an assault case, of a man against his former employer. Mr. Dorne was laid off, a year before his pension vested and days before scheduled surgery. The Union was fighting the layoff, with what they considered a solid case. Following the assault, the company management doubled down.

Mr. Dorne walked into our new office, literally while Veronica was unpacking. He had heard through the grapevine (most likely over beers at a bar) about FDC's work in South Boston. Attached was some vague rumor that FDC was representing parole people in New Hampshire. That might not have gone anywhere, except he also knew of Veronica. To give her due credit, Roni did cut a swath.

The Massachusetts Federation of Commonwealth Employees (MFCE) was considering a class action suit against the employer. Several other employees had been discharged with suspicious timing. What their case needed was statistical analysis showing a pattern and a person with letters after the name to defend them.

Since MBC&L was not the attorney for the Commonwealth entity, we took it on. More practically, I gave it to Veronica and Vivian. I had street knowledge of the area, but Veronica knew it in her bones. Vivian was turning into one of FDC's star talents. In due course I would make her a partner. Between them they would grow the Boston office to twenty full time people in five years.

While my footprint in Boston was expanding, my presence in Manchester was vanishing. The road project was done. Rather than strongly pursue new business, I pulled back to the steady work I had developed in the Capital. Consulting in criminal cases was not lucrative, but it was quick and reliable. Consulting in civil cases was much more involved, but the payout was comparatively large.

As I mentioned, Vivian was becoming a major asset. Years later, I found out that one of Boston's leading law firms had offered her a partnership to jump ship. It was years later, because Vivian never considered the job, or even told anyone about it. As far as she was concerned, it was DOA. What did I do to deserve loyalty like that?

Between court appearances in Concord and executive time in Boston, I spent a lot of time on the road. When the Looksett lease was up, I had moved down to Nashua. It put me closer to Cloudrest and cut the drive to Boston by a third. On December 21, that became important. Allan Morton discovered he had lung cancer. He wanted me to take over his bid for Nashua Alderman. I had barely a week before the year end filing deadline.

You should understand that I remained plugged into the Nashua wife's network, even though I was no longer looking for a house. Indeed, there was an informal club meeting every first Thursday at Edna Gregg's house. We would sit for tea. I would share the progress on Cloudrest. The others in attendance would vary, but there were rarely fewer than six. Thus, I had people I could call to discuss the possibilities.

The results shocked me. If they did not already have a family member running, every one of the ladies urged me to run. Quietly, a couple of the wives or daughters of candidates also urged me to get in. I was reluctant, but I fit the legal requirements, so I paid the $50 filing fee and turned everything over to Elspeth. By this point, she was as familiar to the ladies as I was.

I drove to New Jersey for Christmas with family. Cindy was a cheerful toddler. She thought her big aunt was great fun to ride. While I was home I picked the brains of some of Sean's best consultants. In two cases, I picked his people. My Concord office needed a face lift. I installed one of my two pirated people to supervise the move to the new work space. This time Beacon Light had its own office and a full time staffer. I was hoping to spend a lot less time there.

New Year I spent in Boston with Elspeth and Ro. I enjoyed it. The band played a lot of Latin dance numbers, so I spent some time on the floor. Elspeth was much better than I, but Richard had two left feet. Sheila might have done something with him, but I could not. New Year's Day we went to visit Adele. She and I had a long talk about families and how the generations link. I believe she was genuinely fond of me.

The new year entered with vile weather. Every third day seemed to be a new storm. I spent much of the time either driving at half speed or stuck in one place. One of the times I was stuck in Boston, I decided I had had enough. Sean employed drivers that doubled as bodyguards. I could do the same. Besides, it would give me an excuse to drop in on Mimi.

One of the downsides of military reduction is a supply of unemployed soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen. Inevitably, some of them fall through the cracks. My old haunts would be an excellent place to meet a few. When I told Sheila I would try to make Cindy's second birthday, I also gave Sean a heads up that I would be recruiting. If Gerald did not find out, Sean was paying him too much.

I debated dropping in on Mimi unannounced vs. giving her time to get some people organized. One would be fun, but the other more useful. I decided to do both. It was a messy, slushy day. I wore the lightest weight of my coats, which I think of as the raincoat. Unlike the naturally gray sealskin coat, this one was dyed black. Evidently my reputation preceded me, because people were muttering about the Dark Queen.

Mimi's reaction was, "Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. Is that you Siobhan?"

We hugged. From what everyone was whispering, it seemed that I was remembered after five years. Interesting. I told Mimi that I did not have time to stay, but that I wanted to make an announcement. I turned to those in the room. They fell quiet without request. Very interesting.

"Good afternoon. My name is Jo Richards. I want to hire a bodyguard slash driver." A week later, we had a cattle call in a nearby basketball gym. Four hundred showed up. I narrowed it down to ten. Three passed the blood test. We piled in the Infiniti and drove to the Residence.

I also acquired the contact information on a number of mechanics, military police, and a handful of former officers. That information was how I planned to pay Sean, for vetting and training my driver. Johnson Lee (his Chinese father picked the most common name in the phone book) was my new driver. On the list of others was an MP First Sergeant, Richard Harold. Without intending to, I had already begun FDC Security Services. Richard would come to Boston a month later.

Cindy's birthday was a big event. Like her mother, Cindy loved to be onstage, but was shy off of it. I could also see the influence of Christine, because Cindy was already a gifted observer. It showed in her body mimicry. When someone talked to her, she would mirror their mannerisms. It was uncanny.

Walking was a frustration for her. While she moved around well enough, Cindy could not copy Sheila to her own satisfaction. Christine was another story. Cindy had Christine's concentration frown down cold. She even talked to herself when she was around Sean. Cindy was a very bright girl.

I took her aside and talked to her. By that I mean that I spoke to her as an equal. I told her that she had good examples. Her mother would teach her how to move. Christine would teach her how to watch. Sean would teach her how to lead. Cindy was cute, so an easy path would be available. I warned her there would be girls like me, i.e. unattractive, who everyone wanted to pick on.

I told her that the harder path made for strength. Impossible examples are the ones to use. Fourteen years later I heard those words in an interview, after Cindy won her fourth Olympic Gold Medal. Somehow I was one of the impossible examples. Who knew? Regardless, brushing up against my own examples always centers me. It's another way to read, "Home is where the heart is."

I went back to politicking with a clearer mind. Johnson drove the car. One of the other candidates rode back with me. The third, Yassar Mayer, landed a position at the Residence. After a stop in Boston, to drop our third and pick up Elspeth, we went to Nashua.

Time was short. The general Alderman elections are on odd years. November stirred things up. I was running in a special election for the ward seven position. Voting day was 7 March, less than three weeks away. Elspeth and her volunteer staff had put out signs. The ladies had worked the gossip line. What was lacking was me.

I was lucky in one way. My three opponents were also newcomers. One had proposed a debate. I agreed with three conditions—1) The debate would be video recorded and posted online, 2) The order of questions would be preset, but the order of answer would be random, 3) High school government classes would serve as a live audience. This format was acceptable to everyone.

The actual debate was anti-climactic. The real event was backstage. Two of my opponents were already cowed by the third, Roger Payne, a local veterinarian. In a comic replay of my meeting Robert Swenson, Mr. Payne tried physical intimidation on someone taller. One of the others snickered. Nothing unsettles a bully more than mockery.

The timing was perfect. When we went out on stage, Mr. Layne was still red faced. More titters. Later in the debate, he demanded to be called Doctor Layne. I mentioned that I could claim Doctor as well, but did not need a crutch. Things did not go well for him. In my closing, I spoke of Cloudrest, my plans for the house and the land, and broader plans for Nashua and Southern New Hampshire.

In the morning, the Nashua Telegraph ran a front page article on the debate, essentially saying I dominated. Two days later, Dr. Layne withdrew, citing lack of time. Neither of the other two put up much of a campaign. I won with almost 57%.

As Gerald would say, "Too easy."

Chapter 25 -- Functions and Transforms

Some people think that Jesse "The Body" Ventura, former wrestling entertainer, never expected to win the Governorship of Minnesota. The day after the special election, that was the way I felt. Like turning twenty one, I seemed no different, but my world had changed. For me, trust fund baby, that meant more than for most. Likewise, the day the election was certified, I received a number of things I had no immediate use for, including an office and a shared clerical person.

I went to inspect the office space. It was exactly what you would expect for a city with significant recent growth—tiny and otherwise inadequate. As usual, I turned things over to Elspeth. My only instruction was to set up virtual meeting capacity, so I could keep office hours from elsewhere. Nashua was the second largest city in New Hampshire, but that was still well under 100,000. In New Jersey it would rank twelfth. Alderman was a part time job.

That said, I intended to do the job. I took the tour of the records office, learned the scope of my access, noted the schedule of meetings and introduced myself to Claire Jones, the assistant I shared with three other Aldermen. I introduced Elspeth as my personal assistant. We spent a week getting up to speed for the first meeting. Like Manchester, Alderman sessions were recorded (literally taped).

That was OK. I found the old tapess of the sessions very illuminating. The elections of the previous November had been a change of power structures. Donna Lee, the current Mayor was largely stripped of her support. Paul Dean and James Dowd either convinced other Aldermen not to run for re-election, or to step down. Following the election, they controlled about two thirds of the votes.

I was replacing Jane Karon, Dowd supporter, who resigned Ward Seven after winning an at-large position (four years, instead of two). Allan Morton was to be her replacement. I was beginning to wonder how real his medical issues were. In any event, I may have done Dr. Layne a favor. He was in neither camp, which might not have been healthy for his business. I am naturally combative. A good fight might be just the thing to improve my humor.

The Board met twice a month. My first meeting was Tuesday, the week after the election was certified. I attended and abstained from every vote. None were close, so my vote did not matter. During the meeting, I watched the other Aldermen and the reporters. It turned our Luck was with me.

James Dowd took audio notes on his smartphone. I could read about half of what he said. The reporters were even better. They talked among themselves constantly. The Telegraph reporter mumbled along as he keyed his reports. Donna Lee was not attending, but her representative spent most of the meeting on the phone. I could not tell all the issues, but it was easy to pick out the teams. Both sides thought I was on theirs. Hilarious.

I could see the reason for the recent political struggle. The city and county had voter approval for up to $11,000,000 in bond issues and/or federal loans. This was for a clean water system of some kind. The primary contract was spelled out prior to the vote. However, many of the side and sub-contracts had yet to be awarded. Someone had to win the contracts. Dean and Dowd had friend and family interests they wanted to promote, so they had sandbagged Donna Lee. It made me tired, but the political landscape made perfect sense.

The question, as always, was what I wanted to do about it. I could have used my position for leverage in the Beacon Light project, but that was firmly established near Manchester. Cloudrest was still a ways down the road and was outside city limits. Once I examined my motives, the biggest reason to do something was that I dislike bullies. I started by figuring what I could do, because there was no sense in attempting the impossible.

With that ball rolling, I took an extended trip to the Capital. The 18 March legislative session was days away. My presence was urgently requested on several issues. I pressed flesh, drank dreadful coffee, gave scripted answers, asked scripted questions and generally did my trained seal act.

In the process, I scouted which reporters, aides or lobbyists were easiest to eavesdrop. Every night I returned with a load of fresh feedback on the day's events. Since lip reading is not a common skill, my staff was stunned at the level of information I could glean just walking around. The evening before the session, I made the rounds of cocktail parties and such. Into a handful of selected ears, I dropped a few carefully vetted hints. Call them introductory offers.

I should mention my Concord staff. It began with myself and Elspeth, doing parole consultations. We still did a respectable number of those. In the year and a half since we started, my staff had grown to ten people, led by Howard Cockerham, whom I poached from Sean. At that, we were using temp service clerical help.

Through luck or skill, I had a very competent team in Concord. I was doing my best to see that their reputation grew. Judging from the reactions, it worked. All but one of my selected Senators and Representatives returned my contact in the morning. Out of those contacts we received a commission to investigate a wrinkle in Affordable Care Act compliance. I went back out with ACA as my target subject.

Not surprisingly, it was an information rich environment. Whether you call it Obamacare or ACA, its proper name, the law is a patchwork, with no defining plan. Significant compliance areas needed to be clarified. Everyone had an opinion on how. Shortly after lunch I tagged the group that seamed to be leading the charge. I let my people know and they let our clients know. We made nothing but goodwill, in most cases, but goodwill is fertile soil.

After the session wrapped, I had catered a lunch for the office. They had earned it. Their contacts and my few hints were distilled into six new clients, at that point. Privately, I was relieved. I may have been a millionaire, but Concord's overhead was stiff. These clients could get us to the break even stage before the September session. Once the wheel is turning, it takes much less effort to keep it going.

My next stop was Nashua for the bi-monthly Board of Aldermen meeting. Again I said very little, but kept my eyes open. By the time I went home, I had a glimmering of a plan. Several of Dean and Dowd's pet companies had locked up bids. However, the big prize was against a company from Manchester, who also had local resources to draw on. If I could spoke the wheels of that wagon, I would.

Nashua took only a couple of days. Boston took a couple of weeks. Unlike Concord, I set up the Boston office on the cheap. By the time I arrived, they needed a hundred feet of rope to replace my original shoestring. I rented an actual office and turned the storefront over to the new investigative division. All they needed was someone to answer the phones. The working people would come to you.




"Little" Sister Pt. 05



We wrapped things up, appropriately enough, on April Fool's Day. I was exhausted. I talked to Sean. He told me I had delegation problems and suggested a Red Sox game. Not having a better idea, I collected everyone that was not nailed down and went to Fenway Park. It was a day game, cold and drizzly, but could have been worse. The Red Sox beat the Tigers, so the small crowd was in a good mood. I cannot say the same about the ballpark food.

After the game I took everyone to an Irish bar. St. Patrick's green was still up (it might never come down), but otherwise it was an ordinary bar. At least the sandwiches were better. We laughed and talked til about ten PM. Without thinking about it, I noted who drank too much, who talked too loudly, who stayed back and watched everyone else, and who kept order. I did a last call and headed home.

As I did my daily notes, I was reminded of the hundreds of times I did notes while in college and grad school. Like my research notes, these involved what people said, what they merely mouthed and my personal observations. Yet, these were much more personal. Sean was right. I could tell who was the leader from who was the water carrier. What was interesting was pecking order.

High on the list was someone that did not go to the baseball game. The organization in Boston revolved around Veronica. Every sign pointed to her as the center of activity. She once put a ring in my nose, so perhaps it was no wonder. I decided to make my appreciation more visible. If nothing else, it would reinforce her status as local boss.

The next day was Thursday. I told Veronica and Vivian to be available after 5 PM. Vivian was a Midwest girl, so she was out of place everywhere. Roni was from Connecticut, so seafood was a way of life. So were bars, but that was a different story. Neither was upper crust, so I chose Union St. Oyster Bar, next to the Capital. The Kennedy's used to hang out there, prior to the 1960 election. The bar was still known for their oysters-on-the-half-shell and steamed shellfish platters.

Four of us—myself, Elspeth, Veronica and Vivian—walked in about half past six. Even on a Thursday, with the Sox on an off day, there was a nice crowd. I hoped for that much. What I did not expect was every eye tracking our movements. At first I put it down to a potential group of females to pick up. My lip reading skills disabused that idea.

I was pegged as a political player, and the others as my aides. Veronica was selected as my Chief of Staff, but no one could place me. I thought it was funny, until the smart phones started turning up names. Elspeth was quickly pegged as local aristocracy, but that was counted in my tally. Veronica was next. She was pegged as an agitator that had come up in the world. Veronica led them to Vivian, since they had been working closely.

The confusion revolved around me. I was (evidently) the one in charge, but my face was not in the local media. Someone tracked FDC, through Veronica and Vivian, which led them to Concord New Hampshire. Still no luck. The first hit was the wedding, specifically the NY Times Magazine coverage. Once they had a name, everything fell out. While this was going on, our tray of two dozen oysters arrived.

As we ate the oysters, I told the table to be prepared for questions. Vivian looked confused, but Elspeth expected something and Veronica lived by the political pulse. I was still applying hot sauce to my next oyster when the first reporter/stringer/information peddler came up. I motioned him close.

"Tell everyone to play some pool while we eat. When we get done, I'll play the winners for some questions—but only winners. I'm warning you, you'll need some stick to get any answers. Shoo. Anyone that jumps the line, you can thump." I winked at the last. Nothing makes a game as interesting as a challenge. They would police each other for me.

Dinner was a bit strained, because everyone knew that we were being recorded. I would have, if I were a political wonk or a reporter. I just told the girls that everything would soon be clear. Half an hour later, it was time to make good my boasts and promises.

Bars breed dart, shuffleboard and pool players. I had some instruction in the game, and some native talent, but I did not expect to win my way out. I did not, but I made them sweat. To the winner, I promised fair answers to three questions, which he could prepare while I visited the toilet. When I returned a video press conference was set up. Things like this could go to my head.

Brighton Bartkowski: This is Brighton Bartkowski. I am speaking to Dr. She-o-vann Richards, Alderman of Nashua New Hampshire and owner of FD Consulting, which has offices on Boston's South side. Dr. Richards, what brings you to Boston today?

Siobhan Richards: Oysters. I let the single word stand long enough to get some titters.

Yesterday we did a team building event at the final game of the Red Sox home stand. I was hoping for a home run ball from Papi, but no joy. Tonight, I am announcing the new heads of my Boston team: Veronica VanKampen and Dr. Vivian Wright, MIT and Dartmouth. Vivian is our number cruncher. Veronica handles the brass knuckles. That brought some laughter, as intended, but it died, also as intended.

