High Tea for Jennifer

By Valentina Michelle Smith

Jean and Bob Conrad fell in love with the mansion the first time they saw it.

When they married back in the seventies, they still thought of themselves as flower children. Even though the Summer of Love had long ago faded, despite the conservative backlash taking over the nation, they tried to remain true to the principles of love, of peace, and of freedom which in their minds had characterized the sixties. The world, however, insisted on changing. Soon the bitter realities of survival had them holding down jobs in the corporate world. Bob had become Director of MIS and a partner at a very prominent accounting firm. Jean flirted briefly with political activism before accepting a job with a large and respected legal firm, where she rose to the position of senior partner. The passion of their idealism gave way to the pragmatism of career, advancement, and social position. They worked long days and many weekends to further their careers. They had become quite well off. And they were miserable.

The mansion seemed like a way to reclaim their souls.

The mansion was the former estate of the Cressman family. It was located on a large piece of wooded land in a forgotten corner of the county. August Cressman, a successful businessman of the early 19th Century, had erected a magnificent Gothic mansion as a conspicuous symbol of his family's wealth and prominence. This would be his family's home for generations to come! Sadly, the Great Depression wiped out most of the family's wealth and, in the end, all they had was the land and the mansion. The last daughter of the Cressman family, Jennifer, died a spinster. Her home and land fell into disrepair, finally to be sold for back taxes.

It was a chance reading of the legal notices that brought the mansion to the attention of the Conrads.

They had just finished what was becoming their routine Sunday Morning argument. They retired to neutral chairs to read the paper and brood over the insults they just finished hurling at each other. The fight had not resolved a thing, and they had not really made up, they simply declared a truce and tried to ignore the tension that was tearing them apart.

Why Bob was reading the legal notices, he did not know. It was just something to distract him from the underlying conflict. There, under tax sales, was a notice that the old Cressman estate was being sold.

"Hey, Jean," he said, "do you remember the Cressman place?"

"That run-down old mansion back in the woods? Sure, I remember. My mother told me that it used to be the most elegant home in the county."

"It's for sale. It's being sold to pay off the back taxes."

Jean looked up from her paper. "Gee, that's kind of a shame. It was old and run down, but I always imagined how wonderful a place it must have been when it was new and people lived in it."

Bob folded the paper and rose from his chair. "Why don't we go for a drive? It's open for inspection today. I'm curious to see it."

"Why?" asked Jean. "You really don't want to buy it, do you?"

"No, but I think we could use a little air, and a change of scenery might be good for us, help get us out of this hostile attitude we seem to be stuck in."

Jean thought for a minute. "Maybe you're right," she said. "It might just help to see something beside the inside of our townhouse."

Jean rose from her chair and started across the room. Rob intercepted her. "Jean, honey, look, about what I said. I'm really sorry. I didn't really mean it. I wish I could take it back."

"I do too, Bob. You and I have been genuinely mean to each other, and we both have been saying some very cruel things. I don't know how much more I can take."

"I don't know either, babe. I just want it to stop. Let's try to at least be civil with each other for the rest of the day. Then maybe we can work on being nice again."

She kissed his cheek. "Sounds like a good plan. Let's see if we can survive a drive in the country with each other."

"I still love you, you know."

"And I still love you. That's why it hurts so much."

* * * * *

The Cressman Estate was not situated close to the Interstate or, for that matter, any major highway. Bob negotiated a series of winding country roads before finally coming to the gateway that opened to a cobblestone access road. This road cut straight through the woods and led to the mansion's entrance, an impressive structure that spoke of past glory. That glory was now faded. The mansion was not in any danger of collapse, but it clearly needed work. Windows would have to be replaced, trim would need repair and paint, and a good deal of yard work would have to be done to restore the edifice to its former grandeur.

Jean and Bob emerged from their car and looked around. Only one other car was parked in the curved driveway that could accommodate dozens of vehicles. They walked up to the door and, finding it open, walked in.

The vestibule was dimly lit. The tarnished hanging chandelier held mostly burned-out bulbs. The carpet was worn and the curtains threadbare. They could clearly discern a closet door and a grand circular stairway with an ornate banister. This home had once been magnificent. Its former glory now lay dormant beneath the dust and cobwebs, waiting for a good cleaning and new furnishings to evoke its past splendor.

A man was seated at a card table covered with manila envelopes. He introduced himself as Harry Graham from the county tax office. "Not many folks have been here to see the place," he told them. "It's a shame, because it's a fine old home. Lots of history here."

"With all the development going on in the county, I'm surprised that a sharp contractor or a land speculator hasn't snapped it up," said Jean.

"Maybe in about ten or twenty years they might get interested," said Harry. "Right now it's not as appealing as other parcels located closer to the highway. People want to live in the country, but they also want to get to their city jobs in a hurry."

Harry escorted them into the large formal parlor. "This was where the family did much of its entertaining," he told them. "Abigail Cressman, old Augie's wife, loved to give High Tea in this room." Like the vestibule, it showed years of wear. "The Cressman women continued having High Tea here right up to the Depression. That's when the family hit on hard times. The Cressman's business failed and they lost most of their money in the stock market crash. They never really recovered."

They continued on to the adjoining dining room. Harry continued, "The family was pretty important in its time. They hosted many dinner parties. The cream of society would dine here, giants of industry and finance. Old money and new would come to the Cressman Mansion."

"How did the family manage to hold onto the property as long as it did?" asked Bob.

"Not all of their assets were in the stock markets or in banks," said Harry as they entered the kitchen. "Their business might have failed, but they still owned the physical plants. They sold their mills and factories to pay their debts and lived off the balance for years."

The kitchen was spacious, but the equipment was old. The refrigerators were antiques, the type with the coils on top. The gas stove and oven looked serviceable, but could not be checked out since there was no gas. "The stove runs on propane," Harry said. "There's no gas line run here. And the heat is an old coal furnace converted to run on oil. The boiler is downstairs."

They descended a staircase to the cellar. Harry had brought along a flashlight. Several naked bulbs in bare fixtures cast some light on the heater and boiler, but the added illumination of the flashlight was needed to discern any detail.. "As you can see," said Harry, "the boiler is in good shape. The oil tank is about half full. The furnace hasn't been run since Miss Cressman passed away, but it's been inspected and it will operate. The plumbing is sound. Actually, the building is quite sound as well. They knew how to build things to last back then."

The tour continued upstairs as Harry showed them the Library and the Family Room. The library had shelves stretching along all four walls that extended to the high ceiling. "We removed most of the books," said Harry, "and took them to the community college library. There were some rare volumes there. The library is working to restore them. Some couldn't be saved."

They returned to the vestibule and climbed the circular staircase. "The mansion has twenty-four bedrooms," Harry told them. "Each bedroom has its own bathroom and three of them have private sitting rooms. The bedrooms are on the second and third floors."

They entered one of the bedrooms. "This is the Master bedroom, originally used by Augie and Abigail. Traditionally, the Master and Mistress of the Cressman Estate used this suite. Miss Jennifer's folks were the last folks to use it." They entered another bedroom. "This was Miss Jennifer's room. She never moved into the Master bedroom when her parents passed. She stayed in the same room she always used."

"She never married?" Jean asked.

"No, Ma'am. Miss Jennifer was engaged to a young fellow who went off to the War. One day his letters stopped coming. She wrote, but never got a reply. He never returned. Miss Jennifer just sort of pined away after that. She shut herself up in her room and rarely came out. After her folks passed, she became a recluse. She grew old and died within the walls of the mansion."

"She died here?" asked Bob.

"Yes, sir. The caretaker found her in her chair next to the window. She liked to sit there and look outside."

"You certainly know a lot about the place," remarked Jean.

"Yes, I do. My father was the caretaker here. He's the one who found Miss Jennifer."

"Oh, that must have been awful!" Jean said.

"It was definitely a shock. Pop retired after that and moved to Florida. I'm going down to visit him next month."

The tour took about an hour. As they walked through the mansion and the neglected garden, Jean noticed her husband's expression. There was something there she hadn't seen in a long time.

As they descended the steps, Bob said "I'm surprised that the county doesn't turn this into a museum of some sort. It certainly has historic value."

"There was talk about it," said Harry, "but the money just wasn't there. We tried to get corporate sponsors, but nobody was interested. We just don't have the money to keep the place up."

"So how would I go about buying the place? Assuming I was interested, that is."

Harry picked one of the Manila envelopes from the card table and handed it to Bob. "It's a sealed bid sale," Harry told him. "The minimum bid would cover the back taxes on the place. All the forms you need are in the envelope. Are you interested?"

"Maybe," said Bob, "but I would have to talk with Jean about it. I certainly wouldn't submit a bid if she didn't agree."

Jean said, "I don't think we will. For the life of me I can't see why Bob is so interested in it."

"Okay, folks, "said Harry, "thanks for coming by. I enjoyed talking with you."

* * * * *

The discussion on the drive home was spirited.

"Bob," Jean said, "I hope you weren't serious about buying that old place?"

"I'm considering it," was Bob's reply.

"Why? What would we do with a crumbling old place like that?"

Bob paused for a moment. "Jean, do you remember what we were like back in the sixties? Do you remember our goals, our plans, our dreams?"

"That was a long time ago, Bob. And what does this have to do with the Cressman place?"

"We were going to opt out of the system. Remember how we were going to get a farm, raise our own food, and become self-sufficient?"

"We were kids, Bob. We had no idea what the world was really like. Are you telling me you want to turn the old Cressman place into a farm?"

"No, I don't. But I see a chance for us to become self-sufficient. Honey, do you know what the fastest-growing sector of the economy is right now?"

Jean felt a lecture coming on, but decided to hold to her promise to stay civil. "No I don't, Bob. Why don't you tell me?"

"Tourism. And the hospitality industry is the most lucrative segment of that sector. Jean, I see a possibility for that old place. I think it would make a great Bed and Breakfast. And I think we can pull it off."

Jean looked at Bob again. Now she recognized just what she had been seeing in his eyes. "You're serious, aren't you? You really want to chuck it all and become an Innkeeper?"

"Why not?" Bob replied. "What's wrong with owning our own business? And it's a business we can be proud of. Imagine folks staying at our little place in the country, waking up to eggs and hotcakes and blueberry muffins for breakfast. Imagine people coming from all over the country just to have a few days away from all the hassles of life. And think of how we'll be preserving a little bit of the past. Jean, love, it will be wonderful!"