BB: You are an Alderman in Nashua New Hampshire. Much of your business is in Concord New Hampshire and Manchester New Hampshire. In Boston, you are best known for mediating a real estate deal in Roxbury. What brings you downtown?

SR: Same answer as the first time, oysters. Wink. This bar is almost two hundred years old. I grew up in a house that's older, but I'm unusual. I wanted my team to get a taste for history. It does not hurt that it's a political bar. FDC does political consulting, so we may wind up here on occasion. I wanted them to know that a bar is a bar, even if JFK used to have a regular booth.

BB: What are your plans after Boston?

SR: That's a question for which I have no definitive answer. I will go back to Nashua. I recently purchased some acreage there, with a very old house, which I call Cloudrest. A great deal of work must be done to make it livable. Fortunately, there is a lot of help available and interest in a well documented restoration.

This spring I hope to establish a river dock—it's on the Merrimack River—and a good path from the dock to the main house complex. There is an overgrown orchard to prune and many maple trees for next winter. The land was tree harvested about 1800, so there are a large number of two hundred year old trees. Some should be thinned. The house itself is going to be designed by contest. I'll give you the online information.

Other than that, I plan to watch my people do their jobs.

That was the end of the interview. I had no idea what would become of it. The first thing B Bart asked, off the record, was if I really grew up in a two hundred year old house. Vivian, who knew it well, laughed. Elspeth had pictures ready, plus the article in the architectural quarterly. When he asked if I had anything to do with the merry-go-round wedding, I felt like patting him on his pointy little head. Next time shooting pool would not be the standard to earn an interview—unless I wanted a softy.

Friday I was serious about upgrading the office space. I rented the 4th floor of a building. Sean supplied me with a construction foreman (New Jersey was between projects). Mimi supplied another couple of hundred prospects, which we boiled down to three or four good workers. I turned down so many, I was afraid that the well would dry up. Mimi told me that my reputation was gold, that people were begging for a heads up on my jobs. Strange. I turn down 99%, but the 1% gets all the attention.

I turned the floor into advertised space for my consulting/lobbying firm and unadvertised space for the security people. It was about 60/40, but security was growing faster. Mimi was referring all her ex-military officers, SP and MP to us.

I took out an option on another floor, just in case. Security was not just growing, it was a cash cow. It turns out business owners like ex-military personnel doing their security. They seem to think it implied a willingness to use deadly force. Whatever floated their check. We were not earning it.

In all, things were far beyond my ability to keep track. Sean was giving me a great deal of top drawer consulting time at bargain basement prices. Without it we would have been lost. I mentioned I pirated two of his consultants. One, Hank Johnson, was now FDC's Chief Financial Officer. He hired half a dozen ex-quartermaster types, plus a couple of non-Ivy League MBAs. We would be contracting out next tax season.

It was so confusing, I finally called a conference. I reorganized everything into divisions, patterning on Richards Enterprises. In Concord there was the lobbying division and the legal division. In Manchester, there was a civic consulting division. In Boston we had statistical consulting, a (new) lobbying division, a legal liaison division and security, under Richard Harold. In Nashua, we had a small division for my personal use.

I had a lawyer draw it all up as a Delaware company, FDC LLC, with myself as managing director. My two best Concord people, Doris Miller and Howard Cockerham, Elspeth, Vivian, Veronica, Hank Johnson and Richard Harold were my Board. They all received 5% shares, for 35% the company, while I retained 65%.

I thought it was small change, but 5% of anything was more than some had ever owned. They had the authority to run things, which is what I told them all to do. As a parting gift, I gave them all PDAs on an integrated platform George designed for Silicon Valley. I almost felt badly about going to Nashua, with no intention of answering for a month.

Almost, but not quite. I was tired.



"Little" Sister Pt. 06



Author's note -- Minimal sex, and nothing graphic. Work. Work. Work. It's what you do when your fiancé is halfway around the world. 

Chapter 26 -- Hiding in Clouds

One nice thing about wealth is the ability to throw money at a problem, til it sinks. From my first meeting in the Nashua Alderman's Board, I had been going slowly crackers. Through long experience with my moods, I held things together for a few weeks. It was long enough to get some spadework done, such as creating a de facto board of directors. Then I had to get away from everyone.

In the past I had taken Shadow for long drives in the hills of Appalachia, but that would not be enough this time. I wanted to get off the grid for a while. Given time to plan, I acquired a pile of stuff for wilderness use. Not being a former scout, Cloudrest was close enough to wilderness for my purposes. Mostly it was camping gear, food, lanterns and fuel, a solar power battery charger, wifi booster, water filter and things of that nature.

It started the previous fall. At my urging, two Boy Scout troops had a weekend camp out on Cloudrest's clearing. I personally gave them a tour of the various buildings. As a project, the boys hauled a ton or so of small rocks to the river bank. It was a troop vs. troop contest, with weight limits on the rocks, for safety reasons. A pair of wire mesh cylinders were set in the mud about six feet off shore. Most of the stones filled the cages, forming columns. The remaining rocks made a shelf on the bank. Some beams and planking completed a temporary small boat pier.

The boys were very proud of it. The Nashua paper ran an article with a group photo. Sheila made them all a nice folder of images and would not even consider accepting payment for her time. The scout troops more or less adopted me. Oddly, while I was considered unattractive by most standards, I made a great maternal image. Go figure.

In any event, I was invited to the ceremony where the (many) merit badges were distributed. Sean said Sheila watched the whole video, with tears running down her face. I did better, but I had more experience putting on a good front. The images made great discussion topics at Christmas.

After my FDC summit, I drove to the Residence. In addition to dropping off video and still images, I picked up one of the Amish girls, Sarah Beiler. Mother Lapp was loaning her for a week. Sarah was the most tomboy of Sean's staff and I needed company, for safety if nothing else. I also figured an Amish girl would be better at coping if the situation went sideways. Cooking over a wood fire was a bonus skill.

Among my other purchases was an old Ford Explorer, trailer and boat with motor. Before loading up, I took the empty boat across to check out the pier. The winter had taken a toll, but not too bad. There was a noticeable tilt, from one rock column settling, but the structure seemed sturdy enough. Without further ado, we set off for a week in the woods. I was glad the house was not far from the pier. All that gear was heavy.

Generally, I did not know what to expect. I grew up near wooded areas, but never spent time in them. Some camp gear, like sleeping bags and foam pads are pretty self explanatory. Have you ever tried to start a Coleman lantern from directions, while the light is failing? We had campfire light the first night. In the morning I decided to set up the tent, inside the building. It was fucking cold, even indoors.

This is where bringing an Amish girl proved brilliant. At first light Sarah was up, building the fire and preparing breakfast. All my attempts at help were met with disapproval, except pouring water into the filter. That she found interesting. During the campout, an Eagle Scout candidate collected water samples and had them analyzed. The spring water was safe for drinking in a pinch, but not for long term. I told Sarah the water might make us sick, unless we filtered it or boiled it. This was good sense as far as she was concerned.

After breakfast I set up my computer apparatus. The solar collectors were spread on a sunny rock. They would recharge my spare battery when it was drained. The antennae clamped as high on the main house as I could manage. George promised the battery on the modem would be good for twice what I needed. There was a sunny parlor. I set my laptop on a table the scouts made. If I did not need to write, it was good enough. I turned everything on and checked it, then powered down.

That done, I went to find Sarah. She was making a broom from a fallen branch and some evergreen boughs. That was one thing I forgot. A clipboard was another. I hoped I would never find out if something was missing from the first aid kit. I also brought a digital camera, but no charging cable. At my apartment I always used the docking cradle.

Packed with the computer material, I found a three-in-one book of New England plants, animals and birds. I bought it as a reference for the trip, but I decided to give it to Sarah. Since I also brought binoculars, she could do some bird watching. She was delighted. In her gear was a pad of paper and a box of pencils. Sarah drew. It was news to me.

We set out to explore my hilltop meadow. The main house I knew well by this point. There was another largish building of uncertain purpose. Firewood storage? Maple rendering? Workshop? Whiskey still? It was a single large room with a massive fireplace. There were two spring houses (why two?) and what was likely a root storage. A fallen building might have been a smokehouse. Two buildings were nothing but charred stumps and foundation stones, probably the hay barn and stable.

Further out was the apple grove run wild. Sarah was very excited about that. We spent an hour scavenging small, wizened apples. Nearby was an impassable brier thicket. Sarah said they were berries. Every few minutes she would stop and open her drawing pad. She would draw the leaf or plant, then try to find it in the book. I told her to collect the leaves. She could spend her evenings doing drawings. Sarah sighed and agreed.

By the time we returned, it was late afternoon. I was tired and my feet were soaked from snow melt. No waterproof shoes. I had my leather raincoat, but nothing truly waterproof. Sarah made dinner, including a salad of greens she had collected, tossed with apple bits. The greens were strong and bitter, which contrasted well with the sweetness of the apple. I loved it. The beef jerky stew, not so much.

That evening, I dug into the stack of accumulated email. After less than 48 hours, I had over 200 business related messages. It was not hard to spot which of my people had significant corporate experience. They were less chatty, more likely to include relevant prior messages and much more likely to copy other people. Headings were very useful, but easily lost or changed.

I sent Elspeth a note, telling her to find some email training materials. One particularly clean string I sent to everyone, asking them to note how things hung together well. I commended the senders and asked everyone to emulate their work. It was much like passing back the first paper of a new term, with grades and comments. As I worked, familiar rhythms started to take over.

This was what I was good at doing. I could step back and sort out the tensions and dynamics. It was not a section of a large city, or generations of people returning to the city, but it was a problem of a sort I recognized. Basically it was about allocation of resources, specifically my time. There were things only I could do. We needed to focus on making those possible, even if I was unable to do some other things.

The list was not difficult:

・ I was an elected official. I needed to attend scheduled meetings.

・ I was founder and managing director. That meant I dealt with higher powers, such as the Governor or the IRS.

・ I handled the tough decisions. Like it or not, I asked for it.

・ I was the Big Bad Wolf, when necessary.

・ I was our only lip reader. This one would be tricky. There are times when information is life, but I could not spend all my time gathering it.

Everything else was a distraction.

Put in those terms, some things were obvious. Driving myself had been a waste of time. Using Johnson, I could work in the car, but I needed a bigger car. I needed to be firmer in my delegations, but lighter in my supervision. Elspeth was worth her weight in gold, but she could not be my only contact. I needed to plan further growth.

I was less than two years out of college and I employed almost thirty people full or part time. It was past time for a formal plan. To that end, and some of the ones above, an MBA or CPA was becoming necessary. I knew just the place to find one—my little old lady circle. Something to do next week.

I powered down, changed the battery, hooked the old battery to the charger and went to find Sarah. We spent the rest of the evening discussing her drawings. They were good, but not professional. Suggesting lessons would not give good results. Sarah's Amish heritage would consider it excessive. However, I thought she and Sheila could do something together. As far as I knew, Sheila had no drawing skills, but no one had a better eye. For the moment, I showed Sarah what little I knew of using perspective in drawings.

That night I slept like a rock, perhaps because I had already made my decision. The company would learn to service itself. It was a simple idea, but one that would influence everything. For one thing, I was not the only one who would have responsibility, so I would need to delegate authority. On the other hand, I could let the company serve me, as well as me serving it. That alone was a weight off my shoulders.

My experience was that projects could become all-consuming. To some extent, that was acceptable—in a project. Witness, for example, my first dissertation. Such maniacal devotion was less suitable as a lifestyle. During her decade long pursuit of stability, Sheila had almost forgotten to live. For that matter, she was missing her true objective. What she really wanted was a safe place to raise children.

I had charged full speed into my adult life. What had I forgotten to do along the way? To mark a mental reference point, ten years before I had been a high school junior. My proudest achievement, then, was finally gaining some freedom from my tormentors.

That was what really let me sleep. In another year I could attend my tenth year reunion, with something to show. There was an article about me in a national magazine. I could wear a power suit like no one else. I had letters after my name. I had a company that called me boss. I held elected office. I had a standing invitation to visit the most sacred address, in the most honored city in the country, and call the hostess by her first name. What the fuck did I have left to prove?

Instead, I had time to spend with Sarah. She was, by the standards of most high school students, dreadfully naive. That said, she knew all about the physical realities of sex, even though she learned by watching farm animals. She knew about flock rams and herd bulls. She also knew that cats and bitches submitting to any male. She know that geese were monogamous. Humans fit in all the above, and none.

I think I could have seduced her. After all, Sarah was a horny teenager. Instead, I taught her about erogenous zones. Christine once forced me to cum, touching only my hand and ear. I did not take things that far. Instead, I taught her about sensuality, with a bit of fantasy thrown in. The Song of songs did not hurt.

Victorian Christianity gives many people the wrong idea about Biblical Hebrews. Desert garb covers everything, yet under it is naked flesh. Underwear is a western thing. In Genesis, Jacob saw two sisters, Leah and Rebecca. Leah had muddy colored eyes, while Rebecca's eyes were beautiful dark brown. That was the standard of beauty because that was all you could see. Yet, getting naked involved only one layer of clothing.

In King David's old age he could not sleep at night, because he became cold. His courtiers brought a young girl to sleep with him, for warmth. It says expressly that they never had sex. However, she was technically his wife. After David's death, the girl was the prize that brought the kingdom. The tradition was that the new King needed to marry and bed the old King's wife, any wife.

Solomon did exactly that, to cement his claim to the throne. As it happened, they were both young and horny. Their marriage of State was not a burden to either of them; far from it. Solomon was clearly infatuated. He wrote her a book of poems, The Song of songs. You will find it in the Bible, right after Ecclesiastes, which Solomon also wrote.

Modern scholars teach that the Song is about Christ's marriage to the Church. I can allow that. However, it is also a fairly graphic depiction of a man and a woman's love for each other. That was the point I made to Sarah. Marriage was of two parties, side by side, both benefiting. She completely understood the idea of bulls or mules yoked together, side by side, pulling as a unit. She also understood that pairing mattered. The irony was how well I understood the traditional role of wife submitting to the husband, from the role of the husband.

I also showed her a bit of that. The Biblical roles of Christ and the Church are similar to the roles of Dom and sub. In both cases, trust is the most important element. Take away trust and D/s play becomes torture. Compare being subject to Church discipline if the Church did not have your best interests at heart. Movies have been made on this theme. Sarah knew Sheila and Christine, so she paid close attention. Of such examples, traditions are born.

Christine was the most biddable person I knew, yet I would pity the fool that tried to force her. She also knew that Christine would then ask Sheila to do to her the same thing the attacker tried. Sarah knew Christine's pranks and how subtle they could be. Christine could humiliate anyone. If a higher power was needed, Sheila could utterly destroy someone, and that she would on Christine's say so. Yet, she was the sub.

Christine could be like a glove on my hand, and that paled beside how close she was to Sheila. Christine got off on Sheila taking hours to tie her into an elaborate knot, using a dozen colors of rope, all on video. Lord Almighty, Sheila was good with rope. Christine also got off on playing the video for me, giving tongue service as it played, followed by a lashing and more tongue service.

I did not shock Sarah. She knew everyone too well. However, no one had spelled things out so clearly, so Sarah was moved. As I said, I could have seduced her. Instead I taught her about masturbation.

I love the word. It will quiet an entire room. In the English language, no word is more loaded with sexual content. There is only one meaning, yet the number of euphemisms is astounding—jacking, jilling, stroking, pumping, amusing, abusing, spanking, etc. Whole sentences are devoted to not using the word aloud.

I took Sarah's hands in mine. I stroked her palms with my thumbs, while I told her to be aware of her body, to focus on the sensations of her cunt (though I did not use that word). I told her that there were connections to what she felt on her breasts, the nape of her neck, her lips, her ear, even the back of her elbows and knees. This was normal. When a man and a woman made love, it was not like animals rutting. The whole body was involved.

By this point Sarah was red and sweaty. Her hands continually jerked as she sought to touch herself. I prevented her, giving her a different sort of stimulus. When I released her hands, Sarah sat back, wide eyed and panting. I told her that the Bible did not prohibit touching oneself in those places. Sarah stumbled to her feet and ran from the room.

Mother Lapp allowed Sarah to come with me because there would be no men. Sucker. Sheila could have warned her. I did not know where Sarah went, but I could hear her release—three times. I was already in my bag when Sarah came in for the night. In my mind's eye, her expression was reproachful. In the morning, she was up before dawn, with the breakfast over the fire.

That day I kept my distance. At first, Sarah was also distant. As the day wore on, the spacing dropped, til we were closer than normal. I pulled back. Sarah looked irritated, but did not seem to know why. Instead of spending time talking, we explored a great deal more of Cloudrest's hill.

Our spring ran down the slope for some distance, almost disappearing at one point. When it grew, it was soon joined by other streams. Before long the stream grew wide and the going difficult. I guessed that we were close to the river. A short climb to a rock knob, proved me right. We were just above a river inlet, almost a cove. I could see at least two other streams running to the inlet.

The rock knob on which I stood was worth remembering. I took several pictures and asked Sarah to draw Knob Point. It would take a bit of work, but the inlet would make a good permanent place for boats. I resolved to return in the morning by water, but that was for later. Sarah and I skirted around the cove. At each stream we recorded landmarks above the stream heads, I with camera, she with drawing pad. I was fairly sure it was all my land, but it would have to be checked.

Noon had come and gone, so we stopped for lunch on the knob. Clear a few tree branches and it would be an ideal picnic spot, with a beautiful view of the river. I resolved to return when the trees turned autumn colors. After lunch we moved sideways to the next stream. We followed up its course til it was a mere trickle. Above us was a saddle, so we continued that far. As views go, it was disappointing—all trees.

Since we had come to the stream from the right, we circled to the left, trying to maintain elevation. In short order, we were stuck. The slope continued up, but the level path was heavy trees. Compared to Cloudrest's hill, this was impenetrable. Even after two hundred years, there was a noticeable difference between virgin forest and trimmed land. I had contour maps, but they told me what I already knew—home was through the trees.

Feeling like Sam and Frodo on the Emym Muir, we forced our way through the thicket. It was nasty. Branches clawed at us. Roots tripped us. I will never know how far we could have gone, because we suddenly broke through into tall trees. Heavy shade kept the low branches and undergrowth to a minimum, though roots still jutted up. We circled left to a dry bed, then around another hill, to another dry bed.

Afternoon turned to evening and home was nowhere in sight. As we skirted the hill, the undergrowth was getting thick again. I was thinking we would have to force our way through another thicket of brush, when Sarah cried out. Before I could speak, she was dashing down the slope. I brought a country girl so that she could find her way in the woods, so I followed. Not five minutes later, we were standing by one of the spring houses on Cloudrest's slope.

Never had running water looked so good, but we didn't drink. Instead, I dropped my canteen cup in the cold flow and we splashed the water on our faces. It's funny. On the hillside, I was hot and thirsty, but I never thought to drink from the canteen. After the cold water cooled us a bit, we both drank from the canteen. It was warmish, but it tasted great. Sarah stepped back, so she could draw me sitting by the water's edge. I still have that one.

Hours later, after dark, Sarah and I retraced our path on the map. It was barely as long as my pinkie was wide. The dry beds were tiny bumps in the contour line. The distance was under ten miles, counting the hike to the knob. It had been a difficult and frightening afternoon, yet we had done nothing wrong. Almost nothing. We overestimated how fast we could move and underestimated how far we needed to go. Of such things, people have died.




"Little" Sister Pt. 06



In the morning, we went down to the boat. It was a very basic flat bottomed boat, with a small motor. Sarah did not like the motor, but liked rowing even less. We went down to the inlet below the knob, then came back to the pier. Two thirds of the time, or more, was coming upriver, against the wind. We barely made it back indoors before the rain came.

It was another sobering time. Had the rain come a day before, we would have been caught on the knob. Had it come three hours later, we might have died. Perhaps not. I did have rain ponchos and emergency food, but getting back before dark would have been chancy at best. There were no lights to serve as a beacon. Perhaps we could have found shelter. "Perhaps" was not comforting.

Sarah was comforting. While I had been doing business things, Sarah had stacked an impressive pile of firewood. We went through a chunk of it that afternoon. Still, I was able to show her something. She had heard of marshmallows, but not the kind I meant. Her marshmallow was a wetland flower. I dug out a rather mashed bag of the white kind. Sarah quickly caught on to the idea of toasting them in the fire. We stuffed ourselves on marshmallows and wound up skipping dinner.

The next day was our last full day. The sun was out, but everything was soaked. Next time, rubber boots. It was my first chance to check my laptop and other gear at the main house. I was lucky that the wind had blown away from the window, because there was no glass and the shutters were wide open. The trip was becoming a catalog of stupid. As it was, the laptop was just a bit damp.

Crossing my fingers, hoping that sleep mode would have prevented any real damage, I unhooked from the cat five cable and took it to sit near the fire, but not too close. I forced myself to wait an hour before I tried to start it up. Sarah made us a big breakfast to make up for skipping dinner, which passed the time. Once I determined the laptop was functional, I took it back to the antennae. I finally could check the weather. An hour later, with much of our gear still in the small house, Sarah and I boarded the boat and headed for civilization.

What kind of idiot did that kind of thing for fun? Chapter 27 -- Ticking Clocks

Since I was back a day early, a lot of people did not know I was back in town. What was interesting was patrolling the exceptions. They came in three flavors—in-company senior, in-company junior, not from FDC. Since I had administrator privileges, I read the email stacks of some that had not messaged me.

For example, Vivian had several queries when I would be back. She replied that she understood her job, so she was good for a few days on her own. Veronica would query back, asking what they were doing that would get them in trouble. One of Sean's people, Howard Cockerham, was completely out of his depth. The other, Richard Harold, was running his area as if I did not exist. I was unsure which was worse, but neither was good.

Sean talks about the expressions on his manager's faces, when they are put to the test. Often the test is unfair and there is no winning action. Trekkers know this as the Kobayashi Maru scenario. There is no winning play, unless you cheat. Captain Kirk cheated, which is an event of its own. It appeared that I had plucked one of Sean's people from both sides of the scenario. That was food for thought.

Personnel decisions are one of Sean's major strengths as a businessman. He grades at genius level for selecting people from the field, Sheila being just one example. I did not target that high. Decent results would be enough. So far Veronica was producing them for me. I decided to trust my feelings at least that far. This meant giving Veronica her head. While this was twenty degrees of scary, I went with it.

The other side of Boston's coin was Security Services. Richard Harold was a retired Military Police First Sergeant. All of my military people deferred to him habitually. To some degree I liked that, but he was taking things a bit too far. When I got back to Boston we would see eye to eye, or he would be walking home.

In Concord, I had the opposite problem. No one wanted to take charge. No wonder both sides of Boston was growing faster. Howard Cockerham was an excellent record keeper, but he could not decide which fork to use. I needed someone to tell him what to do, all day, every day. In other words I needed someone like Veronica, but with a Granite State accent.

All this was first impressions, from a single week of sabatical. Still, I was fairly confident of my ground. Of the two, I expected Concord to take longer, so Johnson and I heading for Boston. I hoped for a quick fix, because I could at least hope that First Sergeant Harold would recognize me as his command authority.

On the road, I contacted Gerald. He was full of theory, but not so much practical help. This was a common issue between us. Finally he said, "Stop worrying about it. Channel Sheila and you'll be fine. Most people I would tell to channel Sean, but you've been doing that all your life. Sheila is the one you need to focus on."

That made entirely too much sense. Gerald once said that Sheila could deliver a thirty minute briefing in fifteen seconds. She could verbally cut you to ribbons, without raising her voice. You might not get her sharpest point for a week. In a way, it was complimentary. Stupid people would never get it all. Gerald also said that soft handling fools was not one of Sheila's skills.

Put like that, what I needed to do was obvious. When I arrived in Boston, I spent an hour with Veronica. Mostly she told me what she wanted to do, and I told her what resources I could let her have. As I left, I told her that I liked the direction we were going. Then I corrected myself. I said I liked the direction she was steering.

My meeting with Richard Harold took almost as long. Rather than talk about what we were doing in Boston, I picked his brain about how to get things rolling in Concord. Not only did he have a ton of leadership training, he also knew Howard Cockerham. I always have my phone on dictation. This was one occasion where I was very glad I did.

Richard's perceptions reinforced most of mine, but his were more structured and systematic. He gave me several signs to watch for and tips for when they happened. It was time well spent. As I left, I told him I had the right man in his job. He could stop trying to impress me. If that did not compress a long conversation to two sentences, I did not know how to do it.

For everyone's morale, I handed Veronica and Richard a couple of gift cards to Gino's Deli. They could get lunch catered in. It was the way Sean would have handled it. He was fond of paying for a round he did not stay to drink. Instead, I indulged in a chocolate shake. What I had just done was easy, relaxed, almost fun. What waited in New Hampshire was going to be work.

Since it was already afternoon, I decided to sleep over in my Nashua apartment. This presented a problem, since I had a driver. I tried to put Johnson up in a Motel Six, but he refused. I had to suppress a smile, because I expected him to do exactly that. He slept on my sofa and I promised to find an apartment with a guest room.

This proved remarkably easy. I called the building manager. She told me she had a couple that wanted to buy a house, but had five months left on their lease. She was willing to let me move to that apartment, provided the paperwork costs were covered. Reading between the lines, she wanted to give the newlyweds a break. She could eat six months on my lease, because I would be signing a twelve month lease on a higher rent unit. Lost in all this was one detail. It was a penthouse apartment.

Two days later, in Concord, we went through a lot of this again. I took over four months of a graduating student's lease, decorated in Early American Garage Sale. She was a Criminal Justice major, so I gave her Richard Harold's number in Boston and thought no more about it. More time was spent on restocking the pantry. I sent Johnson back to Nashua to supervise the change of apartments.

Suddenly, it was Friday night. Elspeth was in Boston on a family thing. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do til Monday and no one to spend time with. For me, this was uncharted territory. During seven years of college and grad school, Friday was a study night. If I went out, it was on Saturday, and the "if" was a big one.

On a whim, I called Adele Cabot. You can imagine the conversation, "It's Friday night, my guy is overseas and I have nothing to do." Adele was amused. She promised to have someone call me. Call me gullible, I never expected it to be the Governor.

That was how I acquired an invitation to a Republican fund raiser. Go figure that one out, since the Governor was a Democrat. The guest speaker was my old friend Ann Coulter. There was an almost electric shock when our eyes locked across the room. About five minutes later, a polite young man came by and asked what I had been doing for the last three years.

That was about as loaded as a question can get and still be innocent. I gave it to him in time line version—Dartmouth grad student, wedding preparations, wedding, Dartmouth trained seal, starting FDC, paroles and pardons, Beacon House, South Boston, Nashua Alderman, Cloudrest, investigative services. As I spit it out, I was thinking, "Damn girl. Busy enough?" The young man had a similar reaction, "I only wanted three years." I don't think he believed me when I told him it was only the highlights.

After that is was cold Chicken Kiev, with limp salad and cheap Chablis. Before the coffee and deserts came out, the New Hampshire Republican Chairman rose to make the introduction. I zoned out. Ann Coulter rose and gave her speech. That lasted through coffee and dessert. I was beginning to think of leaving when I heard my name.

Ann was introducing me to the guests. She mentioned both my degrees, the famous wedding, my Alderman position, both my companies, even Cloudrest. She concluded that I was a frequent guest on Sean Hannity's show and asked me to stand. Blushing like a virgin girl in a boy's locker room, I rose.

Ann said, "Imposing isn't she? How about a debate?"

The clapping would not stop til I was at the podium. When I could ask for silence, I said, "I have no idea why Governor Sheehan suggested I come here. I'm not a Republican. On the other hand, I'm also not a Democrat. Maybe she expected Ann to scare me into the Democrat's arms—she's done that more than once, you know. Maybe she was expecting you to run me for federal office and keep me out of the Court. Lord only knows what she does now, with both houses against her." That bought me a few laughs.

I continued, "Ann and I met backstage at the Sean Hannity TV studio. Our segment was canceled, so we had an hour to talk. I did what comes naturally. I stuck my silver foot in my mouth." More laughter. I could play this crowd. "In any event, my fiancé is overseas, so I had nothing better to do than bore all of you. What do you think? Is a lesbian-leaning bisexual entertaining?" That brought no applause and little laughter.

Ann took the microphone. "She has two Doctorates, with honors, from two of the best schools in the world. She orchestrated the most famous wedding in a decade, not involving Royalty. She started a company, which two years later employs over thirty people. Her bother did four years in the Army, as a grunt, and now runs a billion dollar corporation. Face it gentlemen, she is what both parties want, but rarely get.

"To business, five questions. Snaking reply. I'll give her rebuttal on the first question. You."

The five questions could have been better. Ann was asked about Islamic expansion in the Middle East. I was asked about Obamacare, which I corrected to the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. I would accept ACA, but give it some respect. Ann was asked about Republican Presidential chances in Florida and Ohio. I was asked about Title Nine, which has to do with women's sports.

Before the final question I called a pause. I asked Ann whether she wanted reply or rebuttal. She said to flip for it. So, with full formality, we had the MC toss a coin. I won reply. As a preamble, I was asked which Congressional District I was in. That was not a simple question. With appeals to some of the lawyers in the room, it was determined I could claim either of the two, but not both. After that was settled, the question was simple—would I consider running against Ann Custler?

I had to hand it to the guy, it was a question worthy of Sheila. Ann Custler was a not unpopular first term Democrat Representative. In the coming midterm election, she would be one of the Republican's targets, but a tough one. For one thing, she had beaten a three term Republican to get the position in Washington.

The question assumed many things—that I might run as a Republican, even though I had never registered as one, that I was electable and that the Party would throw it's weight behind me. To give credit to the people in the room, no one missed the implications. There was dead silence while I thought things through. In the end, it was obvious.

I said, "Sure. I will consider running. No promises." All hell broke loose.

Chapter 28 -- Course Change

The Concord Monitor Sunday edition ran my picture on the front page of the local section. The caption was, "No Promises", sub-captioned, "Dr. Richards will consider running." The story detailed my surprise appearance on stage at the fund raiser, connections to Ann Coulter and Sean Hannity, my college and business background and my status as Alderman in Nashua. I have had worse coverage.

I mentioned before that New Hampshire is a very politically aware state. Monday morning I was besieged by attention, only about half from the press. It quickly became apparent that I could no longer walk the Halls of the Capital in relative anonymity. If I spied a conversation across the room, three times in four it was about me.

I called Governor Sheehan. Rather than the switchboard, I was put straight through to her desk. To make a long conversation short, it was not her idea to push me toward elected office, but she wished me luck. On a more urgent subject, she promised her endorsement on a bill declaring Cloudrest a State Historical Site. More money for my growing non-profit restoration fund.

In related news, PBS was trying to contact me. Their long running show This Old House wanted a piece of the restoration project. That was a bit of a problem, since the main house was already parceled out for design competitions. Still, there was the odd single room building. They were interested in that.

No one had ever come up with a satisfactory explanation for the big room. The show's producer thought it would make a good wood crafter's shop. The big fireplace could be used for a wood drying kiln. It was not exactly period, but it fit the original use of the land, plus it would be useful in the main building restorations. Several large trees had already been marked for cutting. Sawing them into boards and curing them on site would add to the drama of the reconstruction.

Dr. Singh at Yale thought that this was an excellent plan. He also suggested that the largest marked trees be girdled (a strip of bark removed all the way around) and left standing. In a year they would be ready for rough cut use. That was all very period to the house. Smaller trees could be thinned for building and finish wood, using more modern techniques.

Rather than give a full course in frontier house construction, it suffices to say that load bearing timbers would be needed. These timbers might have a two foot square cross section. They could be taken from the heart of, say, a two hundred year old native hardwood. Five such trees were already marked for removal on the future path from house to pier. Reluctantly I gave approval. About a dozen smaller trees would also be harvested. Those I reserved for future use.

Elspeth actively enjoyed the dance of the many, sometimes competing, interests in Cloudrest. I left things to her while I went back to Concord. There, once again, I was confronted by a problem. I had several very good order takers on site, but no order givers. In The Devil wore Prada, Miranda Priestly gave orders with a wince, a frown, a pursing of the lips. I may have worn Prada, but Miranda Priestly was no role model of mine. Instead, I looked for someone with the drive and gumption I needed to run the office.

My problem was that, for the first time in my life, I was popular. In Concord, New Hampshire, I was recognized as a person of influence. If I called the Governor, she took the call. If I told the Republican Committee so-and-so, they would make it happen. Everyone wanted to be the one that made me happy. Mostly it sickened me. I knew toadies and ass kissers from high school and loathed them. It made no difference that it was my ass they wanted to kiss.

I wasted three weeks wading through the soup of wanna-bees and sycophants. The time was not wholly unproductive. If nothing else I was the source of decisions the office needed. The next full legislative session was in September. The chaotic state looked like it might continue til then.

When I received a call from an old friend, Morgan Robertson, it was like water in the desert. Morgan was a three term State Representative and two term State Senator. Short of Governor, there were no more rungs for her to climb, at least in New Hampshire. I had a good idea what she wanted.

Among the perks of being in politics are easy reservations at popular restaurants. I reserved a table in Morgan's name at Angela's, a better than average Italian restaurant. I could have tried for a reservation in my own name, which probably would have worked, but I would be guaranteed a gallery of reporters, lackeys and information brokers. As a State Senator, Morgan was ensured a place, but without as much fanfare. It sort of worked. She also had spotters watching her movements.

I had pre-ordered chef's choice antipasto, pasta prima-vera with shrimp and chicken diavlo. The agnolotti créma rosa was coming to the table as we were seated. This was fortunate, since it is considered more impolite to interrupt actual dining. As long as there was food in front of us, we had a buffer.

We nibbled on seafood half moons, while the staff brought us iced tea and diet soda. Morgan gave off the impression that she wanted a cocktail, or two, but was restrained by the public setting. Before long, I offered her the choice of chicken or seafood. She chose the shrimp, so I took the chicken diavlo.

Morgan made her confession over coffee and cannoli. She planned to retire from state politics. My first instinct was to offer condolences. My second was to inquire why. I went with the third impulse. "Do you have anything lined up?"

Sheila would say, "Listen for the Maestro's tap." She means look for the driving motivation. Morgan was putting out frustration. My first impulse was that she was leaving blind. Morgan had called me, which said something. She may have been fishing for a job. She may have been turning to the only sympathetic voice in a hostile town. She may have been following her instincts blindly. Whatever the reason, I was the answer.

For some reason, I flashed on a Tom Selleck episode of The Rockford Files. Selleck's character, Lance White, is written as being too good to be real. He always spots the important clue. Everything times out exactly right. If something is missing, he walks right to it. So, he solves the impossible cases. Selleck is a good enough actor that you get a sense of weariness at all the adulation.