Jean was listening to Bob, but more important, she was looking at him. She saw a fire in his eyes that had been missing for a long time. After so many years of the corporate grind, this place had re-kindled his dreams. Bob was actually passionate about something. But she was still cautious.

"I don't know, Bob. Before we say yes, let's take a long, hard look at our finances. Fixing the place up will take a lot of time, and cost a lot of money."

"Yes, that's true," Bob said. "I guess I must be dreaming to think we could ever pull it off."

"Dreaming, " said Jean. "You know, the guy I fell in love with had dreams. And he was passionate about his dreams. What ever became of him?"

"I'm still here. And I still have dreams. They had to be put on the back burner while we took care of more immediate concerns. And somehow they got lost in the shuffle."

Jean thought for a few minutes. "Bob," she said, breaking her silence, "I'm sorry that so many dreams had to be postponed. Maybe it's about time we just ran with one. Let's take a look at our financial situation and see what we can do. I don't want to make any promises, but we might just be able to pull it off."

Bob pulled the car to a stop. He needed to look Jean in the eye. "Do you mean it? Do you think we could do this thing?"

"I don't know, Bob. Maybe we won't be able to. But if we don't try, we'll never know for sure. Let's go for it. Besides, there's something about that place. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think it needs us."

Bob put his arms around Jean and hugged her like he hadn't hugged her in years. She could see tears welling up in his eyes. Yes, she thought, it would be good to have her dreamer back in her arms again. And in all honesty, she liked the old place as much as he did. But in one dark little corner of her mind, a nagging doubt lingered. There's a fine line between a dream and a nightmare.

* * * * *

Jean and Bob assessed their financial situation. They were really doing well. They were both successful professionals and were able to save a large portion of their income. Some of this was put away in their retirement plans, and much of it was invested. In order to buy the Cressman place, they would have to liquidate most of their investments.

Bob's older brother Mike was a contractor. With a little coaxing, Mike agreed to inspect the estate. He then made an estimate on the work that would be required to restore the mansion and bring it into compliance with local codes. This would be necessary in order to get the various permits needed to operate a public accommodation. At first Jean was doubtful about their chances, but Mike knew of some government programs to assist small businesses. Jean was also made aware of grants available for female-owned businesses they might qualify for. It would be tight, especially since Bob would be quitting his job to concentrate on the business. But the numbers looked good, and the potential return was encouraging. With some reservation, she agreed.

They submitted a bid. It was not much more than the minimum acceptable bid. As it turned out, theirs was the only bid submitted. They took a cashier's check to the tax office and made settlement. The Conrads were now the proud owners of the Cressman estate.

Their loan was approved. Jean's grant application was also accepted. With money in their account, they set to work restoring the mansion. Mike's assistance proved to be valuable. He did some of the more difficult stuff for cost, obtained all of the required permits, and directed Bob in other less technical work. The electrical wiring needed to be redone before they could install a larger electrical service, and this had to be done by licensed electricians. Some of the plumbing needed replacement as well. And the kitchen required upgrading in order to bring it into compliance with OSHA regulations. But there were plenty of things that Bob and Jean could do on their own. Carpet had to be replaced. Walls needed patching and painting. Windows had to be repaired. Bob threw himself into the task. He was enjoying the process of restoring the old mansion.

They decided to restore the parlor, the dining room, and the bedrooms on the second floor as the first phase of the project. Then, as revenue was generated by guests, the remainder of the mansion would be restored. They would continue to live in their townhouse for now, but would eventually take up residence in one of the bedrooms. Still, it would be quite some time before August Cressman's Country Inn would be accepting guests.

Bob was like a man reborn. His enthusiasm for restoring the mansion reminded Jean of their younger days when Bob was something of a radical. He was always excited about some cause or another, from war protests to Earth Day rallies. Some of that fire had returned. Jean was happier as well, but part of her continued to be doubtful. She was still a senior partner of her law firm, and continued her career as an attorney. She knew that she would have to leave it behind eventually. But could she?

* * * * *

The argument started over something silly. Bob had some definite ideas about the décor. He wanted to retain the Gothic flavor of the mansion, but he also wanted to create a very homey atmosphere. He had ordered curtains without consulting Jean. When she saw them, she was livid.

"Look at those things!" she said. "How could you pick something so lacy? Those things are just dripping frou-frou!"

"What's wrong with that?" he replied. "This is supposed to be a country inn. It's supposed to have lace curtains. People are going to expect it!"

"But do they have to be THAT lacy?" she asked. "You have to admit, Bob, this is definitely over the top."

"I don't think so. I think they're perfectly charming."

"Well I think it's too much. Send them back."

"No!" Bob said. "It will take too long. Besides, I already have some of them hung."

Jean managed to restrain herself from going ballistic, but it was difficult. "Where did you hang them?" she asked.

"In one of the bedrooms. Jennifer's room."

Jean marched up the stairs to inspect the results. She was clearly upset. She opened the door to Jennifer's room and walked in.

The work they had put into the restoration was evident. The holes in the walls had been patched, the walls and trim sported a fresh coat of paint, and the new carpet had no wear at all. Jean looked over to the window. She had to admit that the curtains were nice. They just seemed a little too frilly.

She glanced over to the closet. The door was open. Several dresses and outfits were hanging inside and some suitcases and boxes were stacked on the shelves. Jean recognized them immediately.

"So," she said, "I see you've been indulging Shannon again. Is that the real reason you wanted to buy the place, so you would have a secret hideaway to do drag?"

"No I didn't. But what's wrong with my bringing some of my femme things here?"

"I see it very clearly now," she said, "All along you wanted to set up a place where you and your drag queen friends could get together. That's why you got those curtains! Damn you, Bob, is that why you did this?"

"That's enough!" Bob said. "Look, you knew I was a crossdresser before we ever got married. Back then you thought it was fun. What's different about it now?"

"Now we are married, middle aged, and we have sunk a major portion of out net worth into this idea of yours. I expect it to generate some revenue. But we won't get any guests if you turn it into a fag palace!"

Bob saw red. "Just what the hell do you mean by that? God damn it, I'm no bloody queer! Or have you forgotten just who you've been sharing a bed with all these years? If I'm a fruit and you sleep with me, what's that make you?"

"I never sleep with you when you're in drag, Bob! I sleep with a man!"

"A man who wears dresses, doll. A man who wears pantyhose and makeup. And a man who is every bit a man even if he's a transvestite."

"So if you're such a man, why do you have to bring the girlie stuff here? What are you trying to hide, Bob?"

"I'm not hiding a damned thing!" Bob shouted back. "Remember, it's your idea to keep this secret. You're the one who wants me in the closet. 'What would happen if my partners found out?' Remember saying that?"

"Yes, I remember. I also remember you saying the same thing about your company. You wouldn't be able to face them at work if they found out that Bob Conrad likes to wear a bra and lace panties. So don't try to lay the guilt trip on me, you bastard. You have just as much to lose as I do."

"Not any more. I don't have to worry about those idiots ever again."

"Maybe not, but I still have a job. And in case you've forgotten, that job is currently our only source of income."

"Like you would ever let me forget. You just love to rub it in, don't you? You just love pointing out how inadequate I am. If I'm so damned disgusting, why do you stay with me?"

"Where else can I go? What else can I do? I'm stuck with you! I just wish..." Jean hesitated. Then she started to cry. "I just wish that Shannon would go away and never come back!"

Jean did not like breaking down in front of Bob. She never wanted to appear weak. She considered herself a formidable modern woman who did not resort to feminine trickery to manipulate a man. When she did break down, it was genuine. And Bob knew it. His anger momentarily forgotten, he reached out to embrace his sobbing wife.

They held each other silently. Bob wiped Jean's tears with a tissue. He tried to give her whatever comfort he could. "Jean, honey, I'm sorry that my femme self causes so much trouble. I can't help who I am. I just wish that it didn't hurt you so much."

"It doesn't hurt me, Bob, it frightens me. I keep thinking that you'll come home some day and want a sex change. Or that maybe you want to wear that dress all the time. I keep thinking about you with those friends of yours hanging out in a gay bar or something."

"Honey, that's a support group I go to. The girls there are just like me. We're all straight crossdressers. And we don't go to gay bars!"

"That's just what I mean, Bob! You keep saying you don't want to change your sex, but you call each other girls, and talk in those faggy voices. Jesus Christ, it creeps me out when you talk like that and swish around the room! Bob, it scares me!"

"Jean, I don't mean to keep beating this drum, but you knew all about Shannon when we got married. You didn't seem to have a problem with her when we married. Remember that slumber party we had, when we put on nightgowns and stayed up all night trying on different makeup? It didn't seem to creep you out then!"

"It was just us then, Bob. I really thought you were going to grow out of it. But you never did. You kept wanting more and more. It wasn't enough to stuff your bra with socks, you had to have silicone forms. One wig wasn't enough, you had to have a dozen. One or two outfits wasn't enough, you had to fill a closet. It wasn't enough to swish around our home, you had to find a support group. You kept pushing the boundary. For Christ's sake, you have more makeup than I do!"

"And your point is?" Bob asked? Their mood was quickly shifting from conciliatory to belligerent.

"The point is, I have to wear these clothes, this makeup, these damned high heels, because I'm required to! It's what's expected of me. You think I like shaving my legs or slathering on war paint? Bob, think about it! I get home, I want to take off my bra and get into my jeans! But you! Dammit, Bob, you love wearing this stuff! These are symbols of male domination, of all the things I hate about society! Women have to work five times harder to be half as successful as a man. We have to be painted little Barbie dolls to be acceptable to the corporate establishment. And here you are, with all the advantages that being born male gives you in this world, and you want to wear my goddam dresses!"

"I'm not ashamed of who I am or what I am. Are you ashamed of me?"

"No. But I'm tired of it. Aren't I woman enough for you? Don't I look good enough for you? Why do you get all dolled up like that? Are you trying to look better than me? Does what you see in the mirror look better than what you see in bed? Tell me, Bob, are you having an affair with yourself?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Said Bob. "You know this isn't about you. My need to dress is something that comes from within. Your sexuality is not the issue. The issue is my own femininity.

"But you're right about one thing," Bob continued, "I do have an ulterior motive. This place is secluded. The woods hide it from public view. Do you know how many times I longed to walk in the sunshine as Shannon? I can do it here! I can take a stroll in the garden en femme, and I don't have to worry about the neighbors seeing me. I don't have to sneak off to a support group. Do you know how good that feels?"

"And what do you intend to do when we start booking guests? Don't you think they might see Shannon prancing around? Do you think they won't put two and two together? Face it, Bob, you don't look that good in drag. You would be spotted in a heartbeat. And then what?"