It was weird for me to be cast as Tom Selleck, but there it was. For me, the timing could not have been better. I consoled myself with the thought that Sean had recruited his corporate attorney in the DMV offices. Shit happens the way it happens. Before midnight, Morgan Robertson was not just a retiring state senator. She was also the prospective head of my Concord office and my new Chief of Staff. All I had to do was make it work.




"Little" Sister Pt. 06



Morgan said, early in our conversation, "It's hard slogging it out for years, then you make it look so easy." That was Rockford's take in the episode. Hearing it about myself was really irritating. What did I make look easy? Politics? Senator Robertson came to me for aid on one of her pet ideas. I threw time, resources and people at the project. It now was complete, except for the ribbon cutting. Morgan, not myself, would receive the bulk of the political credit.

Was it business? In less than three years I had invested well over a million dollars of my inheritance. In all that time I could count breakeven months on one hand. Cloudrest represented another half a million dollars spent money. If I did not have donors lined up to Sunday, there would be no way to do the restoration.

Heaven knew Morgan could not envy my personal relationships. I had a devoted assistant and some loyal associates, but my chief romantic interest was on a different continent. Physically, my relief used 110 volt AC current. What had I done that an accomplished professional politician should envy?

I started cataloging the people I relied on and the contacts that I had made. That was when it hit me. They say you can tell a person's character by his friends. If that was true, I had a damn fine resume.

No one can control their family, but mine was a significant asset. I had people like Francine Martel, Governor Sheehan, Pedro de la Garza and Adele Cabot on speed dial, not counting the ones in academia. The Rolodex included half the money men on Manhattan Island, Sean Hannity, Ann Coulter, most of the powers that be in both City of Boston and State of New Hampshire politics and a solid cross section of Hollywood.

I was traveling in the express lane and never noticed. Dr. Steele already told me that I had a tenured position, at an Ivy League University, available on request. I knew without thinking that MBC&L would offer me a mid six figure income, plus another for Elspeth, just for my contacts. Governor Sheehan had hinted at similar things. Indeed, I was out of her price range. The New Hampshire Republican Party wanted to groom me for Washington.

No wonder Morgan Robertson was a bit jealous. Washington was probably a dream of hers, one which she was giving up as lost. I knew what I could do about that. As I thought it, the whole patchwork of my life shifted. The decision to run for Congress was already made. What lay in front of me was the implications. I had been angling toward this moment, without realizing it. It was why I was here, now, in the place where the work needed to be done.

My reward, for working like a dog for ten years, was more work. Life's a bitch that way. I toasted life, one bitch to another.

Chapter 29 -- Capital Capital

Decisions often simplify other decisions. Mine certainly did. Once I decided to let myself be seduced by the Republicans, my driving objective was to find a competent person to run the Concord office. Morgan Robertson was ideal, if I could get her to take the job. In this I had an advantage and a handicap.

The handicap was that I was not going to offer the money others might. The advantage was that Morgan clearly thought my star was rising. She might want to hitch her cart to my horse. Lacking anything concrete, my gut said she was making me an offer, contingent on me finding suitable compensation. In this case, money was low on the list, but I could not ignore it.

Fortunately, I could find out what New Hampshire was paying her. That would be the baseline. Everything else would stack on top of it. For example, I could give her a 5% slice of FDC. That would leave me with 60%. Another carrot would be freedom to take speaking engagements and the contacts to acquire them. As a sitting Senator, her hands were largely tied.

Still, the biggest selling point would be my future. Morgan wanted to be involved, but only if I was headed up. With that in mind, I returned some calls. None of them were decision makers, but they were somewhere in the ranks. Word would work its way up the food chain. The call came from an attorney, no surprise, that Donald Erkfurt wished to meet with me.

Mr. Erkfurt was a former prosecutor for the City of Manchester. He had moved on to a series of law firms, all of which represented one political entity or another. After ten years as a lobbyist/campaign worker, he graduated to running mayoral campaigns in Manchester, Nashua and Concord. He managed Donna Lee's most recent election. At a guess, he was delegated to give me the sniff test. More investigative vetting would surely be done behind the scene.

We met for drinks at the local artisan brewer, the Barley Malt Pub. One point in his favor. It was the most authentic Irish style pub I had yet seen in New Hampshire. Sean would love it. To make the evening short, I had ale poached fish and a pint of red ale. Mr. Erkfurt had fish and chips, with at least five pints of stout. Our table was observed from at least two others, possibly more.

The low-light came when the waiter brought a bar tab for all but one of Mr. Erkfurt's beers. There had been a discussion about what to do about his drinking on duty, so I saw the showdown coming. This gave me the opportunity to watch the other tables. The most obvious pair were laughing at Mr. Erkfurt's reaction. At another table, the man facing me leaned back with a big grin. The other man was deep in a cell phone conversation. Coincidentally a man on the far side of the room was also in a deep conversation. Hmmm.

I thanked Mr. Erkfurt for his time and rose to leave. Sure enough, both cell phones went down together. I walked across the room to the third table. I said, "Thank you for an excellent meal. Perhaps we can talk face to face next time."

Turning to the door, I caught three shocked expressions. By far the most shocked was Mr. Erkfurt, who turned ashen. While I was exiting the parking lot, a boy came running out of the restaurant. He gave me a business card and went back inside. The card was for a local car dealer. On the back was a number. I drove home, changed clothes and brewed tea before calling it.

The short version was that I passed the audition, not that this made things easier. The next day was a constant reminder that I am easy to spot. Everywhere I went, I was followed. Where I passed, heads turned and conversations stopped. It was both flattering and annoying. When I arrived at the office, Howard Cockerham came in, asking what I had said last night. It seemed I had pushed the latest school shooting off the top of the gossip list. I told him to shut the door and pull up a chair.

Once settled, I said, "Howard, I came to Concord to make some changes. It has been very clear that more gets done when I am in house. I do not intend to be 'in house' permanently, so I will be putting someone in my place, meaning over everyone else. That someone will not be you."

I watched him closely. In my opinion, he expected exactly this conversation. He tried to work up wounded indignation, but his relief was palpable. I waited for his expression to settle down, then continued, "I appreciate all your hard work. I think the next manager will appreciate it as well. You have many skills and admirable qualities, but I do not think being the boss is one of them. If it is any consolation, I am going to try recruiting a veteran Concord insider. He or she will need your help."

It says something of Howard that his reply was, "Morgan Robertson?" There was approval in his attitude.

I said, "She's my first choice. Be aware that I intend to give her a lot of rope. If she wants to take speaking engagements, write a book or take up bridge, she can. All I will care about is building from our base. Also, I may be..."

He broke in, "...running for Congress. You do make things interesting. If I did not already know your relation to Sean, I would be asking, 'Do you plan to marry your workout coach?'" There was a definite twinkle with that quip. I told him to go back to work.

An hour later I had much the same conversation with Morgan Robertson. All that was left was detail work. I spent most of the summer tracking down issues. The September session of the Court was a goldmine of business. I was an interesting new face, but Morgan Robertson was well known and respected. Nothing was official before October 1st. By then Morgan was essentially running the New Business side of the office. On October 15th I went back to Nashua semi-permanently. Things had changed there as well. After two days I decided to visit Cloudrest.

Lest one misunderstand, I still spent at least one day a week in Concord and another in Boston. That said, I wanted to focus on my coming race, not on the renovations to Cloudrest. For that, I took a break. In hindsight, I should have let my people know in advance.

PBS had finished their project. This Old House had proven a difficult partner. While they supplied expert workers, I supplied the materials. Since I was paying, I wanted input on which materials they would use. They thought this was unreasonable.

Basically, they wanted to use cutting edge building supplies. I wanted the to use materials suitable for the original construction. We compromised. They used solid wood beams and boards, but were allowed to redesign the big fireplace and construct a wood drying kiln.

During the planning, we took to calling it the Woodshop, which would be our first use for the space. The following year, main house projects would need a sheltered place to build frames and fabricate pieces. From that basic understanding much discussion arose. Power, for example.

I went along with the show on this one. All electric power was generated on site and would be for some time. The show wanted to showcase alternate methods. Instead of electricity, compressed air powered the shop tools. This came from a diesel compressor and 500 gallon air tank. There was a whole show dedicated to running the high pressure lines throughout the building. More importantly, it worked. Almost all the necessary woodworking tools were available in a compressed air version.

One section of the building was rigged with racks for cured wood storage. That all looked very lumber yardish, but normal. So did the big fireplace, though it was almost anything but normal. Sure it had fire dogs and a screen, for normal use. If you looked more closely, over the flames were heat exchange pipes. These were for the drying kiln on the other side of the wall. From the outside it looked like a shed, built lean-to style against the stone wall. In this I sidestepped the show a bit.

You could also see pipes leading to the roof. George (my brother) assured me the rooftop solar collectors were state of the art. Evidently it was much easier to get solar heat than solar electric power, though we did both. Solar electric current ran the ventilation fans. The whole rig used cutting edge temperature controls and safety cutoffs. It was so efficient at heating the kiln, that the fireplace would only be needed during winter, if then.

Nearby was a small stone building, the new smithy. I had to look twice, because it had not been there before. Though it was not for This Old House, the same crew did the work. It was planned as a three part special on PBS, possibly leading to a new program.

Everyone knew I had affiliations with the Amish. This smithy was designed so that an 18th century blacksmith would be at home. A portion of the stream was diverted to fill a large cistern. The smith needed a ready source of water, but the main reason was a water powered forge fan. It was a very Amish solution.

This all sounds rather static, but it was nothing of the sort. When I arrived at the hilltop, there were three different construction crews working, plus another work crew clearing trees from paths. Every work crew had an integrated camera crew. It was all coordinated from the main house, in fact from same room I used in the spring. During the summer the room had acquired electrical power and glass in the windows.

When I arrived, everyone was rushing to beat the winter weather, though there was another crew ready to cover that as well. Work on the main house would mostly wait for the new year, but winterizing the house was worth an episode of someone's show. A master woodcrafter was instructing several apprentices on the fine points of weather shutters.

The county had run a dirt road to the property line, though it was still four wheel drive due to stumps. The county would pull them in the spring. The driveway would be ready. It was already cleared of rocks, trees and stumps. That day a crew was digging drainage ditches and compacting the crown prior to spreading gravel.

The heaviest work I had already seen, at riverside. The little Boy Scout pier was still in place, though it had been shimmed level. Two hundred feet downstream, heavy equipment was driving industrial piers for a cargo dock. Dirt and rock from the driveway ditches was coming here to fill holes left by tree roots. Other trees were marked for later removal. In the spring, another drive would run from house to pier.

Tree removal was a big issue. The apple grove needed to be thinned, by at least half. The crown of the hill was treeless, but all around were thickets which needed taming. Mostly it was the smaller growth that needed pruning, but occasionally a big tree was marked. Often the marked trees were already girdled, so the wood would cure standing.

One row of markings went down a ridge, parallel to the stream. I followed it. There were several tangles, but nothing bad. Before long I recognized the rocky knoll, where Sarah and I had stopped in the spring. As I hoped, an area was already cleared. This would be a perfect place for a picnic gazebo. However, there was nothing suggesting a boat house. I would have to check into that.

The sky had been partly cloudy most of the day. As I walked back up the hill, the gaps between clouds filled in. Before I reached the main house, lights were starting to come on. Where the work used no electricity, light was from gas or propane lanterns. In many cases, this was intentional, to document non-electric techniques. In other places, it was just simpler than having a generator.

I was reminded how electrical power is a constant in our lives. One reason for pushing the construction of a cargo dock was a pair of 36,000 watt diesel generators. They needed to be on site and secured before the really bad weather hit. In the spring, they would provide power for construction, cameras, lighting and support. Even after the house was tied into the county grid, they would provide backup power. Til then it was portable generators or non-electric methods.

Dusk came early. Workers were scurrying to close everything up. As if to urge things along, a cold drizzle began to fall. I buttoned up, glad I had worn my raincoat. The long coat had been overly warm most of the afternoon. For this it was perfect, though my walking shoes were not. I had packed galoshes this time, but they were in the boat. Oh well, live and learn. I pulled a knit cap from my coat pocket and put it on.

The electric light in the main house was a beacon no one could miss. I had almost reached the entrance when the door opened. A man stopped in the doorway, looking surprised to see me. He turned and spoke to someone inside. After a short exchange another man came out.

He said, "This is private property. I am going to have to ask you to leave. How did you get here?"

I wanted to see how much he knew and what his chain of command was like, so I answered, "I have permission from the owner. In fact, I was in Concord last weekend. Call her if you like, but let's get out of the rain."

My reference to rain seemed to surprise him. He was under an awning, so the drizzle was not getting him wet. After a quick glance at my coat, he waved me inside. As I stood in the doorway, several cameras flashed. From the room, a voice said, "The Winter Queen returns."

His name was Simon Garrett, a forest and wildlife photographer. He was familiar with The Queen of Winter from a photo competition. Whatever the reason, it was a great way to open the conversation.

I said, "That was my fur lined sealskin coat, not this raincoat. I never knew what the fuss was about. It was not even twenty below." I extended my hand. We shook. "Siobhan Richards. This is my house."

Sean claims I have a thing for entrances. Maybe he has a point. I certainly played that one up. Unfortunately, it was to a room full of photographers and videographers. There are two video recordings, with sound, from before the door opened. I never counted the still cameras. Clips and prints kept showing up for years.

At the time, my claim to be the owner caused a stir. It did not take long to sort out that I really was Siobhan Richards and that someone named Richards was the owner. That was good enough for most of them, and quieted the rest. From that point I won them over by asking good questions. These men were hands-on types. They recognized someone that had walked the property. Once the ice was broken, they told me a great many things about a great many things.

For example, I was only vaguely aware of the tree survey. My property was unusual, since much of it was once harvested for timber, but was long fallow. Just as important, there were areas of virgin woods for comparison. The US Department of Forestry and the University of Arizona were doing a joint study, which brought Simon Garrett. National Geographic was documenting the survey. Mr. Garrett was their photographer.

It was interesting stuff. I learned that I owned a couple of truly enormous trees. There was an eighty foot American Sycamore in one valley. On a hilltop was one of the largest sweet gum trees in North America, almost a hundred feet. Nearer the house was a very large specimen of black walnut and several good sized black cherry trees. Evidently people were bidding for rights to make furniture from them.

Twelve varieties of oak had been identified. There were groves of native beech and linden, numerous examples of white birch (the state tree) and sugar maple. On the coniferous side, one section of pine trees may have been planted, following a clear cut. While not orderly, the hillside was almost uniformly Eastern white pine. There was also a wetland area, thick with cedar and birch, and the occasional black willow.

All the photographers were drooling over the fall color. Three of them started arguing about the best way to shoot the massive sweet gum. Others wanted to take shots of the river bank, from a boat. The most controversial idea was to make a shooting stand in the branches of a hilltop oak tree. Oddly, that led to a discussion of water for the house.

While there was a spring near the house, it was not a large one. Some of the nearby hills had springs as well. The tallest of the nearby hills—the one with the crowning oak tree—had a spring above the level of the house. It looked possible to build a proper filtration system and still get drinking water gravity fed into the house. HGTV was planning a multi-episode event around the project. News to me.

We talked til well past midnight. When I suggested going to get my things from the boat, three guys dashed for the door. I had the foresight to use a waterproofed bag for the bedroll, but it was not proof against standing water. My bedroll was half soaked. Several guys offered their roll, while two others offered blankets. That was when I realized there was not another female in the house. Doh!

We sorted out who had enough to spare me something. I slept that night in a couple of blankets, on my own sleeping pad, in a room with six guys. I had no intention of taking a cold shower, but several of them commented on getting one. This proved a running joke.




"Little" Sister Pt. 06



Morning ablutions were from cold spring water. There was a shower tank, but no one used it in the morning, because the afternoon sun heated the water. Warm water showers were scheduled. Those with the winning tickets also had to fill the shower tank for for the next day. Anyone could take a cold shower, but he would still have to help fill the tank.

After a massive breakfast, I climbed back in my boat and headed for civilization. Two guys came with me, to do grocery shopping. I let them keep the boat for the duration, with the understanding that they also maintained it. During the hour at the A&P, I wondered why two men were shopping. It finally occurred to me that they did not want me alone with just one of them. Me, needing a chaperon. Who'd a thunk it?

All in all, it was an educational stop over.

Chapter 30 -- Winter Wonderland

The timing for my trip to Cloudrest proved inspired. The rest of October turned nasty. Sleet and freezing rain do not make for good driving, but boating is even worse. November brought stormy weather, followed by a brief warm spell. At my suggestion, a set of cameras were stationed on Cloudrest's hilltop, giving 24 hour video coverage of things like the main house, the Woodshop and a set of weather instruments.

Vivian wrote program to time track the temperature, humidity, barometer, rain/snowfall and wind speed. She considered it trivial. It was one more detail that was going into the growing list of video and other projects. Another camera recorded the sunsets. I gave them to Sheila. She created a screen saver with the sunsets from November. Sean was giving them to clients as a Christmas Card. I looked forward to one that did the whole year.

My Alderman position had settled into a siege. Every time I tried to use "my" City of Nashua resources to do something, it would be blocked. That meant I needed to be creative. Most of the needed information I could get from the internet or my little old lady circles. I was even learning bridge. Elspeth was already an accomplished cardsharp, but we were both learning mahjong.

I should mention Elspeth's role in Nashua. It goes without saying that she handled all the paperwork and most of the negotiations. She was also a Lady among my ladies. Her Boston breeding was the cause of great envy and, probably, much discussion. It did not hurt that Elspeth loved to gossip.

Naturally, I was a favorite subject. There was a lot of concern when I showed no interest in the various men that the ladies paraded in front of me. I can be dense, because I never noticed until Elspeth pointed them out to me. When Elspeth explained about Siemens, and where Lars had been posted, sympathy gushed out. Several of the ladies were military wives during Vietnam or the Gulf War.

Elspeth was also the conduit for another one of our core team. While I was in Concord all summer, trying to prime the pump, Elspeth was shuttling between Boston and Nashua, acting as my eyes, ears and voice. As the ongoing projects at Cloudrest grew, she started having communications problems with tech speak.

I would have called one of Sean's people or Richard Willingham. Elspeth chose to ask around Nashua. One of my ladies had a nephew attending Rochester Institute of Technology (RIT). He dumped a summer job at Target to serve as Elspeth's tech liaison. His name was Leon L. Lusk, a.k.a. Trip.

Trip did not have many obvious assets, other than being a nerd. His high school grades were top notch, but grades at RIT were only so-so. Though still an undergrad, he was already twenty four years old. Worse, his study path was laser physics. However, he understood both computer and communications tech-speak. I figured, why not? He would work cheap, it would look good on his resume and he would enjoy it. So it proved.

The problem was that he wanted to keep working, rather than finish his degree. I had been there, done that and wanted none of it. While I was still in Concord, we spoke on the phone. At my insistence, he went back to finish at RIT. We first met on a cold, rainy day just before Thanksgiving. I almost slapped my forehead for missing the obvious. The short version is Richard Willingham, without the breeding.

I once told Elspeth that I thought she would make an exceptional wife and mother. One look at Trip Lusk told me she could be his wife and the mother of his children. The urgent question was what to do about it, what Sheila calls her inner yenta. I tried to avoid conflict by asking personal questions. Unlike most people, Trip did not react badly. I suspect he had never managed a big date, so he had not been interrogated by a girl's father.

The situation was like something from a romance novel. Trip had a successful father, which I already deduced from what I knew of his mother. While this was good in some ways, it was difficult in others. Trip's father was an account representative for Allied Chemical. As a salesman, he was often away from home. When they were together, Trip was not the sort of boy his father admired—asocial, non-athletic, indifferent to status and not at all entrepreneurial.

It was so much like my own story, my heart ached. I could also see immediately why Elspeth was both drawn to him and repulsed. Elspeth wanted a firm hand. Trip gave directions as naturally as breathing, but no one ever listened. There were many reasons for this, starting with his clothing. They were a male geek version of my own baggy clothes and army boots.

I had another of those moments when many things suddenly made more sense. Sean had a genius for seeing potential under the surface. Once I recognized camouflage for what it was, the person underneath became easy to see. Trip was uncomplicated and direct, because his mind did not process many of the status symbols that others used. A lifetime of peer abuse made him shy, which conflicted with his natural tendency to take charge. Loyalty was both his most valuable asset and the trait he valued most.

I said, "Trip, I am glad we finally meet. If you were in charge of the renovations, what would you do?"

For the next hour he talked nonstop. There were at least twenty ideas no one else had floated. On the other hand, his viewpoint was very narrow. He only knew the things that were going on locally in Nashua. If nothing else, I needed to widen that horizon. The first thing that caused him to falter was Elspeth.

She was as perfect as a male geek was likely to meet. Elspeth was attractive, dressed well, spoke well and never fumbled a social grace. In a sense, though Trip never made the connection, Elspeth was his father's ideal daughter. More realistically, Elspeth excelled where Trip was lacking.

The symmetry, of course, was that Trip excelled where Elspeth was lacking. The difficulty would normally be in getting them to trust each other. That hurdle was already passed. They already found each other attractive, though Trip did not truly believe it of Elspeth. What they needed was time together. That I could arrange, but first things first. I asked Trip how fast he could get a degree, any degree.

The answer was one I might have given. He could take twenty hours in the spring and graduate after summer session, provided he could get his project done. The trick would be getting the project done, on top of the class overload. Easy peasy. I picked up the phone and called George. Trip would go to California, to develop his project, between finals and New Year. He could tweak the paperwork during the semester. That handled academics.

Next, he would be getting a makeover. Been there, done that, recommend it. In this I conspired with Elspeth and his mother. My rules were very specific. They could do his hair. Everything else he had to pay for. There was an argument, but they both understood the logic. I unbent a bit, by allowing Trip's mother to give him a $100 prepaid card. That would not go far in a mall, but Elspeth knew how to get creative.

Before they left, I gave Trip a box of condoms and the motel address where I had made them a reservation. I was very specific that I wanted Trip to give Elspeth the condoms. She would carry them and she would apply them. They both knew the theory of coitus, but neither knew the practice. To help out, I gave him a checklist of erogenous zones to inspect. If that was not enough of a map, we were in trouble.

Sunday proved my worries unfounded. Trip's disheveled hair looked intentionally disheveled. The jeans were well faded and clung to his ass. The T-shirt was from a concert, not a physics project. All this was beside the point. Trip could not stop smiling, Elspeth could not stop blushing and neither could stop looking at the other. I left Elspeth with Trip's mother and took Trip to a coffee shop.

Coffee is a great way to waste time while someone else fills the silence. Trip gave me a lesson in my own tactics. I was ready for a warm up before he finished adding creamer and sugar. Oh well. When he finally took a sip, I asked if all the effort was worth cold coffee. To give him credit, he caught an extra level to my comment. Baby steps.

I told him that fussing with coffee, or cigarettes, or personal grooming, or whatever, could be used to allow another person the first word. On the other hand, it could be rude. If he was with another person, he needed to be with them. That's a line form Hitch, which is about paying attention to the other person. Trip did not identify with Albert, but he could see Elspeth as Allegra Cole.

What made things click was when I said Hitch did not mold the parts of Albert that Allegra liked. To the contrary, Allegra liked what other people joked about, spilling mustard, dancing badly, using an inhaler. It was a big leap, but Trip was a smart guy. He worked his way from being picky and exacting about coffee, to being picky and exacting about Elspeth. When the realization dawned I said, "Elspeth likes a firm hand."

I could say that they became engaged at that point and not be far off. Once Trip had a clear objective and reason to believe it was possible, I needed to apply brakes. I told him that he should continue to use Elspeth for fashion advice. He needed to include her in his decision process. Elspeth did not want to make decisions, but she did want to have input.

I told him of Sean's relationship with Sheila. Sheila was one of the most competent people I knew, but she did not have permission to speak to Sean. Instead, she might ask permission to ask a question. If you knew Sheila, that was plenty of slack. For his part, Sean asked for her opinion—a lot.

Since she came up, I called the Residence. Sean was working late, so I called his office. I told him I would be asking Sheila to bring Cindy to Nashua and then to Boston. Sean said, "Sure." This was not purely form. When I called Sheila, I informed her that I had already talked to Sean. Then we discussed a possible trip. Trip drank it all in.

That was the last I saw of him before his graduation the following August, but Elspeth provided me with all the details. When Trip first laid out what he intended to do to accelerate his graduation, Elspeth made it sound like a labor of Heracles. The payoff, for both of them, was that Trip would propose with his diploma in hand. Submissives appreciate a Dominant that can and will self discipline. Judging from the smell, the thought made Elspeth wet. I wasn't ready for what happened next.

Elspeth threw her arms around me and crushed herself to my breast. She kept muttering, "You told me. You told me." I once told her that she should pay attention to men who had deficient social skills. It was ironic, because I needed to know how Trip would feel about me. Sean lets Sheila play with other girls. Until I knew how Trip felt, Elspeth and I would do no more than hug. Sometimes being a grownup sucks.

On the political front, my dance with the Republican party was nearing its end. After months of waffling and false starts, a group of donors agreed to my terms. I signed an agreement with them and began filing paperwork and posting announcements. Violá, I was an official candidate for election in New Hampshire's 2nd Congressional District. Be still my beating heart.

I made it as hard as reasonably possible, because I was not sure I wanted the headache of a campaign. That said, I knew I was gold for the Republicans—female, bisexual, double PhD with honors. The Democrats were once the party of the working man. That ended during Ronald Reagan, but the mythos persisted. I was proof that Republicans could be tolerant and educated. Big Whoop.

During negotiations I steadfastly refused offers of "help", from various lobbying firms, media consultants and fund raiser/money managers. Usually these were what I call in-family. While the business or agent was not related by blood, there was a kickback built in somewhere. A couple of the references were to literal family members. One time this fact was disclosed along with the recommendation. I gave the guy a gold star when the cousin turned out to have a good reputation.

Mostly, such recommendations were a form of payback for services rendered. I did not need to pay off someone else's debts. Instead, I consulted the Governor, Sean and Francine. The Governor was gracious. We had a very open and well publicized tea, along with twenty other consultants (read lobbyists). I passed her aide a note. When I left, a different aide passed me a note with several names and numbers. Face to face, the Governor asked me how I had managed to impress Adele so quickly. I replied that I owed her a big favor.

Sean's reply was a list of law firms and consulting firms in Washington DC, with notes on what they did and for whom. He also suggested I call his local Congressman, which was a Good Idea. I arranged a thirty minute meeting, when he was in District, rather than in Washington. That trip to New Jersey was well worth my time.

Representative Leonard was happy to tell me of some of the pitfalls. When we talked about funding, he was impressed with my personal knowledge of the Who's Who of Manhattan banking. By the end of the hour and a half we spent together, I had a solid contact and potential ally in Washington. He personally called his campaign manager to make an introduction. I did not hire him, but he referred me to a young gun, Thomas A. "Tommy" Reilly.

My meeting with Mr. Reilly did not start well. Rather than go to him, I asked that he come to me. He was young and ambitious. I should have known he expected at least a touch of deferral. When he arrived, I offered coffee. He wanted tea. Fortunately, I had recently visited my thesis advisor at Yale, Dr. Gupta. As was his custom, he begged me to take some of the tea his family constantly sent. I think I surprised Mr. Reilly by reacting to his request with enthusiasm. Looking back, he was playing tit for tat. Live and learn.

It suffices to say that Mr. Reilly agreed to take me on as a client. He would review my campaign mail, recommend survey firms, interpret polling data, sign off on advertising and anything else that could be done from Washington. My responsibility was to get him data to analyze. In this I was lucky. New Hampshire (and Iowa) are the mother lode of polling firms. Top drawer statistics work was available very affordably.

Francine did not reply. In her patented fashion, she made an entrance, while towing three recent film school graduates. I was in Nashua, preparing for an Alderman's Board meeting. Francine simply showed up at one of my informal lady's teas. At the door she said, "Where's that too tall bitch that wants to run for Congress?" and swept in without asking permission.

I said, "Ladies, I would like you to meet Francine Martel. Please excuse her language. She's smarter than she sounds." Francine started to reply before she laughed. One for me.

Things unbent enough to give the three film makers their audition. I told them to talk with the ladies for a few minutes, then I would quiz them on what they learned about me. To get Francine in the kitchen, I only needed to mention coffee. After a very sincere hug, she gave me a brutal precis on each of the young men. Francine does not pull punches for anyone, about anything. Unfortunately, that was quick.

Rather than listen to her ramble about other things, I asked Francine for pictures of Michael, her son. That allowed the other ladies to ooh and ah for a while. Before I left for my meeting, I introduced Francine to Trip's mother. Trip would soon be going to California, to work on his graduation project with my brother George. I suspected Francine's people would provide an education of another sort. Don't ask, don't tell.

The Alderman's meeting promised to be difficult. The largest contract for the water quality project had recently gone to a Manchester firm. Dean and Dowd had worked hard to secure it for their own people. They suspected I queered their sweetheart deal. In a sense, the D's may have been right. I made sure that public information was available to the public, in spite of attempts to hide or steal it.

In any event, my three candidates worked out well for me. Having three new people making recordings proved a distraction. They also reminded everyone that I was seeking higher office. The recordings themselves were a goldmine of goodwill. My three candidates had a lot of fun and may have learned something.

Their cheap-enough-to-travel equipment was vastly better than the old video-tape machine the city used. What they could do in a few minutes would impress someone that had never seen Sheila do magic with images. I suspect the losers for my audition would be able to drum up similar business, now that they knew what to look for.

That was the next order of business. The four of us went to an IHOP. I gave them fifteen minutes to crop out thirty seconds of video and a few still shots. Two of them did thirty seconds of me doing very little. The one I chose was by Frank Monomanaluga. Rather than focus on me, he focused on everyone else. His technique was to record a speech and take stills of reactions, time synched to the speech. He absolutely nailed Paul Dean bad mouthing the Mayor.

I thanked the other two for coming, then looked for the table with the most food. Sure enough, Francine was still trying to gain a few ounces. I struggle to lose an ounce, but would not trade with her for the world. Her comment, "It figures. He's a Sheila fan." She may be blond, but she's not stupid. I spent the drive to the motel explaining to Frank that his cinematic idol was my sister.

Back to work. It's what you do when you want to get laid and your fiancé was on another continent.



"Little" Sister Pt. 07



Author's note: We have come to the final verse of this song. It ends with a wedding, mostly. Sex is not the point, but what else do newly-weds do? I hope you have enjoyed Siobhan's story. She is very dear to me.



Chapter 32 – Primary School

 New Hampshire has two Congressional Districts. The smaller 1st District covered Manchester and the thickly populated coastal region between Massachusetts and Maine, plus some rural upstate areas. My apartment in Hooksett would have filled the residence requirements. The 2nd District covered the Capital and Nashua, but also large thinly, populated areas toward Vermont, including Hanover and Dartmouth, and up to Canada. This was my district. My official residence was the apartment in Nashua, but the district also contained Cloudrest. 

It took a long time to come to terms with the state's Republican establishment, largely because Richard Webber, the Chairman of the State Committee, did not like me. It was pure bigotry, nothing personal. He didn't like Ivy Leaguers, social sciences or anyone born out of state. After years of being discriminated for my looks, my sexual preferences and my sex, he was almost refreshing. 

His problem was threefold. First, the party was in a bind for a candidate in the 2nd District. Longtime Representative Howard Bass was defeated during the Presidential election. He declined to try again. Second, Mr. Webber was honest enough to know when he was being irrational. Third, he was feeling heat about not already having a good candidate.

Eventually, he agreed to meet me in a public place. We literally settled our differences over a pool table. From that point on, it was a matter of whether I would have the amount of freedom I required. In the end, the party caved for lack of viable alternatives. To say I was their last hope would only exaggerate a little. So, I enlisted to take on a family politician in the mold of the Bush's. 

Everyone knows that President George W. Bush is the son of President George H.W. Bush. What is forgotten is that he is the grandson of US Senator Prescott Bush. There is a third George Bush following him in Texas politics. In New Hampshire, the incumbent was Anne Custler, daughter of Concord Mayor John Custler and State Senator Susan McLaine. Her grandfather was Governor Joseph McLaine. Several uncles and cousins were also in politics. She was a Dartmouth graduate, though she went to law school in Virginia.

First, I needed to win the primary. There were two opponents. One was a former Concord Mayor and State Representative. I should not say I dismissed him out of hand, but I did. Morgan Robertson's comment, "John Adams. Named after a President. Next." The other opponent was also a former State Representative, but with a better reputation. He was a self-made millionaire named Roscoe Anderson. He was the type of person I would want on my Congressional staff, if I ever had one.

When I decided to enter the race, time was short. I had been not-running (as opposed to not running) for a couple of months. The distinction has to do with posture. I was holding myself as a potential candidate, without declaring. There are a lot of legalities about funding and communication with Political Action Committees that change when a candidate files the formal paperwork. To the extent I could manage, my name stayed in the news and the political conversation. 

After declaring, I invited both candidates to a semi-private (no press) meeting in a Concord restaurant. Both candidates confirmed my first impressions, Mr. Adams by drinking and Mr. Anderson by nursing one drink. I asked them what they would do if the expected happened—they lost the general election to Anne Custler. 

I posed the question to assume that each of them won the primary. Only Mr. Anderson picked up on it. He and I exchanged a knowing glance while I explained this to Mr. Adams. He had no plan. Mr. Anderson had business interests that he would pursue. I asked him if he could see himself backing my campaign in the fall. Glancing at Mr. Adams—who had clearly lost the thread of the conversation—Mr. Anderson allowed that it was a possibility. I said, "Good." and nodded. Though it was never formalized, we had agreed to fight fair and support the winner.

I stated earlier that New Hampshire's Republican party was desperate for a good candidate. Mr. Anderson was not a good candidate because he had a speech impediment. You have only to watch The King's Speech to understand how difficult this made things. I undertook the campaign with misgivings, because of this basic unfairness. It quieted my mind when Mr. Anderson and I reached our understanding. We are friends to this day.

Concerning the actual campaign, I was in luck in one regard. Cloudrest had become an event. Knowing that any broadcast of related programming would not be allowed during the campaign, three networks rushed their coverage to air between the holidays. The luck had to do with a regional show wanting a follow-up interview. Thus, I was on New England Today just hours before my formal announcement. It was the perfect opportunity to mention my part in Sheila's wedding. Concord's ABC station ran the clip as part of their coverage of my announcement.

After the New Year, we had a debate. This is unusual for Congressional campaigns, and very unusual during the primaries. Television ratings would not justify the expense. I proposed an online debate, with text responses rather than verbal. Mr. Anderson jumped at the chance. Mr. Adams came along rather than be left out. He might have been better off if he had passed.