"I wasn't going to do it when we had guests. At least, not regular guests."

"Regular guests? What other kind did you have in mind?"

"I was going to block out one or two weekends as Transgender Special Weekends. Maybe a whole week once a year as well. I think it would go over well."

Now it was Jean's turn to see red. "I should have known!" she shouted. "All this talk about being self-sufficient was just an excuse to swish around with your fairy friends! When were you going to share that little tidbit with me, Bob? When all the queens started showing up?"

"Look, Jean, in the first place I wouldn't have done it without talking it over first. In the second place, the talk about being self-sufficient is not just talk. I want the Inn to succeed. I want it to thrive. This is our dream, babe, our dream of opting out of the corporate system."

"It's your dream, Bob, not mine. I never wanted to drop out. I wanted to change the system. Do you really think I want to be a hostess for some hick joint out in the sticks? I'm a defense attorney, and a damned good one!"

"So that's your goal, to be a toady for the system? Tell me, madam councilor, are you proud of getting drug dealers off?"

"Don't get righteous with me, Bob Conrad! We both used our share of street drugs in our younger days, and we didn't get them at the grocery store. Where do you think that stuff came from? Or have you been exempted from hypocrisy because you're dropping out of the system?"

"Where do you get off calling anybody a hypocrite? Look at yourself, senior partner of one of the biggest law firms in the city. You aren't changing the system, you made yourself part of the system. At least I still have a dream to follow!"

If a look could kill, Jean's gaze right then would have leveled a mountain. "So I'm a sell-out, eh? All that pro bono work I do for welfare mothers and the homeless is selling out to the system? I confront the system every day on its own turf. I lend my strength and passion to those most needy. I keep the system from crushing the weak and helpless. And I win! Tell me I'm not following my dream! I'll stack my contribution to the human condition against this Inn idea of yours any day you like!"

Jean turned and headed for the stairs. Bob followed her. She ran down the steps in tears. "Don't you follow me!" she shouted. "I'm leaving you!"

Bob caught up with her outside. "Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"I'm going to the townhouse. Don't follow me, I need time alone to think."

"Think about what?"

She looked at him. "I really think we need some time away from each other. We ought to think about splitting up."

Bob was stunned. "But why? We've been able to work things out up to now!"

"No we haven't, Bob. We just keep putting things off. We never solve anything, we just move from fight to fight. I can't live like this anymore, and neither can you!"

Bob tried to stop her, but she pushed him aside and went to her car. "Jean, please, don't go! I love you!"

She looked up at him. "And I love you too, Bob, but that isn't enough any more. I feel like I have to compete for your attention. It's bad enough I have to compete with this," she said, pointing to the mansion, "but I can't compete with another woman. Especially when the other woman is you."

She started the car and pulled out. Bob watched through tears as she drove away.

* * * * *

It was probably a mistake for him to get dressed in his female things when he was so depressed, but he did. He took one of the suitcases from the closet and opened it. Inside was a selection of lingerie. He chose lace panties, a satin bra, and pantyhose. He then removed his male clothing and piled it in the corner.

He pulled on the panties, enjoying their softness and the sensation of the lace. Then he hooked up the bra. He put a silicone breast form in each cup and adjusted the straps. He enjoyed the way the forms would bounce on his chest, creating the illusion of actual breasts. He rolled up the pantyhose and pulled it smoothly over his shaven legs. He walked over to the full-length mirror to admire his increasingly feminine shape.

He now removed his makeup case from the closet and sat down at an antique vanity he had found at a flea market. He applied some beard cover and concealer. He followed this with a light foundation over which he applied blush. Then he turned his attention to his eyes. He outlined his eyes with black eyeliner, softening the line at the corners of his eyes. A smoky gray eye shadow was applied over his lids and blended with a soft brush. Mascara darkened and enhanced his lashes, and eyebrow pencil defined the arch of his brows.

Bob looked in his case to select just the right lipstick shade. He settled on a dark red. Using a lip brush, he deftly stroked color onto his lips, drawing out the fullness of his cupid's bow. His lips were full, sensuous, and perhaps a bit pouty.

With makeup applied, Bob was feeling a lot more like Shannon. He rose from the vanity and walked over to the mirror to once more admire his handiwork. Shannon was definitely looking back.

As she turned and posed, Shannon thought she saw some motion in the mirror. She turned to look, but the room was empty save for her and the furniture. Odd. She must have imagined it. She went to the closet to pick out a dress.

The dress she chose was one of her favorites. It was an A-line teal waltz dress with a scalloped skirt. She removed it from the hanger and pulled it over her head, being careful not to smudge her makeup. She managed to reach behind herself and pull up the zipper.

She had brought several pairs of shoes with herself. She selected a pair of slingbacks that matched her dress and pulled them on. Finally she removed one of her wigs from its box and put it over her head. She adjusted the wig with a pick, and returned to the full-length mirror.

She loved what she saw. The tan hose encasing her legs enhanced the shape that her high heels gave them. She walked back and forth several times, wishing that the carpet would not muffle the click of her heels.

There it was again! She could have sworn she saw something move in the mirror. But when she turned around, nothing was there.

She shook off her bewilderment to continue her fantasy. She descended the staircase, walking in the elegant manner she imagined the mistress of the house would affect. She smiled as she traversed the vestibule and entered the parlor. This room still needed much work, but for tonight it would be just fine. "Why, Mrs. Vanderbilt!" she exclaimed, "how lovely of you to come. Please do sit down. And Mrs. Parker, you certainly look lovely. Mrs. Schwab, how is that charming daughter of yours?" Like a hostess serving High Tea, Shannon greeted all of her imaginary guests.

"Well look at me," she said in a sarcastic tone. "My wife leaves me and here I go playing tea party just like a little girl. How pathetic!" She stalked out of the parlor and headed back to Jennifer's room.

She went back to the closet and found a tote bag, from which she removed a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and a wineglass. "I was going to toast our success with this when we finished restoring the place," she said. "Now I think I'll just use it to get drunk." The cork was removed from the bottle with a loud pop. Shannon poured herself a generous glass of wine and returned to the mirror.

She held the glass up to the mirror. "Here's to Shannon. And here's to the August Cressman Country Inn." She drained the glass and poured herself a second. She once again held up the glass. "Damn," she said to nobody in particular, "I sure look sexy holding a wine glass!" She giggled and took a long sip of the wine, wishing now that she had chilled it.

There it was again! She could have sworn she saw something in the mirror! But when she turned, there was nothing. "Shannon, girl," she said, "you are either too drunk or not drunk enough!" Her glass was once again empty, so she poured herself a third. She raised it to her lips and managed to spill some of it. This made her laugh. Drinking on an empty stomach was causing her to become intoxicated quite rapidly.

She felt herself wobbling on her heels, so she sat down. She smiled at herself in the vanity mirror and took another sip. Again, she thought she saw something move, but by now she was too drunk to care. She took another swig and put the glass down. She started giggling. Just as quickly she started crying.

Then she noticed the bottle in her makeup case. It was a prescription for Xanax.

Months ago, Jean had talked Bob into seeing a therapist about his temper outbursts. He agreed reluctantly, planning on going to one or two sessions just to humor her. He felt that she needed help with her temper just as much as he did. The shrink prescribed Xanax. Bob had the prescription filled and actually took one dose, but decided not to take any more as it made him feel strange, sort of a mental numbness.

For some reason, Bob never disposed of the drug. He kept it just in case he would ever need it.

The alcohol was definitely impairing Shannon's judgement. She opened the bottle of pills. I wonder how many of these I need to get over this depression? she mused. Why not take them all? What do I have to lose? My marriage is in the tank, I'm broke paying for this old dump, and I'm here all by myself, a pathetic man wearing a dress.

The pills were in her hand. She began swallowing them one at a time, taking a sip of the wine with each one. As she swallowed the last one, she said, "Uh, oh, maybe I shouldn't have taken these pills with alcohol." This seemed very funny to her and she started laughing. Then the room started to spin. She fell from her chair onto the floor, unable to get up.

"No!" she shouted, "I don't want to die! Not tonight! Not like this!"

She felt a coldness creep over her extremities as the room light seemed to fade. Everything was going black.

The last thing she was aware of was somebody standing over her. Then she was unconscious.

* * * * *

Tony Fox was on duty in the county dispatcher's office when the call came in.

"Nine-One-One," he said, "What's your emergency?"

A woman's voice replied, "There's a man at the old Cressman place who just took a lot of pills. He needs help. I think he's dying."

"I need your location," Tony said.

"It's the old mansion just off Caroline Road, between Harding Pike and DiMarco Drive."

"We're sending a paramedic. Do you know what he took?"

"It looks like Xanax. He took a whole bottle of them. He's been drinking."

"Could I have your name please?"

"His name is Robert Conrad. Please hurry!"

"Thank you, ma'am, but I need your name as well."

"Hurry! He needs you!" The connection broke.

* * * * *

Paramedics Cindy Keller and Ray Thompson pulled up to the main entrance of the Cressman Mansion. The front door was ajar. They entered the mansion and saw the silhouette of a woman in a doorway upstairs. She seemed to be beckoning them. They climbed up the steps to the room where they found Bob unconscious on the floor. Whoever was in the doorway was nowhere to be found.

They managed to strap Bob onto a stretcher. He was carried down the steps and out of the mansion. The medics knew their business. Bob was in the ambulance and on his way to the Emergency Room in minutes.

The ER physicians took over. From the phone report, they knew they would have to pump his stomach. He was unconscious and had trouble breathing. The team intubated him and hooked him up to a respirator. IV bags dripped fluid into his body to flush out the drug and alcohol still in his system. It was a holding action. The ER team fought valiantly to keep Bob's body alive until the poisons were eliminated.

Eventually they managed to stabilize him. The respirator would continue to breathe for him and he would be monitored in the Intensive Care Unit for any signs of trouble. His life was safe for now. He was not out of danger, but the playing field had been leveled.

One of the ER nurses found Bob's wallet in his pocket. She searched for and found his driver's license. While she entered data into the hospital database, one of her co-workers looked up Bob's phone number. He placed a call to Jean.

* * * * *

Bob awoke disoriented. The sounds of medical equipment and monitor alarms initially confused him. Then he saw Jean. He tried to move.

Jean was crying. "Bob! Oh my dear sweet Bob don't leave me! I love you, Bob! I love you! Don't leave me!"