Nothing in the questions was really unexpected. I had the usual questions about my family and childhood in New Jersey, my sexual preferences and general lack of experience. I had answers prepared. Mr. Anderson had questions about his speech impediment and lack of education. In my rebuttal time, I mentioned that Sheila and Francine both had high school educations. Uneducated did not mean stupid any more than a degree meant smart. 

Mr. Adams immediately proved the second half when he considered a college degree the minimum. Mr. Anderson asked if more was better. Mr. Adams answered that it was, only to be reminded of the letters after my name. New Hampshire is proud of having an Ivy League University. A better man might have recovered, but Mr. Adams essentially quit at that point.

The rest of the debate was almost enjoyable in a kaffeeklatch sense. At a keyboard, Mr. Anderson was quite witty. I particularly liked when he asked if I was suited to take office, or only for a wedding. I answered with a comment about make-overs and their impact on self-perception. When he did not fire back a response, I knew I had him.

The immediate impact of the debate was mixed. I told my people to wait it out. Sure enough, both Mr. Adams and Mr. Anderson soon reduced campaign spending. I had another dinner meeting with Roscoe Anderson. He thanked me for not taking cheap shots at his disability. I told him I felt the same about my own limitations. We shared a laugh and all was forgotten. I still consult his opinion.

The press would have it otherwise, which it is why press coverage should be suspect. If one believed the coverage, Mr. Adams was my principal rival and Mr. Anderson was implacably hostile. I suppose it would make the reporting easier if these things were true. It is sufficient to say they were not.

I won the primary with a comfortable 51-37-10 edge. That meant I would face Anne Custler in November. On one hand, Mrs. Custler was doing a reasonable job in her first term. On the other hand, she had been elected on the coattails of a Democratic President, who was increasingly unpopular. 

Chapter 33 – And They're Off

For the first few months, nothing would have mattered. I gave speeches and interviews, attended rallies, fairs, livestock shows and anything else with a stage. I could not really attack Mrs. Custler's record because she did not have one. On several normally controversial issues, e.g. gay and lesbian rights, we had the same position. I tried to pick at her few public statements and get her to poke her head out in the open. Time and money spent talking to Thomas Riley produced nothing better.

Through the late spring and summer, it was very tedious. I had little money coming in and only my own time as a resource. Though the national picture was looking good for the Republican party, I was not their fair-haired girl. Their money went to more promising situations. We made jokes about trying to spin straw into video cable, but only managing an elephant's tail. 

As a sidelight, we played word games with my opponent's name. There were many unfortunate possibilities, "Custler Fuck" being the most obvious. I gave strict orders to never use the phrase, even in-house. However, using "CF" in a graphic was fair game, as were any rhyming words (can you believe there was a professional hockey team called the Ducks?). We had contests to see who could come up with the wittiest play on Mrs. Custler's name. My personal favorite was, "No AC to DC", which I had printed on bumper stickers.

If it seems childish, it was. Through most of the spring and summer, I was down at least 20% in polling. Since my personal money was also tight, I spent almost as much time in Concord on business as I had the year before. That is why I was in Concord when the raw sewage encountered the rotating ventilation blade. My part was was being sandbagged by a scandal on live local news. The bit would later win an award. 

As scandals go, it was small change. Mrs. Custler's son was pulled over for running a stop sign. The moving violation escalated to driving under the influence of narcotics and marijuana possession. Candace Williams was Concord's alternative to 60 Minutes. She liked to surprise politicians and attorneys on live television, typically using closely held information. I was getting my morning coffee when she accosted me. Like the day I did my orals at Dartmouth, poor poker faces gave me a heads up. 

ABC local reporter: This is Candace Williams. I am with Republican candidate Jo Richards. Ms. Richards, what is your reaction to Conrad Parsons' arrest early this morning?

Me: I assume you are asking me because you think it has some bearing on the campaign. Why do you think that?

CW: You do not think it is important that your opponent's son was arrested for possession of narcotics?

Me: I take it you are referring to a small amount of marijuana as 'narcotics'. While I do not condone his actions, Mr. Parsons is an adult. He will deal with the justice system as an adult, not as his mother's son. Other than as a distraction for Mrs. Custler, I do not see it as having a bearing on her campaign. I plan to make no mention of it.

CW: So you have no comment?

Me: No. I made my comment. Other than as a distraction to Mrs. Custler, I do not see Mr. Parson's arrest as having an impact. Was there anything important?

As it played, it was fun. I picked up the bit about marijuana from one of the camera crew. After I handled the question smoothly, he asked his buddy, "I wonder who tipped her off." The question came up repeatedly. My stock answer was that I read my response off the teleprompter. 

Candace Wilson was good at constructing traps. Most had at least two jaws. She would ambush the person of interest while someone else did the person's business or family. My offices were staked out. The lack of activity was a story in itself. When a reporter floated the question, my staff looked baffled because they knew nothing. By the time I arrived, the question was who had leaked what to whom? 

The story of the day became the story that got away. Since my interview ran live, there was no way to retract it. It was out there and we had a copy. After I won the election, it was submitted for an award, which probably embarrassed Ms. Williams. Still, if you look at the news coverage—print, blog or video—it was a blip. My short comment was well received. I even had a thank you call from Mrs. Custler. 

Behind the scenes it was an earthquake, with aftershocks that kept coming. Thomas Riley was over the top in love with the way I handled the question. He told me he could stir the pot, but it was probably better to leave it alone. My opponent's judgment was called into question. The less I was involved the better. 

After the first cycle of commentary, observers started to wonder why I had not made hay. My spot decision to downplay everything was called into question. From the start, Tommy disagreed with that view. Slowly, the public view turned, as Tommy predicted. Among arraignment, hearings, pleading and sentencing, the story took over a month to wind down. Mrs. Custler took significant damage, while I stayed very publicly hands off. By the sentencing, I polled within five points and was closing. The spread was down to two percent the day before voting. The last bit of the margin was outside my control. 

You know what happened that year. The midterm elections were a disaster for the Democrats. Republicans voted, while Democrats stayed home. The big story was the Republican's failure to take control of the US Senate. That would wait til the next midterm. One of the side stories was the that the Republicans did take control of the House. I was one of the sixty-nine freshman Representatives. Huzzah.

It was not particularly close. The polling had narrowed to two percent, but I still trailed. Tommy told me to have hope, because unpublished numbers were looking good. This proved an understatement. For my race, I knew early that I would likely win. The writing was on the wall when I took a couple of Democrat-leaning precincts in Concord and Nashua. Mrs. Custler called about eleven PM. When she conceded, she thanked me for being gracious and fair. 

I put the machine on record and went to bed. The only call I took was from the President, because I had a special ringtone set up for the White House. This was not ego. It is traditional for the President to congratulate every new member of Congress. I felt for the guy. He had to congratulate sixty-six new Republican Representatives, versus only three new Democrats. That had to suck rocks.

Chapter 34 – Opening, Presents

As with being elected Alderman, it did not feel quite real the next morning. The media felt quite convinced. I was still in a bathrobe at the first knock on my door. Rather than put up a fuss, I told them I would have a small news conference on my patio. The rules were no more than six, including a blogger from each side, a local reporter, and both print and video. They could share feed and headlines. I unwound to allow two cameramen. 

In this, I had an ulterior motive. Most of them were freelance, likely from out of state. It was November in New Hampshire. I could keep it short without complaints. It was the first day I really appreciated having a penthouse apartment. Rather than a small porch, I had a rooftop patio. Six floors above the street, there was a stiff breeze blowing. Slowing things down, the cameras needed care and tending. I was comfortable in my trademark sealskin coat and a wool cap. Most of the reporters had light coats or jackets. 

I started by thanking Mrs. Custler for running a clean campaign. The two New Hampshire reporters snorted at that, but it was true. The rest was the standard Academy Award speech, thanking everyone in sight. I expressed hope for a productive term in office and commented that the President had called with congratulations. By the time I finished my opening remarks, most of them were ready to leave. They asked just two questions, neither worth mentioning.

Back inside, I gave everyone a stiff shot of Irish whiskey before sending them out. One remarked to another that he thought I was supposed to be new at the political game. I had to bite my tongue. Woodrow Wilson learned politics at the University of Virginia, not in Washington. 

The lone woman in the cluster lagged behind and caught my eye. I figured I could loosen up enough to talk to her. I glanced at my watch and held up five fingers. She nodded and followed the crowd out. When she returned, I told her I was not giving an interview. Instead, I would return a favor by giving her contacts. 

Starting with my hometown political reporter, Frank Costello, I covered how I came be standing where I was. I highlighted Mimi, Drs. Gupta, Steele, Kerlinov, Morgan and Veronica. Along the way, I mentioned Beacon Light Project, Francine, MBC&L, Paroles and Pardons and the Manchester bridge project. I also warned that Elspeth handled most of my personal correspondence. I hoped she was recording, because I had no intention of repeating myself. As she left, she said she always wanted to meet someone important on their way up. Years later I remembered the line, but not her name. 

The rest of the day was about my businesses. When my election was confirmed, the shit hit the wall. I may have been thinking about possible futures, where I was not around, but no one else had been. When I said that I had planned ahead, you would not believe their level of relief. Truth be told, most of my de facto Board of Directors assumed I would always be there to second guess their decisions. Surprise! I would not even be at Board Meetings. Sean calls it the stress test.

It took a while, but everyone started to cope. Veronica was the slowest. Eventually, she understood she had even footing with a career politician like Morgan Robertson and career military like Harold Richards. That had to be eye opening. Veronica was much more in tune with manipulating the system than with running it. It made her one of my most effective brakes. She could see all the potential abuse before we had to endure it. If Veronica vetted a project, it stayed vetted.

The social dynamics of my company would be a publishable paper, if I ever chose to write it. Initially, Morgan Robertson and Richard Harold formed an uneasy alliance. Between them, they would shape an idea to float past Veronica. If Veronica got on board, Vivian would crunch the numbers. If those made sense, the thing worked. Otherwise, chaos. I could not have planned it better, even given a year and a dozen graduate assistants to run data.

It came as a bit of a rush when I realized my approval was still the bottom line. As a Representative, my involvement was strongly curtailed by law. Yet, everything was structured to gain my approval. "What would Jo do?", was the fundamental question behind every decision. Vivian may have started the phrase, because it was common during the wedding preparations. That said, it could not last. In practice, Morgan Robertson eventually emerged as the CEO, in all but name. I always wondered if this was what she had in mind from the start.

I spent the holidays in New Jersey, where things were simpler. After eleven years at the top, Sean was very secure in his CEO chops. He could relax and spend some time with family. Just like during our school years, Sean supported me above and below the line. One small part was to sublet me an apartment that Richards Enterprises kept in Alexandria, Virginia. I moved there between Christmas and New Year. 

Representative Leonard was a Godsend. He walked me through the complex orientation process and helped with much of the housekeeping. His staff went a long way toward forming my own. One of his deputies, Vincent Jackson, became my new office manager. Between the two of them, I claimed a decent place in the pecking order. 

When the shakeout was finished, I had one of the better offices in the middle ranked office building. My committee was Small Business, but I also had a sub-committee of the important Ways and Means committee. That was Human Resources, chaired by Chuck Boustany of Louisiana. Representative Leonard told me that Mr. Boustany was not long for Congress. As freshmen Representatives go, I did well in my assignments.




"Little" Sister Pt. 07



To me, a larger interest was Siemens International. Lars was permanently assigned to the New York office. While no one would ever confirm the relationship, this happened three days after the elections. He would take his new position two weeks after I was sworn into office. That early in my first session, I could not leave Washington. Lars was equally tied up in Manhattan. At least I could help with that. Given my connections, I expected to find a good real estate agent, so I made some calls. I was not expecting Donald Trump to call back.

My relationship with the Donald is ironic when you consider his later run for President. At the time, he was two years removed from almost running. I think Rudy Giuliani talked him out of it, but no one is likely to ever know for sure. In any event, Donald Trump is in real estate and also in entertainment. Francine asked him to call. I always assumed Sheila told Francine, but I never asked.

On the phone, Donald Trump was warm and witty, which you would expect from a salesman. He gave me the name of a condominium broker. I gave him Vincent's direct line. I explained that I needed to go to the City to meet Lars. The Donald promised us dinner. It was an enjoyable conversation. 

In Washington, things were less friendly. All the freshmen Republican Representatives were herded into several "orientations", which were more like indoctrinations. Some of it was good. One of the speakers was former Representative JC Watts, who is black. He spoke of how the Congressional Black Caucus refused to allow him membership. I was already getting the cold shoulder from feminist groups, even ones I agreed with.

Outside the office, I was able to join up with the rest of New Hampshire's Republican delegation—1st district Representative Frank Guinta and Senator Kelly Ayotte. Former Senator John Sununu took the three of us to dinner at Smart's Chop House near Capital Hill. It was rather like dining with Francine, because of the way they each worked the crowd. The thought was comforting.

Eventually, the first push of the session wound down. There was a two-week break, beginning March 14th. I flew to Liberty International in Newark. I expected to meet Lars, Elspeth, Sean and Sheila. Instead, there was a crowd—Lars, Elspeth and my family from New Jersey, of course, plus senior employees from Boston and New Hampshire, Francine, Jason and their son, and a few others. Sean told everyone dinner was on him. In Newark, that meant paella.

As you might imagine, there was no chance to get alone time with Lars. Given that we were going to Casa de Espana, I could cope. Senior Ortiz had the true touch with a paella pan. Introducing Lars would be a privilege, but first things first. Once everyone was settled, Sean introduced Lars to Cindy. She asked, "Are you older than my Daddy? You grew up more."

Sean said, "No, Honey. Grown ups stop growing. We call them that because they have grown up as tall as they can. Lars grew taller before he stopped. That's why Jo is going to marry him. She needed someone to look up to." I did not know whether to laugh or punch him. My turn.

I said, "Cindy, it is not a person's height that makes you look up to them, except in the most boring sense. Many people look up to Francine. Your father even looked up to her once, before he married your mother. Mommy is the one to look up to. She will never show you wrong."

Cindy screwed her face in concentration. After a minute (literally), she nodded once. "Nanny CC looks up to Mommy, but Mommy looks up to Daddy. Doesn't Daddy look up to Mommy too?" She was four.

I said, "That's right. The best relationships are when both people look up to the other. Your Daddy has to be really special, for your Mommy to look up to him, because your Mommy is really special." Once again, Cindy gave a firm single nod. That settled, I looked around. No tears were falling, but eyes glistened around the table. 

Francine said, "Damn Skippy, no wonder they pay you to talk." It was the best compliment I ever heard Francine Martel give anyone. I blushed. She said, "Don't let it go to your head. You have a long ways to go before you catch me." 

I said, "I'll remember that, next time I need to pick you up." I once inverted Francine out a second story window. 

Francine blanched. Sheila looked reproachful, but Christine mimed a camera shooting. Francine turned even whiter. Christine had videoed that event. Fortunately, we were interrupted by food. 

Hours later, Lars had questions about the conversation. His written English was fluent, but his verbal skills lagged behind. Rather than explain, I pulled out my phone and replayed the conversation several times. Once he sorted all the references, Lars asked if this sort of arcana was normal. I told him it was, unless Sheila played. Lars was dubious that anyone would be that much better than the rest. Someday he would find out for himself. I hoped his ego survived.

Instead, I told Lars of the first time Sheila and Cindy met Adele Cabot. Cindy was a precocious two-year-old. She would ask a question about something in the room. Sheila would look at Adele, who generally nodded permission. Sheila would explain what the object was, often with comments about manufacture or something unique about the specific object. 

For example, Cindy asked about the silver tea set. Sheila explained that it was a tea service, made by hand, in Boston, by the famous patriot Paul Revere. She paused while Adele supplied the year, then went on to discuss how silver ingot would be hammered thin, then shaped over a mold. 

A few items had history specific to the Cabot family, e.g. Henry Cabot-Lodge's walking stick. In these cases, Adele would supply the answer. Invariably there was a drawing, painting or photograph which showed the item. Sheila pointed them all out. In one sepia colored photograph, Sheila pointed out a detail that caused Adele's brows to rise. Either Adele had not noticed, or almost no one else had. 

The four of us were in the parlor from two PM til dinner was served at six. I said no more than ten words, mostly yes or no. As we prepared to leave, Adele asked Sheila to call her by name. Sheila thanked Adele for their conversation, though they had not spoken to each other. 

Lars nodded understanding as I related this. His own great-grandmother had a reputation similar to Adele's. Reading between lines, Lars was one of her favorites. I resolved to introduce him to Adele, but that was for another day. More pressing were plans for the wedding. 

I already had sufficient experience with big weddings. Sean and Sheila's enormous party was enough for two lifetimes. As an alternative, I suggested a judicial marriage in New Jersey. Representative Leonard was a judge before running for Congress. He was still authorized to perform weddings in his former judicial district. It would be easy to control the crowd and the press. For comparison, Donald Trump already offered the bridal suite at Trump Taj Mahal. Thanks, but no thanks. That was topical, because we were about to dine with the Donald.

I wanted to do dinner at Civitano's, but Donald Trump was showing us off. We had the command table at India House. The list of political, legal and financial people we met was intended to impress. It backfired on the Donald, because a full third of them had either been at the dinner in White Plains or worked closely with someone who attended. 

The phrase of the evening was, "You may not remember me, but we met..." It was the perfect segue to, "This is my fiancé, Lars Gunter. He is the new systems manager with Siemens Financial." Business cards passed back and forth. After the fourth or fifth one, Mr. Trump asked how I knew Georg Karl. 

Lars answered, "When we engaged became, my senior managers were, hmm, distressed. I, a meeting arranged. Herr Karl was with my Jo most impressed. He, my judgment commended." 

It was the first time I ever heard him call me "my Jo", but it sounded habitual. In old Scottish, "jo" means dear or darling. Robert Burns used it in his poetry. As pet names go, one that translates "my Dear" is pretty harmless, at least from a spouse. 

I had a warm feeling, but I had missed what Donald Trump was saying. So, I cocked an eyebrow. Rather than repeat himself, the Donald sat back in his chair and folded his arms. If you watch the show you know the pose. It is rarely bad for the person that inspires it.

He said, "He did. That crusty Prussian bastard called you impressive. And he was right. You worked the room for Lars better than I worked it for you. Too bad I can't have you on my show. You would kick ass."

After dinner, we went to a club for drinks. Still, it was before one AM when we arrived at Lars' hotel on Duane Street, in the Financial District. It was too late for me to spend the night, but I stayed the rest of the morning. We even managed some sleep, though not much.

For a while, I thought I managed to get pregnant. Oh well.

Chapter 35 – House and Housing

One thing about my whirlwind life was the trail of residences. I had, and still have, the Residence in New Jersey. My time in New Haven, Boston, Hanover and Hooksett had apartments, though the leases had expired. Not so Nashua, Concord and DC. I had active leases in all three. What's more, I used them all. The penthouse in Nashua was my official New Hampshire residence. The one in Concord was very useful. The one near Washington was necessary.

All that paled beside Cloudrest. After spending my time with Lars, Elspeth and I drove to New Hampshire. While we were in Nashua, I made time for a walk-through of Cloudrest. For a change, this tour was guided. Dr. James Lu of Yale was the official architect. Quentin, Maneesen & Cox did the hands on work, as general contractor and engineer. James Maneesen showed us around in person. \wile I had invested a year on the campaign trail vast changes had taken place.

The first thing I noticed was the pier. It was designed to handle a river barge and wide enough for forklifts. There was even a powered hoist. Upstream, the small boat dock had been updated with driven pilings and a handrail, but it bore a strong resemblance to the original Boy Scout project. Between the docks and the house, little else was familiar. A wide path, covered with crushed granite, wound up from the pier. Above the dock was a run of stairs, leading to a gravel covered walk.

When the crown of the hill became visible, my first thought was of log cabins. Mr. Maneesen later corrected me to log buildings, which is a more permanent structure. The ones I saw were the garage and machine shop. They were built on the site of the original hay barn and stable, because the underlying rock was most level there. During colonial times, they did not have our technology, but they were not stupid. 

The garage was quite large, with room for at least five cars. At that time, it was used for generator trailers and equipment storage. One bay could handle a mobile home. It housed the satellite and uplink equipment. Next to it was the machine shop. I guessed this was for the metal work the blacksmiths could not do. There was a back door, with a path worn through the grass to the smithy.

That was another thing. When I was last on the hill, the smithy was just completed. This time there was smoke rising from the chimney and the clanging of hammer on anvil was common. Behind the building was a rail, to which three horses or mules were tethered. At a guess, we had a farrier working. Cool. I was about to investigate, when I saw a man waving. Elspeth waved back. 

James Maneesen was about fifty-five. He was big, maybe 190 cm (6'3") and at least 115 kg (255 lbs). However, he did not move like someone that stayed behind a desk. After greetings were exchanged, he started pointing out the new construction. It seemed that rebuilding the house required several new structures. While temporary shelters could have been used, why not make an episode of a show? 

PBS, Discovery, TLC, History channel, HGTV, TBS, even ESPN had gotten in on the project. I asked about ESPN. Lumberjacking was a recognized sport. Felling a seasoned hardwood tree with an ax or handsaw is not my idea of fun, but evidently someone thought so. The big gun was HGTV. They not only had shows about design competitions and house remodeling, they also had shows about logging and log house construction. 

Mr. Maneesen introduced us to David Bromstad, one of HGTV's big stars. He had hosted an entire season of room design competitions for the big house. If you want details, go to the reruns of the season titled "New Hampshire Manor." My favorite is episode five, "Country Dining." It was where our tour started. 

The kitchen was rustic, with both a wood stove and an LP gas stove. LP gas suppliers were a sponsor, so this was a theme. One pantry had been converted to a walk-in refrigerator and freezer. The refrigeration ran on LP gas. The central heat was LP, as were the on-demand water heaters. Most of the fireplaces had LP space heaters. There were even working gas sconces for lighting. 

In the next room, David (he was easy to call by name) had done a fresco mural on one wall. The eight remaining contestants worked, in teams of four, to furnish and decorate the room for dining. The eventual winner of the season found a pair of enormous antique doors. The ornate central panels were framed as decorations. The rest was used to frame a large piece of countertop granite, to make a tabletop. Fully assembled, the table was gorgeous, indestructible and nearly immobile, weighing over half a ton. 

After the massive table, the thing that caught my attention was the woodwork. It was everywhere. The oldest part of the Residence dated from the same period, but it was nothing like this. That was all native oak. This was oak, maple and black walnut, accented with beech, black cherry and hickory. The workmanship was not as good as in New Jersey, but the wealth of wood was amazing. 

David saw where my eye was drawn. He told me everyone had the same reaction, sooner or later. I was ahead of the curve. Even the flooring was over the top. Normal upscale construction of the period was joined quarter sawn floorboards, usually pine. Cloudrest's common floors were jointed oak boards. Public areas used mixed woods. The main Parlor was tiger striped in beech and black walnut. There was an eight-foot wide starburst pattern inlaid in front of the main staircase. I had never noticed either under a century of grime and dust.

Paneling was even worse. At the Residence, the oak panels were quarter sawn but nothing more exotic. At Cloudrest, most of the paneling was rift sawn tiger maple, flavored with other woods. The trims were also of several different woods, including one I had never seen. When I asked, David became quiet for a moment. It was American Chestnut. A fungal blight in the late 19th and early 20th century had wiped out the mature trees. Heartwood like this was almost non-existent. 

There was stonework as well, though not nearly as much. The kitchen floor was slate, as were the floors in front of the fireplaces. All the fireplace mantels and the entrance steps were granite, possibly from the property. Most of the fireplaces were simple fired brick, but the Parlor repeated the tiger stripe theme in limestone and slate. 

More important were the exceptionns. The unpaneled walls were plaster, almost all of it crumbling. Many of these walls were removed to facilitate flow. The rest were stripped and redone. In keeping with the general theme, plaster had been manufactured on-site, using a traditional limestone and kiln method. The resulting wet wall was perfect for fresco painting. Enter David Bromstad.

David was an artist. He had used my whole house as his canvas. I was very grateful he was good at it, though a couple were a little crazy. Since he was there, showing me his work, I realized he craved validation like every other artist. I told him he was going to have to leave the frescoes in place. Pulling whole walls for a museum exhibit was not going to happen. He took me seriously for a moment, then started laughing. 

What can I say about the rest of the house? It was not the way I would have done it. So what? Elspeth was my style guru. She had signed off on all of the work. You can see the pictures on HGTV's website. When it was done, I would have a furnished, six bedroom historical landmark, and much more. 

David turned us back over to Mr. Maneesen. We pulled on coats and went outside again. Next to the Woodshop was the saw mill. The big ripping blade was installed early in the spring, because heavy timbers were the first necessity of the house. Once that was done, the permanent mill was constructed. In addition to the big ripping blade, a row of table saws cut normal sized boards for the kiln. Again, compressed air was used instead of electric power. 

We took a quick look at the Woodshop and another into the kiln. Between the kiln and the smithy was row upon row of stacked firewood. Mr. Maneesen explained that Elspeth wanted normal commercial operations to begin as soon as possible. Tree removal had long been a priority, which meant large piles of trimmings. Cloudrest Firewood was a going concern, selling two boatloads a week to the citizens of Nashua.

Not all of the wood was sold. Some of it was boiling maple sap. The gathering of the sap was the subject of at least three shows. The copper rendering pans were a fourth. Cloudrest brand syrup would be available in another month. Mr. Maneesen said that inquiries for specialty hardwoods were getting serious. Demand from the shows had been substantial, but that was mostly complete. Cloudrest Mills would soon be selling to the public. 

I was finally starting to understand that Mr. Maneesen had a problem he wanted me to solve. He did not own Cloudrest, I did. Too many of his decisions were at ownership level. Elspeth could cover some of it, but the decisions were becoming commercial, which was not her strength. Since I was tied to Washington, I needed a site manager right away. I would also need a house manager by summer. There was more, but those were the highlights.

In terms of the tour, we had covered most of the major items. The apple/cherry orchard had been difficult, but now looked like an orchard. A lot of the wood had been used in the various show, while apple firewood sold at a premium price because it scented the air. Elspeth told me that an Amish orchardman would be visiting soon, to supervise the final pruning. That was one more commercial project outside of Mr. Maneesen's purview. I could see why he was antsy.

A more pleasant prospect was at the far end of the trail. I had envisioned a picnic area near Knob Point, with a boathouse below. The path was unimproved but well worn. A lot of foot traffic had come this way. Still, what was at the end took me by surprise. There was a gazebo, as expected. Atop it, there was an observation deck, covered by a cupola. The view from the deck was worth every cent someone spent. I could see all the way to the County Courthouse in Nashua, which meant I could see Cloudrest from downtown. Cool. 

I asked why the trail continued down the slope. Mr. Maneesen said that this was the best fishing spot on the property. The inlet was full of darters and sunfish, particularly the oddly named pumpkinseed. Naturally, larger predator fish, such as bass, would hang around. In addition, there were various overhangs, which catfish favored. Fish and Wildlife would be doing a salmon spawning report in a few weeks. Some Atlantic salmon had been spotted the previous spring. 

The bad news was that the boathouse was still only an idea. Mr. Maneesen agreed this was an excellent location, aside from the impact on fishing. However, none of the producers had wanted to cover the costs of construction. It made me wonder how much money I had saved on the house. Other than the initial purchase, I had only invested about $100,000 more. Much of that was for the Woodshop, where I had supplied building materials, and the driveway. Yet, in another year, I would have a sizable home and at least three businesses going.




"Little" Sister Pt. 07



We went back to the main house. Other than the beginnings of the water project, we had seen all the work. Elspeth and I thanked Mr. Maneesen for his time. I promised to have someone on-site soon. To that end, I suggested getting one of the rooms ready for a resident. When I asked Elspeth which room she and Trip wanted, her mouth fell open. It was not the first time I had struck her speechless, but it may have been the record for time.

I explained to Mr. Maneesen that I intended to offer the site manager position to Elspeth's fiancé. Until a room was ready, they could have the apartment in Nashua. I warned him that Trip was not the most politic of persons, that he would have a fountain of ideas and that he would assume everything would be done his way. 

Mr. Maneesen was getting nervous. I told him that Trip would respect boundaries, provided they were sufficiently clear, and that he would assume immediate responsibility for any commercial decisions. This brought considerable relief. I also told him that Elspeth would be available to act as his liaison, at least by email or phone. Then we took our leave.

On the boat, crossing the river, Elspeth asked me when I decided to put Trip in charge. I told her at the orchard. She stared at me. I said, "Trip would have done something very similar. Sean does it all day. Do not worry about it, because you need to plan a move. Trip can have the apartment, at least til there is room in the house. Keep me a guest room." That apartment is still their official residence. The room at Cloudrest is just their room, not their home. 

The apartment in Concord did not work out as neatly. If it had been suitable for company use, I might have had the company pick it up. Unfortunately, it was a badly furnished starter apartment. Since I was not going to use it, likely no one would. Eventually, I just let the lease expire. It was too bad the nicer place in Hooksett was already gone. That's life.

Concord also underscored my growing celebrity. Before the election, I was often the topic of conversation at the Capital building. As a seated Representative, everything stopped when I was around. At FDC, it was even worse. By law, I was restricted from taking an active role in company management. That made my visit something of a farewell tour. We have words like "bittersweet" to describe such things. 

After Concord, I squeezed in a few hours in Nashua, setting up my official US Representative office. As luck would have it, it was in the same building as Edward Gregg, the accountant I met the first day I investigated the Nashua real estate market. I considered dropping in on him, but decided to handle it through his aunt. Edna Gregg was the first of my lady's circle ladies. She was thrilled to hear the news.

On the way back to Washington, I managed a few more hours with Lars. We set Memorial Day weekend for our wedding. The actual wedding would be on the 27th, with a reception at the Residence on the 28th. That put Sean and Sheila one day ahead of us, which I thought was appropriate. Lars joked that we could also do it on the houseboat. Just thinking about the bobbing catwalk made my stomach turn.

In the end, there was very little hug and cuddle time. We sat in the back of my Infiniti, doing some heavy petting, when my monthly arrived. I rarely swear, but that time I was tempted. Not only did it ruin the time I had with Lars, it proved I was not pregnant. Instead, we went to the nearest drugstore, so I could restock on pads. The checker was about eight months along. Sigh.

Back in Washington, everything seemed to revolve around the situations in North Africa. In what become known as Arab Spring, a wave of violent protests swept the region. There was much debate as to whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. As a PhD in Sociology, my opinion was regularly sought. When a position opened in the Middle East and North Africa subcommittee of the House Foreign Affairs committee, I was plugged in over several more senior people.

For a while, it was like being back at school. My reading list was brutal. I suspect most Representatives would have had their staff do it. Tempting as that was, I was by far the best-qualified person in my office. I did the reading and let my staff cover everything else. A series of major tornadoes was a respite, though not a welcome one. My diligence paid off quickly. Ileana Ros-Lehtinen, the Chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee, asked me to read her brief on regions showing signs of violence. 

She and I were already familiar. Ileana was one of the strongest Republican supporters of gay and lesbian rights. She had literally welcomed me to the Capital with open arms. In foreign affairs, she had a long history of humanitarian efforts in various parts of the world, which led her to be selected as the first Republican head of the Foreign Affairs committee since 2007. Repressive regimes she could handle. Serious fighting was not her cup of tea. 

It showed. Ileana's positions were all over the map. Many of them could be reduced to hand-wringing. When she asked my opinion, I did not try to spare her feelings. She went very cold. While she did not cut our meeting short, nothing more was accomplished. It took her a week to thaw. By then she had made some comments she would eventually be forced to retract. As often happens in Washington, the apology came in the form of an invitation.

The event was nothing much. Ileana was speaking at an LGBT fundraiser. During the course of Q & A, she introduced me as another Republican who supported equal treatment and same-sex marriage. This was greeted with skepticism. I eventually resorted to some before makeover pictures and invited them to see the Army boots in my office. However, the thing that turned the trick was the men's suit I wore at the wedding. Go figure.

In any event, Ileana and I became close. Herself a PhD, in higher education, she respected what I had done academically. I became a regular part of her circle of advisers and sat on several foreign policy hearings over much more senior Representatives. Since Arab Spring dominated the rest of the year, this gave me a very high profile for a freshman Representative. 

Socially, Ileana became my Cuban mother. She's in my wedding pictures. My birth mother is not.

Chapter 36 – By the Power Vested in Me,...

People look at the six-figure salary of a Congressman and think they are sitting pretty. Hah. My miserable two bedroom apartment was two thousand a month. I spent another six hundred a month on garage space, not to mention what I paid Johnson. At some point I would need to entertain, which meant serious money on rentals and such. Ileana helped me through a lot of this, as did Representative Leonard. 

My wedding was a chance to pay some of it back. The actual wedding was at the Morris County courthouse. We exchanged wedding bands and made our vows. My witnesses were Sheila, Elspeth and Ileana. Sean stood for Lars. Judge Leonard officiated. In retrospect, I was calling Ileana by her first name almost from the start. I never became informal with Representative Leonard. Even at our wedding, he was The Judge.

The Residence staff went all out for the reception. I sort of understood. Everyone that worked on Sean and Sheila's wedding had stories to tell grandchildren. It was a lot of work, which they did, yet I received the lion's share of the credit. Even Sean, who runs a billion dollar company, sings my praises. I only did what needed doing. I never tried to be popular, but for some reason I was. 

Unlike Sean and Sheila's wedding, the weather was bad. I have no idea what we would have done with less than perfect weather that whole week. For my wedding, the bulk of the plans were indoors. The biggest loss was the patio seating. It meant dining tables needed to be set up on the dance floor. Still, even Francine did not complain about the quantity of food. 

The first real surprise was when Francine announced Michael Foxworth and his orchestra. Dr. Foxworth directed the first wedding dressed as John Phillip Sousa. For Lars and me, he did Glen Miller, including the trombone. The party was World War II swing, which had to be a dig at my German spouse. Lars and I could cope. Besides, it was fun. Francine even sang a few show tunes for us. 

Unlike Sean and Sheila, who spent half their honeymoon in airplanes, we had only a short drive to Manhattan, where we did it all again. Siemens and Lars' family went together for a Sunday afternoon white tie and tails reception at the Plaza. Once again, Francine acted as MC, this time in an outrageous flapper outfit. 

The music was provided by an exceptional band, which turned out to be our gift from Pedro de la Garza. From Sheila, I received a note, two garment bags and an enlarged photograph. The note said I should ask for a package marked with my married name. The bags contained my long lavender gown from their wedding and a glittery above-the-knee gown in midnight blue. For me, this was beyond daring.

The photograph was of Lars and myself, riding carousel ponies. Lars had an evil grin, while I looked scandalized. What made the picture memorable was the suit I was wearing. It was a modified British men's morning suit, which I still had. The photo was also a challenge, since I was not presented in a flattering manner. In fact, I was acting like a girl. Trust Sheila to show me as feminine, while dressed in masculine clothing. Damn, that woman is good.