Bob tried to speak but could not. Something in his throat prevented him from forming words. Air was being forced into his lungs. He now realized he was hooked to a respirator. Then he remembered the pills and the wine. He was alive!

He looked up into his wife's tear-reddened eyes. At that moment it was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld. Jean had rescued him! She found him and got him to the hospital! She saved his life!

He heard another woman's voice. "Mrs. Conrad, I have to speak with your husband. Please step outside for a moment." Jean left, still sobbing. The woman's face moved into Bob's field of view.

"Mr. Conrad," she said, "I'm Dr. Bergman. Do you know where you are?"

Bob nodded.

"Do you know why you were brought here?" she asked.

Bob answered with another nod.

"Mr. Conrad, you have a tube in your throat that has been helping you to breathe. It looks like you can breathe on your own now. Would you like me to take it out?"

Yes, Bob nodded. It was quite uncomfortable.

"All right, Mr. Conrad. I'm going to remove it. When I tell you, take a deep breath and blow out as hard as you can. When the tube is out you will start to gag. It will pass, but you'll probably cough a bit. Are you ready?"

Bob nodded. Dr. Bergman removed the respirator circuit from the tube. Bob was once again using his own chest and diaphragm to draw life-giving air into his lungs. The tape securing the tube was pulled off. Then Dr. Bergman grasped the tube firmly. "Okay, Bob," she said, "blow out now."

As Bob exhaled, Dr Bergman drew out the tube in one quick, fluid motion. Bob was astonished at just how long this tube was. He didn't know his windpipe could hold that much tubing. He didn't have a lot of time to consider this. Just as Dr. Bergman warned him, his gag reflex kicked in. He coughed and gagged trying to expel a foreign object no longer lodged in his throat. This continued for a few moments until his body re-adjusted.

"Water, please," he whispered hoarsely. The doctor handed him a cup. He sipped some water through a straw. Welcome moisture bathed his throat, helping the lingering soreness to subside. "Thank you," he said.

'Mr. Conrad," said Dr. Bergman, "you are out of any immediate danger, so we are going to move you from this Step-Down Unit to a regular Med-Surge floor. It's a little quieter there. I want to talk to you when you're settled in." She made a few notations to his chart, and then said, "See you in a few hours."

Jean was back at his side. She reached over the bed, leaned close to Bob and hugged him as best she could. It was a little complicated. She had to avoid the IV lines hanging from the bed stand. "Damn you, Bob Conrad, don't you ever do that again!"

"I won't," he said. "I don't think I was ever so frightened in my life. Thanks for coming back, Jean. If you hadn't found me, I would have died there."

Jean was puzzled. "What do you mean, Bob? I didn't find you."

"Sure you did. I saw you standing over me just before I passed out."

"You must have imagined it, Bob. I wasn't there."

Just then a nurse and two orderlies wheeled a gurney next to Bob's bed. "Mr. Conrad," the nurse said in a cheerful tone, "we're going to move you to another room, now. Do you think you can climb onto the gurney for us?"

"I'll try," he answered. Bob lifted himself up on shaky arms. With a little assistance he managed to transfer himself from the bed to the gurney. He was a little afraid that he might rip out the IV tubes and was careful not to do so. Jean walked next to him as the orderlies wheeled him down the corridor and into an elevator.

The Med-Surge unit was two floors up from the ICU Step-Down unit. Bob was wheeled into a cheery private room with sunlight streaming through the window. Once again he shifted himself from the gurney into a freshly made bed. The nurse tucked a blanket around him, took his pulse and blood pressure, and then took his temperature with an ear thermometer. "I'll let Dr. Bergman know that you have been transferred," she said. "In the meantime, it looks like lunch is being served. Do you feel like eating?"

"Yes, I'm famished!" Bob replied.

"Good. I'll get a tray sent in to you. Press the call button if you need anything."

Bob watched the nurse exit. He wanted to say something to Jean, but wanted some privacy. "Jean, I'm sorry about all this. I really never wanted to embarrass you."

"I'm not embarrassed, Bob. I'm just worried about you."

"Yeah, but now the secret is out. I never wanted Shannon to be a source of embarrassment for you."

Jean looked perplexed. "What does Shannon have to do with this?"

Bob smiled. "Thanks for trying, honey, but the cat is definitely out of the bag. It had to be as obvious as hell when they brought me in here."

"Bob, I really don't know what you're talking about."

"The dress. The makeup. The lingerie. Don't you think they all know I'm a transvestite by now?"

"Why would they? You weren't wearing anything feminine when they brought you in."

Bob's jaw dropped. "How could that be? I was fully en femme when I passed out. You had to have seen me, you were standing right over me."

"Bob, that stuff you took must have made you see things. I haven't been back to the mansion since I stormed out of it. I was at home. The hospital called to tell me you had swallowed some pills."

"But, who called the ambulance?"

"I thought you did!"

"I couldn't have. I passed out before I could get to the phone. Honey, I literally couldn't move!"

The discussion was postponed when Bob's lunch tray arrived. Bob lifted the lid to find some sort of breaded mystery meat, soggy green beans, and a white glob that was not completely, but almost, unlike mashed potatoes. He winced a bit as he took a hesitating first taste of his lunch. He wrinkled his face.

"How bad does it taste?" asked Jean.

"That's the really frightening part," Bob answered, "it doesn't taste that bad. Would you like some?" he offered.

"No, thanks," said Jean, "I think I'll pop down to the cafeteria and get something. Do you mind if I leave for a few minutes?"

"No, you must be starved. Please, get some lunch. We can talk later."

"Well, alright, but..."

She leaned over and kissed his forehead. "I'm just afraid to let go of you," she said.

Bob smiled. "I promise not to go anywhere," he joked, "It's too hard to run away wearing a hospital gown." They both laughed. Jean gave her guy another kiss and then left to get some lunch.

* * * * *

Jean returned just as Dr. Bergman was checking up on Bob. Dr. Bergman was looking over Bob's chart. She looked up as Jean entered. "Hello, Mrs. Conrad," Dr. Bergman said, "I was just reviewing the case with your husband. Mr. Conrad," she said, "do you want to speak with me privately?"

"No, doctor," Bob said, "I don't keep any secrets from Jean. She has a right to know about anything that effects me."

"Fine. Mrs. Conrad, if you have any questions as I speak with Bob, please don't hesitate."

"Thank you, doctor. And please, call me Jean."

"Of course, Jean. And may I call you Bob, Mr. Conrad?"

"Please do," said Bob.

"Good," said the doctor. "And my name is Lisa. Bob, you came mighty close to cashing it in. Just what did you have in mind when you took all that Xanax?"

"Well," Bob said, somewhat embarrassed, "it seemed like a good idea at the time. I was drunk."

"I see. That does seem to bring out the idiot in all of us. Remind me to tell you about my husband's tattoo. Do you get drunk often?"

"No. In fact I don't usually drink alcohol."

"What caused you to get so drunk that you thought taking a month's supply of Xanax was a good idea?"

"I guess I was depressed. Jean and I had a fight, and she walked out on me. She said she was leaving me."

Dr. Bergman turned to Jean. "Have you ever done this before, Jean?"

Jean answered, "No, but I had been thinking about it. It seems like we go from one fight to another. It always starts over something really stupid, but it escalates quickly. We begin shouting cruel, hurtful things at each other. It gets pretty ugly."

Dr. Bergman turned back to Bob. "Do you agree, Bob? Have you been having marital problems?"

"If you mean have we been arguing," he said, "the answer is yes. And Jean's right. We argue over really minor things, but then we both start bringing up past injuries, old insults, and the whole thing goes to hell. It's like we can't stop ourselves. I want to stop, and I know Jean wants to stop, but I just can't hold back."

Dr. Bergman nodded, making a few notes. "Bob," she asked, "were you trying to kill yourself?"

Bob considered this. "I don't think so," he finally said. "I don't really want to die. Like I said, I was drunk. I saw the pills and wondered what it might feel like to swallow all of them. It seemed funny at the time. Then, when I had done it and realized that I might actually die, I panicked. I felt myself dying, and it was the most frightening thing that ever happened to me." He started to shiver.

"I have another question. How long have your arguments been going on?"

"It seems like forever. We always have disagreements, and we argued with each other since we started dating. In the last few years, though, they've gotten downright vicious."

Dr. Bergman made a few more notes. "Do your arguments ever resolve anything?"

"Rarely. We just seem to get too tired to argue any more and declare a cease-fire."

"Do you love Jean, Bob?"

"What an absurd question? Of course I do!"

"How much?"

"Lisa, if Jean needed one of my organs to live, or one of my eyes to see, I would give it to her with no hesitation. If she needed a heart, she could have mine. I would fight every demon in Hell to protect her. I would take a bullet for this lady."

"She means that much to you?"

"Yes, she does."

"And how about you, Jean? Do you love Bob?"

Jean said, "I wouldn't quite put it in such heroic terms, but yes, I love Bob, and would make any sacrifice for him."

"Then why do you fight?"

This perplexed the two of them. Bob said, "I only wish the hell I knew. I would do things for this woman that I would never even think about for any other person. But for some reason, nobody can so thoroughly piss me off as she."

The doctor made a few more notes. "I have some ideas, folks. First off, Bob, your physical health seems just fine, and I don't think you'll be overdosing on Xanax any time soon. I want to keep you here overnight for observation just in case there are any lingering problems.

"In cases of a possible suicide attempt, we require a psychiatric evaluation before you can be discharged. This is to determine if you might present a danger to yourself or to others."

"I see," said Bob. "When do I talk to the shrink?"

"You just did," Lisa answered. "I don't really believe you are in any danger of suicide, accidental or otherwise. But I'd like to get you and Jean into some counseling sessions. I feel that it will help your major problem."

Jean asked, "Counseling sessions? What kind?"

"Conflict management. How to resolve your differences without always going for the jugular. I call it 'Fair Fighting'.

"You see," she continued, "two people can't live under the same roof without having a difference of opinion. This is to be expected. The trouble comes when the partners don't know how to resolve their issues in a positive manner.

"Fair Fighting is a method of resolving disagreements in a civilized fashion. You will learn how to recognize danger signs that could lead to a possible conflict. You will learn techniques to resolve your disagreements without degenerating into all-out warfare. It takes time to learn, and you have to commit to the program as a couple. You will also have to come to the sessions as a couple, and be ready to discuss any fights you may have had. Do you think you can commit to this?"

"I would sure like to try," said Jean. "I really want this constant sniping to end."

"Me, too," Bob added. "I love Jean, and I want to treat her like I love her. I'm just so ashamed of my behavior!"

"Now isn't the time for self-recrimination," Lisa said. "There will be plenty of self-assessment when the sessions begin. Just keep an open mind. Not everything you discover about yourself will be pleasant.

"Let's see how we do overnight. If all goes well I'll kick you out of here tomorrow morning. And then we'll set up an appointment to get you started on the counseling sessions." She made a few more notations on Bob's chart and replaced it. "I'll see you tomorrow, folks."

As soon as Lisa left, Jean reached over and gave Bob a long, passionate kiss. He kissed back and hugged her with his free arm. Then he started to giggle. She looked at him quizzically. He said, "I was just thinking about what I would do if I didn't have this IV hooked up."

Jean laughed. "Well, it's a private room. Maybe we can close the door and..." She smiled seductively.

"Nice idea," he said, shifting his position. "But what if the nurse comes to take my blood pressure?"

"She'll just have to wait her turn," said Jean. She planted another big wet kiss on Bob's lips. "I get first dibs on that body of yours."

They kissed again, long and passionately. When their lips finally parted, Bob started panting as though he was overheated. "Wow! You still have it, lover!"

Jean grinned. "Nice to know I'm still a hottie. But you aren't so bad yourself.

"I don't mean to change the subject, "she said, "but I better get you some clean underwear if you're coming home tomorrow."

"I'll need some clothes and shoes as well," Bob said.

"What's wrong with the clothes you wore in?"

"Very funny," Bob replied in a mock-sarcastic tone. "But I don't think I should be wearing a dress home, even if the world knows about me now. I wouldn't be comfortable."

"There you go again," Jean said. "Bob, you weren't wearing a dress when they brought you in here. Look." She went to the closet and opened the door. Bob's tan chinos and a gray Land's End polo shirt were hanging inside. "This is what you had on when they brought you here. At least that's what the nurse told me."

Bob was once again puzzled. "How could that be? Honey, I really was in my femme things when I swallowed the pills. I just don't understand."

Jean walked back to the bed and gave Bob a hug. "Don't worry about it. Maybe taking all that stuff gave you some hallucinations. It wouldn't be the first time drugs made you see things," she smirked. "The important thing is that you're all right."

"I suppose you're right," Bob said. He moved his head around to give Jean another kiss. It was good to be alive and good to be in his lover's arms. The mystery of his clothes could wait.

* * * * *

Several weeks and two counseling sessions had passed before Jean and Bob could bring themselves to return to the mansion. Bob was hesitant, fearing to return to the scene of their last big argument. Jean felt that they both needed to confront their fight and put it behind them. Both were nervous as they entered the vestibule.

Jean looked around at the vestibule and smiled. "Bob," she said, "I know that I didn't tell you before, but I'm really proud of the way you've been restoring the place. It already looks so much better."

"I wish I could take all of the credit," Bob said, "but much of it belongs to Mike and his guys. Did you see the new siding and trim? And he put all the new windows in. It looks just great."

"Did he replace all the windows?" she asked.

Not all of them; the windows in Jennifer's room and the Master bedroom were newer than most of the other windows. Mike thinks they had been replaced recently."

"Let's go up to Jennifer's room, Bob. I want another look at the curtains."

Bob hesitated. "Do you think that's wise? We had our big blowout there. I'm still a little nervous, honey."

Jean took his hand. "We can't duck it forever, love. Sooner or later we have to go there."

"I know, honey. I just don't want another fight."

She smiled and kissed him. "No fight. I promise. We'll discuss any differences in a mature, fair manner. Hey, we got through Sunday morning without a fight for the first time in months. I don't want to waste a lucky streak like that."

He smiled back. "When you put it that way, how can I refuse?"

They ascended the staircase holding hands. The door to Jennifer's room was closed. Bob didn't know what to expect as he opened it. What he found was puzzling.

Discarded paper and plastic wrappers from the paramedics littered the floor, but otherwise the room was neat. The closet door was closed. A wine bottle and a glass were on the dresser.

"I don't understand it," Bob said. "I had my makeup case out on the vanity and a suitcase full of lingerie open on the bed." He opened the closet door. His suitcases, his makeup case, and his outfits were all stored neatly inside. The teal dress he remembered hung under a protective sheath of drycleaner's plastic.

He shook his head in disbelief. "Honey, I could have sworn I was en femme that night. This just doesn't add up."

"Bob, you can't ignore your own eyes. You must have imagined it."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. It's just that the memory is so vivid. I never had that sort of a dream before."

"You never took an entire bottle of Xanax and washed it down with wine before."

Bob reflected on this. "You must be right. I'm not going to worry about it any more. We have too much to do."

Jean sighed in relief. "Good. We can get started hanging those curtains."

Bob stopped in his tracks, astonished. "I thought you wanted me to send them back. I thought you said they were just too lacy. Did you change your mind?"

"A little. I still think they are way over the top with room to spare. But I can live with them. And like you said, people will expect it."

Bob saw Jean smile. He smiled back. "Well, I promise not to buy anything that outrageous without talking to you first."

"Thank you. Now let's get changed into some work clothes. But first, why don't we clean up in here."

Jean started picking up the discarded medical wrappers. Bob went to the dresser to get the wine bottle and glass. That's when he noticed the lipstick marks on the wineglass.

They were the same shade of red Shannon had been wearing when she swallowed the pills.

* * * * *

The restoration of the Cressman Estate was proceeding once again. Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, the mansion was shedding its drab covering of cobwebs and neglect to claim its lost grandeur. Bob scoured antique stores, flea markets, yard sales, and estate sales to find just the right furnishings for the different rooms. In one particularly fortunate instance, he found an antique piano and a wonderful hammered dulcimer for the parlor. He acquired a number of marvelous paintings this way. Jean had been hesitant at first, hoping Bob would not go crazy, but she had to admit that he showed a talent for sniffing out a bargain. She was particularly proud of him when he purchased a number of tables and chairs from a restaurant that was remodeling. He managed to furnish the parlor and dining room for about half the amount they had budgeted.

The kitchen needed a lot more work than any other place in the mansion. The propane stoves simply would not be adequate for their operation. This meant that a gas line had to be installed. Fortunately, a gas main did run adjacent to their property. The old stoves, sinks, and refrigerators were replaced with new equipment. Automatic dishwashers were also installed. Safety hoods with fire systems were installed to comply with OSHA regulations. The lighting was upgraded with fluorescent fixtures. When they were done, the only original part of the kitchen was the tile floor.

Bob decided to reward himself for all his hard work. Jean was meeting with an out-of-town client and would not return for a few days. He decided to let Shannon out to play.

His femme things were still in Jennifer's room. He felt a little nervous as he opened the suitcase with his lingerie. He still remembered the night he nearly died. He had just about dismissed the cross-dressing that night as a hallucination, but he still had a few nagging doubts.

His nervousness gave way to excitement as he donned lace panties. The familiar silky feel was a welcome sensation, as was the tightness of the bra. Silicone forms gave the cups a perfect shape, and the bouncy feeling they provided was simply indescribable.

He had kept his legs shaven just for this, the moment he pulled on a pair of pantyhose. He once again reveled in the cool, airy feel of the tight hose. He pulled a slip over his head and smoothed the skirt and bodice over his now-feminine curves. With each passing second, he was feeling more like his alter ego.

He took his makeup case over to the vanity. His face was freshly shaved and moisturized. A touch of beard cover neutralized the blue tint of his beard, and some concealer hid the orange-red tint of the cover. He used his fingers to apply foundation. He never liked using a sponge, preferring the control his fingertips gave him in smoothing, blending, and feathering makeup.

Satisfied with the foundation, he turned his attention to his eyes. He applied some turquoise eye shadow that he blended with a small artist's brush. He then applied some eyeliner and mascara. Finally he brushed some blush onto his cheeks and added a little to his chin and forehead.

He opened a tube of rose lipstick that he applied with a brush, first outlining the upper and lower lips and then filling them in with color. It was similar, he thought, to coloring with crayons in a coloring book. He smiled at the face he now saw in the mirror, the face of Shannon.

Shannon now arose from her seat to get the skirt she had laid out, a floral print on a crème background. Spring was still a few weeks away, but the weather had been warm and Shannon felt like getting a jump on the season. She put on her skirt and matching twin set top. The skirt hung past her knees and had a slit on the left side. She looked at herself critically, then selected a gold chain and earrings to accompany her outfit. Satisfied, she pulled on a wig with shoulder-length hair that framed her face and neckline. She snapped a thin ankle bracelet to her left leg and stepped into a pair of white sandals with 3-inch heels.

She walked over to a full-length mirror to admire herself. She twirled about to feel the edges of her skirt swirl away. The effect was intoxicating. She felt reborn, as though spring had indeed arrived early.

Then she saw it. In the mirror, she saw a woman behind her.

She turned. The woman was standing in the room, smiling. She was young, perhaps in her mid 20's. Her hair was arranged in a pageboy style like something from out of the past. She wore a conservative floral dress, elegant in its simplicity, but just as anachronistic as her hair. White cotton gloves and white pumps with a matching handbag completed her look. She would have been elegantly dressed in the 1930's.

Shannon was both afraid and angry. "Who are you?" she demanded, "and what are you doing in here?"

"Why shouldn't I be here," said the woman, "After all, this is my room. And I know we haven't been properly introduced, so we shall have to introduce ourselves. I am Jennifer Cressman." She extended her hand.

Shannon was too stunned to move. After a few awkward seconds of silence, the woman said, "At this point it is customary to grasp my hand and introduce yourself."

Shannon hesitantly grasped the woman's proffered hand. It was neither excessively hot nor cold, but seemed just a touch cool. Her grasp was gentle. "Hello. My name is Bob. I mean, Shannon!"

"Pleased to meet you, Shannon. Do you have a last name?"

Shannon hesitated a moment. "I never really thought about it. I mean, my last name is Conrad, but that's Bob's name. I don't know if Shannon has a last name."

"You seem a bit confused, dear."

Well, I am," said Shannon. "First of all, who are you really? And what do you mean this is your room?"

"I just told you, I'm Jennifer Cressman. This is the room I grew up in as a girl and lived in for years and years. I grew old in this room. Eventually I died in it."

"That doesn't make sense," said Shannon. "If you died, how could you be here talking to me now?"

The woman seemed a little exasperated. "I hoped I might avoid this, but..." And she vanished. She didn't fade away like the Cheshire cat; she simply disappeared.

Shannon rubbed her eyes. She started looking around the room for the woman she had just been speaking with, but she was nowhere in sight.