Once I followed all the convolutions, there was only one thing to do. I asked a hotel staffer to get the package and gave the picture to Lars, so he could install it at the gift table. I took the short, slinky blue dress to a changing room. Thank God I wore dance heels, because in that gown I would never get off the floor. At least I would get to see Francine's expression. Sheila likes to spring things on her too.

The first hurdle was that the gown could not be donned alone. Fortunately, there was a female hotel staffer nearby. Knowing Sheila, that was no coincidence. The second hurdle was the design of the dress. A card said that straps were optional. I am full figured. Strapless would work, but there would be the constant fear of a malfunction because strapless is also braless. 

I trusted Sheila and took off the bra. Getting the gown zipped up was a challenge, but the clamp on my ribs was reassuring. That was Sheila again. She loves corsets and bustiers. Once everything was in place, my assistant showed me something small that I had missed—a garter belt and stockings. Damn. She licked her lips as I pulled off my pantyhose and panties. The hose I discarded. The panties would go on over the garter stays. What's the point of good black lace if you cannot take it off?

While I was at it, I stuck a couple of fingers in to check the oil. I was not fully lubricated, but well on the way. I held my damp fingers under my assistant's nose. Her name tag said Patricia. She surprised me by reaching her head forward and licking my fingers. I allowed her to suck on them for a moment, while I decided what to do. It was almost too easy. 

I held out my hand. There was a momentary battle of wills, while Patricia pretended to not know what I meant. When her eyes dropped, it was over except for the details. She took off her shoes and pants, then stood. She pushed her underwear down to her ankles, without bending her knees. Sorry, Dear. Show it to someone that does not know Francine Martel. I stuck the panties in her mouth and told her she could cum all she liked, as long as they stayed there. 

Patricia came on the third swat, and the tenth, and the twenty-first. Naughty girl. I wondered if Sheila had arranged a lesbian submissive, or if I was just lucky. I would never know, because hell would freeze over before I asked. My hand was covered with Patricia's moisture, which I allowed her to lick off. Once my hands were dry, I applied scented hand cream. By then Patricia was dressed again, sans panties. I told her to keep them because she would not wear any panties til she found someone to put that pair back on her. 

Patricia's eyes were very big as she touched up my make up. While she made sure I was all put together, there was a discrete knock on the door. Patricia looked to me. I nodded. At the door was one of the hotel managers, holding a familiar jewelry box. Somehow Sheila and/or Elspeth had arranged for my ruby and diamond set to be delivered. This was the reproduction set, but it was still Tiffany. Patricia's lips parted in a silent "O".

One nice side effect of the spanking was that I was over my shyness. I needed the confidence for what came next. Patricia pulled my hair back, the pinned it in a coil. The hotel manager hung the necklace, then gave the other pieces to Patricia. One of the rubies hung just low enough to tickle my breasts.

I placed the earrings myself. As Marie pinned on the brooch, I asked her full name. She said, "Patricia Warner. Most people call me Trish, but you can call me Pet." I could not leave that alone.

I said, "I would love to call you, but we both know it will not happen. There is a very tall German I intend to fuck senseless tonight. You may think of me when you get off, if you like. Pet." 

She did an Elspeth and crushed herself to me. I told her she was desirable and responsive. After a long moment, we separated. I went to look at myself in a mirror. Damn Sheila is good. In the blue dress, with black heels and gray pattern stockings, my legs seemed to go on forever. The bustier pushed my size Ds together and up, showing impressive cleavage. The red of the rubies play well against Marie's understated makeup. When I nodded my head, she seemed to glow. Then I opened the door and let life back in. 

I would like to say the party had more surprises, but not. As a dance, it was enjoyable and exhausting. Lars proved quite adept at swing, while half the men lined up for my unclaimed dances. I flatter myself to think it was only partly a shortage of other women. After a couple of hours, my feet were getting seriously annoyed with me. I asked Lars to call the last dance. The two of us had the whole floor for Begin the Beguine. 

As we finished, Francine said, "If I didn't know better, I would swear they knew each other." There was laughter, but it cut short. Most of the people there knew how little we had seen each other over the last three years. 

I shot back, "Did the Gideons stop by? I want a Biblical reference." That played much better. 

Francine tried another shot, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Mister and Doctor Gunter-Richards, or is it Richards-Gunter?" Not bad. 

I said, "We're going now. Try to leave room service something to serve for breakfast. Maestro, everyone, it has been an honor." If Francine said anything, it was covered by applause. Francine still had the last laugh. Our room had a basket of sex aids, running from condoms and lubricants to restraints and floggers, complete with explicit how-to videos. 

As Sheila says, you have to love Francine or strangle her.

Chapter 37 – Kraft Disziplin Kinder

Fortunately, we did not notice Francine's gift for hours. We were busy. I may not have Sheila's liquid grace, but she had taught me a lot about staging a scene. Lars was already kissing my neck on the elevator. I stopped him just inside the door. 

Moving back, so he could see my whole length in his peripheral vision, I held his eye. I removed the heavy earrings, then pulled up the hem of my gown. Using my thumbs, I hooked the skimpy black lace panties and pushed them down below the dress. Still keeping eye contact, I lifted each knee through the leg hole, then dropped them to the floor and stepped out. His arms were out as I strode into his embrace.

Hours later I knew several new things. I had already known that Lars was not as long as his height suggested, but I learned to appreciate his thickness. I learned I could take it all into my mouth and throat, without too much effort, but the better approach was to kiss the balls while I stroked the shaft. He was circumcised, which made the underside of the crown another interesting place. I licked it while stroking his balls, or his anus, with one fingernail. We met in a bondage club, so some kinks were expected. The way Lars reacted to small touches on his anus were interesting. Girls don't have prostates, but they usually like having that portion of the rectum stroked. I resolved to see how a man reacted to genuine prostate massage, but that was for another day.

Most of the other things I learned were about myself. Lars shot his first load into my mouth, per my plan. He understood my thinking but added his own touch. He pulled me to my feet and kissed me with his cum still on my lips. My heart swelled a little right then, which distracted me from what he was doing. He picked me up and threw me on the bed. It was a page out of my own manual—let them feel your strength. 

For the next few minutes, we had a very straightforward wrestling match on the bed. I had always been the biggest and strongest. Lars was bigger and stronger. It settled out with him holding my hands over my head while he nuzzled my neck and nibbled on my jaw. I was more than ready when he moved between my legs and slammed home with a single thrust. I liked that I still had on the gown and he still had on most of his tux. 

We did straight missionary position the first time. Don't knock it. It let me look at his face. After we finished undressing, we did a long period of exploration with fingers and tongue. For the next round, I rode cowgirl. I found he liked me wearing stockings and heels in bed. What I liked is the way he played with my ass during a slow ride and with my tits during a faster one. 

We showered together, though we were too exhausted to do much. I was drying my hair when Lars found Francine's gift. In our condition, some of the videos were hilarious, but we did not linger. Instead, we dressed casually and went to find food. Dining at the Plaza was not my idea of fun and my expectations were low. 

We did stop at the Tearoom to discuss their selection. Their tea expert was very taken with Dr. Gupta's family blend. I gave him my on-hand stock. He promised to have a pot delivered in the morning, with complimentary scones. I never gave him Dr. Gupta's contact information, but I did mention his name and that he was a Yale Professor. 

We walked down 5th Avenue. After days of rain, the stars were out. Everything was well washed and smelled wonderful. A few blocks away we found an Albanian bar, Fund Day'e, which the Plaza's doorman recommended. In truth, it was more Greek than Albanian, but that was fine. I like ouzo, even if you call it raki. We ordered drinks and stuffed grape leaves. Things were a bit silly when our waitress asked if we were newly wed. I realized I was playing with my rings.

Lars had given me a family heirloom ring at our engagement years before. This was a concession to American style, since German's traditionally use only the wedding band. This ring was a simple floral pattern in white gold. As the engagement grew lengthy, I usually wore it on a chain around my neck. It was on my finger during the ceremony, when we exchanged matching bands. So, I had two rings on a left hand that was used to having none. No wonder I fidgeted. I held them up for her to see. 

Lars was amused. He suggested I wear the promise ring on my right hand or put it aside for a daughter. That was very Lars—simple, practical, family-oriented. In that light, I gave up trying to get the rings to coexist. The band was the one that mattered. It gave me an idea. We had passed Tiffany on our way down 5th Avenue. This would give us an excuse to go back. We dined on gyros and cucumber salad, then went back to our room to make our first child.




"Little" Sister Pt. 07



Memorial Day was memorable. We rose late. As promised, tea and scones were delivered, with the promise of more the next morning. Central Park was all out for the holiday. We saw performers and dozens of artists. Lars and I had a pencil sketch drawn. After a couple of hours, we rode the subway to Yankee stadium. 

The Yankees beat the Mariners 7 – 1, behind CC Sabathia. I would have explained the game to Lars, but I was a little fuzzy myself. That was OK. It was child's play to get half a dozen of the local fans to explain things to my German husband. When the crowd learned we were newlyweds, our money was no good. We soon had our fill of dreadful nachos and warm beer. Lars allowed that the bratwurst was edible, though not the style he was accustomed to eating. He even made a couple of business contacts. 

In addition to explaining the game of baseball, our friends-for-the-day had a lot of advice on what to see in Manhattan. Not far from the stadium, we attended a free Philharmonic concert at one of the big churches. It was too late in the day for the Fleet Week events, but the Naval Museum was open late. We dined at Civitano's. To my surprise, the owner remembered me. Lars paid for dinner, but the wine and dessert were on the house. It was after midnight before we made it back to the Plaza. We were almost too tired for sex.

Tuesday was our last time together. Lars had the morning off, so we had time to walk over to Tiffany. He was a little bemused, since the wedding was already over, but he followed my lead. I asked the jeweler to engrave "Kraft Disziplin Kinder" in each of the wedding bands. Lars' smile was like the sun rising. 

We made arrangements for Lars' ring to be messaged to his office. For my band, I would return after checking out of the hotel. As I left, I asked to have a jeweler to look at the contents of a thumb drive. It was a copy of the documentation of my four piece set. If possible, I wanted to speak to the artisan that did the work on the reproduction. At the Plaza, I asked the concierge to deliver the jewels to Tiffany. 

Lars and I parted over street vendor food. He took a cab to the financial district. I walked back to Tiffany. The store manager, a striking Indian woman named Akta Lake, met me in person. It turned out my jewelry was disrupting the day's work. While the copy had been crafted there, it was something of a mystery. Records of the original work were on file, but no one had referenced them until recently. Even that was at arm's length, since Sheila never left New Jersey. 

Most of the negotiations were done by email, often with attached imagery, and confirmed by certified letter. The jewelry was shipped by bonded courier. Tiffany's artisans did a thorough cleaning and repair. During the course of cleaning the original, laser measurements were taken. From these, a rough casting was poured, then crafted to the details of the original. With modern techniques, the reproduction was not difficult. 

That said, the artisans were impressed by the original work. Mrs. Lake said that the senior jeweler was of the opinion that my set was an important transition piece. He believed that Charles Tiffany, the owner and founder, did the basic design. Charles turned it over to his son, Lewis C. Tiffany to execute. The result was a fusion of both of their styles. 

To make a long conversation short, Tiffany and Company wanted to exhibit the work in their museum. To do that, they needed my permission. Moreover, they wanted to do a second reproduction for the display. I brought Sheila and Sean and into the discussion. We licensed Tiffany and Company the image of me holding the original necklace over Cindy's crib, plus one taken then, using the set I had with me. I showed, but did not release, the image of both the original and the reproduction being worn side by side. 

For license of the crib image, release of other images, including those taken during the work, and leave to do the reproduction, Tiffany and Company agreed to do all my future engraving work at no cost. I purchased a desktop sign and had my married name engraved on it. Up to that point, they did not realize I was a member of Congress. Unusually, it did not seem to matter. 

Before I left, I asked Mrs. Lake about my engagement ring. She said it was Bavarian work, from the late 19th century, worth about twice the gold value. The Louis C. Tiffany set she valued in excess of $3,000,000. Because of the importance of the original set, the reproduction was worth more than twice what Sheila paid for it. Once the second copy was displayed in their museum, the value would further increase. Mrs. Lake also said that the documentation of provenience was textbook perfect. 

It was an interesting dichotomy to chew as we drove to Virginia. The original set of jewels was too valuable to wear. Even the reproduction set was a bit scary. The ring Lars gave me had comparatively little monetary value, hence it could be worn at any time. More than that, I took comfort from the intimacy it gave me with his family.

I let that seep through me. Lars was hours of travel away, yet we were connected. A wedding band is a symbol—no beginning and no end. Continuous. Though he was not with me, his promise was. His commitment was. I resolved to do whatever it took to make the marriage work. And I hoped biology would do its part. Ten days later, in the middle of a vote, my period started. 

To add insult to injury, both New York Times Magazine and Unique Bride covered the reception at the Plaza. I was in Congress, but it was also a chance to recap Sean and Sheila's landmark wedding. Both articles ran side-by-side pictures of me—one in the the men's style suit and the other in the short formal dress. Those pictures followed me all year. 

That said, I looked damn good. For an ugly child, that is a very important point.

Chapter 38 – Epilogue

I left home days before my eighteenth birthday. Eleven years later, I married. It took two years of weekends and vacations to catch a baby, but I was lucky; I caught two. I was thirty-one when identical twins Frieda and Hannah were born. A year later I had Rolf.

Cloudrest began as a vision, then a project, finally a home. Between donations, fees and grants, I raised about four hundred thousand dollars. Various programs and sponsors contributed thousands of man-hours of expert workmanship and many thousands of dollars in furnishings and decorations. In all, my out of pocket was about seven hundred thousand dollars. I spent an additional hundred thousand buying adjacent lots. Hillsborough County values the whole property at a million and a quarter. Fair market value was estimated at close to five million dollars. The land value alone doubled from the attention. 

Cloudrest Industries runs the place. Through the company, Lars and I own a maple syrup brand, an apple and cherry orchard, a canning company, a lumber company and a furniture and cabinet company. Tours are five dollars, children under twelve are three dollars, infants and toddlers are free. After years of complaints, the county finally agreed to upgrade the road enough that school buses are safe. For now the kids are home schooled.

Trip Lusk runs Cloudrest Industries. Elspeth runs the house and the nursery. Between my three and her five, patience is required. It has been a good place to teach our Amish girls the ropes. Cloudrest is a favored place to spend a portion of Rumspringa. In addition, we have two permanent Amish families. One is the blacksmith. The other tends the berry garden, orchard and maintains the grounds. Their wives home school their children and do part time in the main house. 

Lars is still in New York City. He made Vice President after three years in Manhattan. We celebrated by taking a working trip to Europe. Lars had two weeks of meetings with senior management. Elspeth and I were able to show the kids a bit of the outside world. I think Rolf's German is better than mine. Meeting Lars' family was interesting. Lars embarrassed me by showing the lederhosen picture. He protested that his thumb was covering my breasts, at least until I punched his arm. That night we conceived Gretchen.

During my third term in the House, the party asked me to run for the Senate. It was a Presidential year. All the Washington insiders were either elated or worried that Hillary might be the Democratic candidate. She was, which is all that needs to be said. I became the newest Senator from New Hampshire.

Three years into my time in the House, Housing and Urban Development started looking into Sean and Sheila's work in my hometown. Sean came to Washington to testify. At the news conference, Sean introduced me as his "little" sister. We were both standing. In my heels, I was about 10 cm (4") taller. Everyone laughed. When he mentioned I had a Sociology PhD from Yale and was attending as an expert, they got quiet fast. I was able to glean a good deal of information from their whispered conversations.

Sean described what K&T Properties had done my hometown. The property group, of which K&T was a founding member, had done similar things in other northern New Jersey and eastern Pennsylvania communities. Sean had his eye on a distressed neighborhood south of the Baltimore docks. By the end of the Congressional term, K&T had permits and waivers from HUD, the State of Maryland and City of Baltimore. 

Six months later, I moved into my new loft apartment. Sheila did the design. A Baltimore architect/general contractor did the work. The neighborhood made it work. My experience in Boston paid off. Being the Big White Bitch had its value. Being able to read lips had more. It did not take long to establish myself as a reliable buffer between the cops and the citizens. My "feelings" and "hunches" grew to mythical proportions.

I also brought employment. FDC Security set up a storefront. Initially, it was a karate dojo that doubled as a recruiting office. Eventually, it expanded into a full-scale training center. South Boston kids came to Baltimore. Baltimore's kids went to Boston. In both places, they learned to work closely with the police. Some of the graduates patrolled my building. Before long the Navy set up down the block, on the other side of the drug testing clinic. Clean became a neighborhood by-word.

For me, it was nice. The commute was much shorter. Johnson had an apartment near the garage. I still did not have a place to entertain, which would be a larger issue as a Senator. Washington is a much different place than my first term as a Congressman, though women's groups still hate me and Ann Coulter still thinks I'm a scary bitch. 

Today, I am taking a day away from my office, even though Congress is in session. Cindy, my niece is competing in the North East Region, fourteen and under gymnastics competition. Even though she is the youngest girl participating, Sean thinks she has a real shot at medals. Sean is not one to use plurals accidentally. The event is at Syracuse University. I will meet Elspeth and the kids at the airport. Lars will meet us in the morning.

Here's hoping for the best. 

*Late addition. Cindy won four gold medals—three individual events and the individual all around. Those are the first gold medals for a participant under age twelve and a record haul for anyone. Cindy complains that she's too short for the bars. It will not last.