She was startled by the woman's voice behind her. "I do hope that was a sufficient demonstration as I find ostentatious displays rather boorish."

Shannon turned around again. "What is this?" she asked, "are you a ghost?"

"I suppose you could say that. I have never met another ghost, so perhaps I am. I certainly don't feel like a ghost. I feel like myself. Then again, I have no way of knowing what a ghost should feel like."

Shannon looked at the woman's face. There was something hauntingly familiar about it. Then it struck her. "The painting in the parlor! You look just like the woman in the painting!"

The woman smiled. "Yes, I sat for that portrait just before I became engaged. Charles was quite fond of it. He said that it would always remind him of the girl he fell in love with."

"It's true, then! You really are Jennifer Cressman."

"And who else might I be?"

Shannon suddenly remembered the woman standing over her as she lost consciousness. "It was you!" she said, "You were the woman who saw me dying! I wasn't hallucinating!"

"Indeed not! I might be many things, but I am certainly not a hallucination."

"But who called the ambulance?"

"I did. I used that thing you had in your purse. I believe you call it a cell phone."

"But I thought ghosts couldn't touch anything?"

Jennifer walked over to the vanity and picked up the lipstick tube Shannon had been using. "As you can see," she said, "I am quite capable of manipulating solid objects. I can also become immaterial. Like this." The lipstick tube seemed to drop right through Jennifer's palm and fell to the carpet.

Shannon bent to pick up her lipstick. "I suppose you are also responsible for changing my clothes," she said.

"Of course," Jennifer replied. "I watched the disagreement you were having with your wife. I realized it was important for her that your secret remain undisclosed, so I removed your clothing and replaced it with the clothing you had piled in the corner."

"Thank you, " Shannon said. "I thought I was going crazy. And thank you for putting my things away."

"You are welcome," Jennifer said. "I always loved having pretty clothes and I knew that you would not want yours damaged. To tell the truth, though, I put them on the bed in the adjoining room until the medics carried you out, and then I put them away. I believe the medics were more focused upon you than on their surroundings."

"You did more than that," said Shannon. You must also have washed the makeup off my face." She paused, and then asked, "Have you been watching us all the time?"

"Yes. Perhaps 'watching' is not the correct term. Let us say that I am aware of everything that transpires within my property. I still think of it as mine, you know."

Shannon began to blush. "So you have been watching me...I mean...well...you have seen me transform."

"Oh, yes. You make quite a lovely girl, by the way. But please don't be embarrassed. You know, dear, one of my childhood friends was like you. He would spend his summers with his maiden aunt who would dress him in lace petticoats and frilly frocks. He adored it! He was especially happy when his aunt introduced him to foundation wear."

"And he told you about it?" said Shannon, incredulously.

"Why yes, he did. He was so excited over his first brassiere and garter belt! More so than I was over mine. And he insisted on telling me every little detail."

"So you don't think that I'm crazy?"

Jennifer laughed. "Oh, how rich! Here you are asking a ghost if she thinks you are crazy! Shannon, you are so funny!"

Shannon laughed as well. She was starting to become more comfortable with this ethereal woman. In the short time she had been talking with her, she had forgotten that her new friend was the spirit of the deceased former owner of her home. But she was still curious.

"Tell me," Shannon said, "how do you feel about what we are doing here with your old home? Do you approve?"

Jennifer sort of wrinkled her nose. "At first I resented it. I considered you to be trespassers. But I can see how much you love my home. As I watched the restoration take shape, I became much more comfortable with your presence here. I trust you and that lovely wife of yours."

Shannon now smiled. "Thank you. I'm glad you approve of us."

Jennifer walked over to the door. "Perhaps you can show me the renovations you have made. I would enjoy a tour."

"Of course. But I thought you knew everything we were doing?"

"Yes, I know what you have done, but I know you are proud of all your work. And I would certainly enjoy hearing just why you chose a certain décor, or how a certain piece was acquired. Why don't we start here? Where did you find this lovely vanity?"

"Do you like it?" Shannon asked. "I found this at a garage sale. I find a lot of things at yard sales and flea markets. When I saw this beautiful cherrywood vanity I just had to have it. I cleaned it and re-finished it with French polish."

"It has character, Shannon. I'm afraid today's furniture is sadly lacking in this regard."

"My feeling exactly! That's why I want to furnish the mansion with antiques. I want the décor to reflect a gentler, more civilized time."

"Well, perhaps a time of gentler manners," Jennifer said. "Courtesy does seem to be out of fashion. I must say, I do like the way you have restored my old canopy bed and armoire."

"They were both in good condition," said Shannon. "I replaced the mattress and foundation, and the canopy cloth, but otherwise the pieces only needed some dusting."

"I noticed that you did some work on the bathrooms."

"Yes. We decided to keep the original footed bathtubs, but we added shower stalls in each bathroom. We also replaced the toilets and sinks with antique-styled fixtures."

"I never did like showers. There is nothing quite so relaxing as a good soak in a proper bath."

"I like a good soak myself, but when I'm particularly sweaty I shower."

Jennifer turned to Shannon. "A lady does not sweat, my dear. We may perspire, but we never sweat."

"I'll keep that in mind. Would you like to see more?"

"Please. Lead the way."

They exited to the hallway. Shannon pointed out the new carpet and the walls. "I tried to match the original colors as best as I could."

"It's magnificent. I only wish I had been able to do this when I was alive."

Shannon opened the door to the master bedroom. Inside, the room was almost ready for guests. "The furniture was also in excellent condition in this room. I added the antique commode by the closet, but otherwise I only had to replace the mattress and box spring. This bed is magnificent!"

"Indeed it is," said Jennifer. "The furniture in this room was made in Germany and brought to this country by August Cressman himself. One could not find such Old World craftsmanship in America."

"Thank you for the history lesson," Shannon said. "It makes me appreciate the bed ever so much more."

The tour continued. Shannon explained that she wanted each room to have its own particular character, so each had it's own name. The names were usually a woman's name, such as Erica's room or Madeline's room. "I get the names from storybooks or from soap-opera characters."

"Soap operas!" Jennifer exclaimed. "Are you a soap opera fan?"

"Why, yes, I am. I follow All My Children and One Life to Live. Did you watch the soaps?"

"It was the only reason I had a television. But I started listening to them on the radio. Did you know that The Guiding Light and Search For Tomorrow started out on the radio?"

"No, I didn't. That's fascinating."

"I don't suppose you found the old Grundig radio in the attic."

"I haven't been there yet. You have an old Grundig? Does it still work?"

"It was there last time I looked. Let me see." Jennifer vanished. Just as quickly she re-appeared. "Yes, it is still in the attic. I can't say if it still works, though. You shall have to try that for yourself."

"Even if it doesn't work, the cabinet would be a magnificent accent piece for the parlor."

Jennifer smiled. "Indeed, it would. That's where it was for many years. I remember listening to Little Orphan Annie, Our Miss Brooks, and so many other programs there. Do you know, we children often turned out all of the lights to listen to Mr. Obler's program. The theater of the mind is so much more exciting!"

"I'll take a look tomorrow," said Shannon. "I don't really think I'm dressed appropriately right now. But we can see the parlor, if you like."

"Yes, I would. Please lead the way."

They descended the stairway. Shannon pointed to the restored chandelier and the polished wood banister. They crossed the marble floor of the vestibule and entered the parlor.

Shannon turned on the lights, and Jennifer opened her mouth in awe. "Oh, it's wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Shannon, this is truly magnificent!"

"Thank you, Jennifer. I researched the original colors and tried to match them as closely as possible. The wallpaper was difficult to duplicate. Unfortunately, most of the furniture was gone. I hope you like what I've done."

Jennifer walked to the center of the room and turned about. "Shannon, I always loved this room. I still remember when mother would give High Tea here. It was so lovely. All of the ladies would wear their best dresses, and hats, and white cotton gloves. I would help Mother serve her guests, although the maids did most of the actual work. Mother would tell me that some day I would be the hostess, and I would be serving High Tea." She paused for a moment, a far-away look crossing her face.

"Is something wrong?" said Shannon?

"No, not really. The times changed so rapidly. By the time I could be hostess, High Tea was a thing of the past. Such a pity."

Jennifer continued to turn, taking in all the sights of the parlor. "I see you left my portrait hanging," she said.

"Yes," said Shannon. "I didn't realize that it was your portrait. But it looks just like you. You must have aged well."

Jennifer laughed. "That's not at all how I looked when I finally died. I was quite old. But in my mind's eye, this is how I always see myself, and so this is how I now appear. There are some advantages to being a spirit."

Jennifer sat down at the piano. "A beautiful instrument," she said. She began to play Fur Elise and frowned. "This piano is frightfully out of tune. I do hope you intend to correct this."

"The tuner will be in next week. I also have a hammered dulcimer here."

"It is quite beautiful, but I'm afraid that I only play piano. Charlie and I often played together. He was quite good."

"Charlie? Was he your boy friend?"

"My fiancé," Jennifer corrected. "He proposed to me in the spring of 1941. We were going to be wed the next June. But then the War broke out and my Charlie joined the Air Corps. We put our marriage plans on hold while he went off to war. We wrote. I knew he was a bomber pilot in England, but of course I did not know exactly where he was stationed. Wartime censorship, you know. One day his letters stopped coming."

"Oh, no, was he..."

"I don't know, my dear. But I never stopped hoping that one day he would return. I just knew that my dashing young Charlie would some day come up the path and call for me. I never stopped hoping."

Shannon could feel a tear trickle down her cheek. "That's so sad!" she said.

"Don't cry, Shannon. I'm not at all sad. Few women have been so blessed as to have a lover as wonderful as my Charlie." She smiled. "I can still see his smiling face, so handsome and rugged. He was so strong, and so gentle. My Charlie."

Jennifer rose from the piano. "Shannon, you must explore the attic. Many treasures are there simply waiting to be re-discovered; clothing, hats, shoes, portraits, and many other things. Abigail Cressman's silver tea service is stored there. My mother put it away when we stopped giving our teas."

"I will definitely look tomorrow," said Shannon. "I would love to display your tea service."

"Perhaps you might put it to use, my dear. It would be lovely to have High Tea return to the Cressman Manor."

Shannon paused to consider. "What a wonderful idea!" she exclaimed. "High Tea is starting to become popular again. Sunday Tea would be a big draw. Thank you, Jennifer!"

Jennifer smiled. "You are quite welcome. I have to admit I have missed the company of others and would enjoy a return of life to this place. Just to know that people were again being welcomed to my home would be so wonderful!"

Jennifer's expression changed. She appeared to be listening thoughtfully. "Shannon," she asked, "were you expecting company?"

The sound of a key being turned in the main entrance caught Shannon's ear. The door opened and Jean walked into the vestibule. Seeing the light coming from the parlor door, she turned that way. "Bob," she called out, "I'm home a few days early. I caught the red-eye out of Cleveland and..." She stopped short as she entered the parlor. "Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I should have called."

Shannon looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry, honey. I didn't really expect you. I hope you aren't angry with me."

"No, I'm not, just a little surprised is all." She surveyed Shannon's appearance. "You look pretty good tonight." Then she noticed Jennifer. "But who is this woman?"

Jean was starting to get angry. "Are you seeing somebody else? Is this her? God damn you, Bob, are you cheating on me?"

Jennifer spoke up. "Jean, I can state for a fact that your husband has behaved like a perfect gentleman. Or, more properly, as a perfect lady. As for myself, I am Jennifer Cressman." She extended her hand.

Jean did not take Jennifer's hand. "Yeah. Right. I'm supposed to believe that you are the old woman who used to own this place. Do I look like I was born yesterday?"

Jennifer rolled her eyes. "I can see that you require a demonstration. Your husband did, also." And Jennifer disappeared.

Jean looked around. "What the hell...Where did she go?"

"Over here," said Jennifer, re-appearing in the doorway to the parlor. "Now please tell me that you are convinced as I am growing tired of giving these demonstrations."

"It's true!" said Jean. "You're really a..." she hesitated, the word seeming to stick in her throat.

"A ghost," Jennifer finished. "And as you can see, I am not a dreadful daemon conjured from the pits of Hades. I am simply the spirit of a departed lady." She once again extended her hand.

Jean grasped the extended hand. She giggled nervously as they shook. "Wow! It's warm! I didn't know what to expect!"

"I suppose I'm the first ghost you have ever met." Jennifer said. "I do hope my demonstration didn't startle you."

"Startle isn't the word for it. I really thought that you were still alive. Oh, excuse me, I mean..."

Jennifer smiled. "Oh, don't be embarrassed, Jean. You needn't avoid the subject of death on my account. As you can see, death is not as final as most people fear. Oh, but you must be tired and famished from your long trip."

Jennifer turned to Shannon. "Shannon, dear, do you think that you might fetch your wife a cup of tea? And I'm sure she could use a bite to eat as well."

"Of course. Jean, would you like tea or coffee?" asked Shannon.

"Tea, please. I had enough coffee this week to float a battleship. And perhaps Jennifer might like some as well. Jennifer, would you like a cup of tea?"

Jennifer's expression was one of delight, like a child being promised some candy. "Why, yes, I think I would. Do you know how long it has been since I have had a cup of tea? Or anything, for that matter?"

"Just wait here, girls," Shannon said, "I'll be back with tea and some cakes."

Shannon made her way back to the kitchen. She found the kettle on the stove, filled it, and turned on the burner. The new range had a piezo-electric ignitor for the burners, so no pilot light was needed. She set out some cups, cream, sugar, and teabags onto a tray. Then she opened the refrigerator to find the Carrot Cake she had bought yesterday at the farm market. It was a very rich cake, topped with a cream cheese frosting and crushed walnuts. She sliced this down and placed the slices on a small dish. She stacked several small plates, forks, and teaspoons on the tray. The kettle whistled, signaling that the water was now boiling. She poured hot water into each cup, added teabags, and lifted the tray.

Shannon carried the tray back into the parlor. Jennifer and Jean were seated on the sofa and were chatting. "I see you ladies have hit it off quite well," Shannon said as she set the tray on the coffee table. "I hope you enjoy the goodies."

Jean picked up one of the cups and started dunking the teabag. Jennifer moved her cup from the tray and set it on the table. "I don't usually dunk my teabag. I prefer to let the tea steep the old-fashioned way."

"When I find Abigail's tea service, I'll brew the tea properly," Shannon said.

"Oh, that would be a treat!" Jennifer said. "When my mother would serve tea, she never used teabags. At least, not while we had servants to brew the tea for us."

Jean remover her teabag and began sipping. She liked it with no cream or sugar. Shannon put a scant spoonful of sugar into her cup and stirred. Jennifer had the works, cream and sugar. She sat erect and ladylike as she sipped. "Delightful!" she said. "I had forgotten just how wonderful tea could taste!"

"Try the carrot cake," Shannon said. "I bought it at the farm market. It's quite good."

Jennifer took a slice of the cake and ate a morsel. She smiled. "This is excellent, Shannon. I do hope you shall have this baker supply your pastries for the Bed and Breakfast."

"I hadn't thought of that. Thanks for the suggestion, Jennifer."

"You are welcome, my dear. I was chatting with Jean about your plans. It must be exciting."

"It is," Shannon said. "We hope to open in time for spring."

"Spring is such a lovely time of year. Do you know it was in the spring when Charles proposed? The forsythia was blooming and the trees had once again turned green. Springtime is so lovely."

"Your memories of Charlie seem to be fond ones," said Jean. "But I understand that he stopped answering your letters. Doesn't that bother you that he just seemed to vanish?"

Jennifer's expression became one of thoughtful reflection.

"Shannon, Jean, I must share something with you. I have never told this to anyone. Charlie was my husband."

Jennifer walked to the window. She stared into the distance as she spoke. "It was Charlie's last day before he was to report for training. We were alone in this parlor, spending the day together. I know that Charlie was as frightened as I was, but he never betrayed it.

"I suppose it was my fear that I might never see him again. I offered myself to him. I wanted him to know how deep my love was for him. But Charlie, ever the gentleman, would not agree to this, not unless we were married.

"The idea seemed ludicrous, since marriage would require a blood test and a license. But just across the state border we could obtain a license without a blood test. So we drove together and were married by a magistrate in a small town just over the border.

"We checked into a little hotel in that small town as Mr. and Mrs. Charles Sommers. My gallant Charlie insisted on carrying me over the threshold. Oh, what a wonderful wedding night! He was so gentle, so strong, and so caring."

Shannon could see the look of joy on Jennifer's face as she remembered her wedding night. She continued, "We returned home the next day. I remember how Charlie apologized, promising me a proper honeymoon when he returned. But it wasn't necessary. I had the finest honeymoon a woman could wish for.

"We kept our marriage a secret. My parents would have been scandalized had they known. Mother insisted on keeping up appearances. And Charlie had not obtained permission from the Army to marry. I reluctantly kept our marriage secret.

"Oh how I longed for the day when my gallant Charlie would come to the door and we could proclaim our marriage to the world! I knew that he would return. Even after his letters stopped coming, even after the war ended, I just knew that some day my Charlie would return. I never doubted it for a moment. I knew that if Charlie still had breath in his body, he would return."

Jennifer turned back to Shannon and Jean. "I have never shared this secret with any living soul, dear. I kept my silent vigil, waiting for Charlie to return from the war. I suppose I was foolish, but I just could not bring myself to believe that he would never return."

There were tears in Jean's eyes. "Oh, Jennifer, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me for prying!"

Jennifer smiled. "Please don't cry, Jean. Had I never married Charlie, that would have been a tragedy. But I was fortunate to know his love before he left me."

Jean continued to cry. "Jennifer, I can't help it. I almost lost Bob a little while ago, and I was devastated. I can only think of how horrible it must have been."

Shannon moved over to comfort Jean. "Honey, it's all right. I'm still here, even if I look a little funny right now."

Jean started to laugh through her tears. Then she looked up and kissed Bob/Shannon. She started to giggle. "I never kissed you while we were both wearing lipstick! It feels so strange!"

They both looked up at Jennifer. Jean said, "Jennifer, you must think we are crazy; or self-absorbed. Here you are baring your soul to us, and I start thinking about my own problems."

Jennifer continued to smile. "Do not regret an honest emotion for one second, Jean. I have watched you and your husband. You may have your differences, but a strong current of love runs between you. Draw strength from it, just as I drew strength from my love for Charles."

Jennifer looked around. "My dears, I must thank you for this lovely evening. I haven't enjoyed myself so much in years. I do hope I haven't intruded."

Shannon replied, "Surprised, perhaps, but you didn't intrude a bit. We enjoyed having you, Jennifer, and hope you will visit us again."

Jennifer laughed. "Oh, that's so wonderful! Yes, I shall be delighted. But now I must run. Goodbye, ladies." And she vanished.

Jean looked at Shannon. "That is so cool!" she exclaimed. "We actually own a genuine haunted mansion!"

"I have to admit," said Shannon, "I never expected to find a ghost here. I hope she can tell us some more about the history of the place."

Jean chuckled. "You know," she said, "I haven't seen you in drag in years. You really look good. If I didn't know who you were, I would have mistaken you for a real woman."

Shannon smiled, blushing. "Do you really think so? And does it still bother you?"

"I'd be lying if I told you that I actually liked it. But it isn't making me mad. And that little impromptu tea party we had? You make a wonderful hostess, dear."

"Do you mean that? You aren't being sarcastic?"

"I mean it. Honest. You really look great. Just do me one favor, hon? Don't ever look better than me."

Shannon giggled. "I don't think I ever could. Jean, honey, don't you know that you are my feminine ideal? You are the epitome of all things feminine. If I can ever look a tenth as good as you, it will be a proud accomplishment."

Jean looked into Shannon's eyes. "You mean that, don't you? It isn't just bullshit."

"No bullshit. Womanhood reached perfection in you. The girl in me aspires to be as feminine as you. And the man in me gets excited whenever you come near."

A tear of joy trickled down Jean's cheek. She was so touched by her husband's expression of love that his clothing and makeup just didn't matter. She kissed him again, long and tenderly. He responded.

"Bob," she said, "I love you. But please get changed. Smearing your lipstick is just too weird!"

They both laughed, and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom.

Within the estate, the spirit of Jennifer Cressman smiled.

* * * * *

Although Bob's brother Mike had been in the attic to inspect it, neither Bob nor Jean had seen it. They walked up the stairway expecting to find dust-covered junk and hanging cobwebs. There was some dust, but very few cobwebs. Mike must have taken a vacuum to the attic when he checked it out.

Several bare light bulbs illuminated the area. There were a number of cabinets, chests, and a steamer trunk. Several linen-draped pieces of furniture also were stored away.

"Bob, look at this!" Jean said. She had opened the steamer trunk. "This trunk is filled with antique clothing! Look at these dresses! And there's a man's formal suit in here, too!"

Bob looked over Jean's shoulder. "I'm surprised the fur is in such good shape," he remarked. "I wouldn't think the conditions here would have been favorable."

Bob started removing the linens from the furniture. He found a number of chairs, including an antique reading chair, and several small tables. Then he found the radio.

"It's here!" he said, as excited as a child on Christmas morning. "Look at this, Jean! It's magnificent!"

The radio was indeed impressive. Its cathedral-shaped cabinet stood nearly four feet high. There were several knobs on the front, and an attractive tuning dial. Bob turned several of the knobs. One turned with an audible click, and he supposed that this was the volume control. Another caused an indicator to move smoothly across the face of the tuning dial. But most surprising was the action of a third knob. As he turned it, the bezel of the tuner actually slid away to reveal another bezel, calibrated with a different tuning band. Bob continued to turn the dial, and layer after layer of bezels slid away, revealing yet another band. In all, there were ten bands on this radio, covering the radio spectrum from 100 Kilocycles to 30 Megacycles. (Somehow referring to frequency as Hertz seemed disrespectful to this fine antique radio.)

"Do you think it still works?" asked Jean.

"Hard to tell," Bob replied. "I'll have to plug it in to check it out. But the tuning mechanism is still smooth. These pre-war German radios were mechanical marvels."

"Well whether it works or not, I think it will look beautiful in the parlor."

"Yes, indeed. It would be perfect. And some of these other pieces would look wonderful in other rooms. We could use some tables in the bedrooms, I'm sure."

They continued removing linens, finding tables, several more chairs, and a stack of paintings. Bob lifted one of the paintings to get a look at it. It was a portrait of a man in a Union Civil War uniform. "I wonder who this fellow was?" Bob wondered aloud.

A voice from behind them answered, "That is Colonel John Sedgwick, a Union commander."

Jean and Bob turned. Jennifer was there. "Oh, hello, Jennifer." Jean said.

"Good afternoon, Jean," Jennifer replied. "I see you are exploring the attic. And you found the old radio! How wonderful!"

"You were right, Jennifer," Bob said, "this attic is a treasure trove. The antique furniture here is incredible. And these paintings! Magnificent!"

"These are pieces that fell out of fashion over time, and were retired here," Jennifer said. "I have fond memories of that radio, however. And of the colonel's portrait."

"I don't think I ever heard of him," Bob said. "Was he famous?"

"Notorious would be more accurate," Jennifer replied. "Sedgwick was a friend of August Cressman and a frequent guest. He was a competent enough battlefield commander, I suppose, but he never did achieve any spectacular victories. He was killed during the battle of Spotsylvania Courthouse in Virginia."

"He was killed in the battle?" asked Jean.

"Yes, and this is how the colonel became notorious. He stood to get a better view of the fighting. One of his aides cautioned him, since the enemy was so close. Sedgwick replied, 'Nonsense! They couldn't hit an elephant at this dist---' That was when a stray bullet hit him, killing him instantly."

"Oh, no!" said Jean, and both she and Bob began to laugh. "I'm sorry, Jennifer. I know it isn't really funny, but..."

"Oh, but it is quite funny. Nothing is quite so humorous as a pompous ass hoist on his own petard."

"Well thanks to your story, I know just what to do with this painting," said Bob. "What do you think of making one of the bedrooms the "Colonel Sedgwick Room', Jean?"

"Not a bad idea," Jean said. "That would be a real bit of history for our guests. Thank you, Jennifer."

"You are quite welcome. But please, Bob, consider hanging different curtains. I do believe a room in honor of a military man would not be well served with frilly lace curtains."

Bob sighed. "All right, I give up! I can't be expected to win an argument when the ladies gang up on me. Sheesh! Everybody's a critic!"

"Before you go downstairs, you might want to open this chest. It has something quite precious in it." Jennifer pointed to a small chest in a far corner. Then she vanished.

Jean opened the chest and discovered a most magnificent prize. It was Abigail Cressman's tea service. "Bob," she called, "come and take a look at this!"

The tea service consisted of several silver trays, a ceramic teapot, and about two dozen delicate bone china cups and saucers. "Look at these trays!" she exclaimed. "I think they might be Revere trays."

"As in Paul Revere, the silversmith?" Bob asked incredulously.

"At least from his shop. And the rest of the service is equally beautiful. Bob, this stuff is worth a fortune!"

"Too good for everyday use," Bob said, "but it should be put on display."

They carefully repacked the chest and carried it downstairs. Then they returned for the radio.

* * * * *

The radio proved to be in excellent repair. The insulation on the power cord had become brittle and needed to be replaced. Likewise, the speaker cone had deteriorated with age. But the rest of the set was in fine working order. Bob found a replacement speaker and soldered a new power cord into place. The radio also needed an external antenna. Bob strung a long-wire antenna in the attic for this purpose.

The filaments cast a warm orange glow in the cabinet when Bob plugged in the radio and turned on the set. He set the tuning band to the AM broadcast band and slowly swept the dial. He soon found a station and played with the regeneration knob to set the feedback properly.

This particular station had a nostalgia format and featured the big-band hits of the swing era. Bob listened to Duke Ellington's Band play "The Mooch", followed by Benny Goodman's Orchestra doing "Take the 'A' Train". "Wow!" he exclaimed, "It's hard to believe this is an AM set. The sound quality is magnificent!"

He continued to scan the band, picking up talk shows, traffic reports, and music. The wooden cabinet resonated magnificently, providing a warm, rich quality to the sound. He tried some of the other bands. WWV was transmitting its time hack on 5 MHz. BBC, the Voice of America, Radio Moscow, and many other familiar short-wave stations were audible. This radio was truly a find.

* * * * *

The restoration of the mansion was nearing completion. With the extra pieces found in the attic, Jean and Bob had everything they needed to open for business. All of the bedrooms, including the Colonel Sedgwick room, were decorated, and each now had its own gas-log fireplace. Shannon's things were removed from Jennifer's room and placed in the third-floor suite Jean and Bob would occupy for themselves. They had decided to live in the inn once it opened. They moved some of their furniture, including their bedroom set, to the inn.

Jean decided to leave her law firm. She discussed this with her other partners who all tried to talk her out of it, not wanting to lose so formidable a legal talent. Jean agreed not to leave abruptly, but remain on and gradually transfer her caseload to other partners in the firm.

She was having lunch with one of her clients, a prominent psychic and author who was unfortunately also notorious for having a volatile temper as well as a drinking problem. He had been charged with driving while intoxicated and assault on the arresting officer. Jean successfully plea-bargained for a reduced sentence on condition that he voluntarily relinquish his driver's license and enter treatment. This lunch was to celebrate his second year of sobriety.

The restaurant was one of the many small places that had sprung up in the city over the last twenty years. It was one of her client's favorite eateries, and Jean had to admit that the food was excellent, and their selection of coffees was superb.

"So Andy," she asked her client, "are you keeping out of trouble?"

Andy smiled over his Shrimp Scampi. "If you mean 'Am I staying sober', the answer is yes. And by staying on the wagon, I'm keeping my temper under control. I haven't punched anybody out in years."

"I'm glad to hear it, but there goes your reputation as a hard-living brawler."

"It's a reputation I just as soon would lose. Jean, I've been a drunk, and I've been sober. Sober is better."

"How's your life otherwise?"

"Couldn't be better. I'm working on another book."

"Oh? What's it about?"

"I'm collecting tales about local hauntings. You might be surprised at the number of places nearby that are supposed to be haunted. I've been interviewing the owners and others who claim to have seen ghosts."

Jean was taken a bit aback, but didn't show it. As the owner of a haunted mansion, she was a potential candidate for this book. But as far as she knew, only Bob and herself knew of Jennifer.

"That sounds interesting," she said. "Have you ever seen one of these ghosts yourself?"

"I've seen some ghosts," he replied, "but mostly I sense their presence. When I do, I try to help them."

"Help them? What do you mean?"

Andy seemed rather pleased that Jean was so interested in his work. "A ghost," he said, "is a poor soul with unfinished business. Most of us, when we pass on, move on to whatever awaits us on the other side. But some folks just seem to hang on. Some of them have been hanging on so long that they forget they are dead. It's kind of like being in denial."

"So how do you help them?" she asked.

"I usually just persuade them to move on. Or in some cases I help them find closure. I try to discover just what business they feel is left undone, and see what I can do to finish it."

Jean was following Andy's conversation so intently that she had stopped eating. "So how do you find out what this business is? Do you ask them?"

Andy laughed. "The ghosts usually aren't so forthcoming. I usually have to do some detective work. Like the ghost of the Hessian Soldier that haunted the basement of a school building in the suburbs. This spirit manifested itself by blowing out the pilot light of the oil furnace. I researched the history of the school and discovered that one of the headmasters had purchased the body of a dead Hessian soldier during the American Revolution. He used the body for his anatomy studies. After dissecting it, he buried it in the basement of the building."

"God, what a gruesome story!" Jean said. "So what did you do?"

Andy was obviously enjoying the attention. "I borrowed some echo-locating equipment that geologists use to search for oil and scanned the basement floor. We found a human skeleton buried with some military gear. It matched the gear used by the Hessian mercenaries of colonial times. So we exhumed the skeleton and gave the soldier a proper burial in a nearby cemetery. He was buried with military honors. The school's R.O.T.C. provided an honor guard."

"And what happened afterward?" Jean asked.

"We must have placated the ghost, because now the pilot light stays lit with no problems. And I no longer sense a disturbed spirit."

"So that's what you mean by unfinished business?"

"Oh, yes. In this case, the spirit wanted nothing more than a proper burial. Blowing out the light was his way of getting our attention."

Jean took another bite of her chef salad, suddenly remembering that she had food in front of her. She continued to eat and chat with her client, but in the back of her mind she was digesting this new bit of information.

* * * * *

They were at their townhouse getting some more of their personal things when Jean told Bob about the conversation she had with her client. "That's why Jennifer is haunting the mansion," she said. "She has unfinished business to conclude."

"She doesn't exactly seem to be suffering," Bob said. "And she isn't exactly playing pranks on us, or making out lives miserable. If anything, she's a very benign ghost. Remember, she saved my life."

"Maybe she's just too polite to complain. Andy did say that ghosts tend to obfuscate."

"Jennifer has been very forthcoming with information about herself and the mansion," Bob replied. "Why would she be reticent about whatever she feels needs completing?"

"Maybe ghosts aren't allowed to ask for help directly. Or maybe she's just too much a lady to burden us. But there must be something."

Bob thought for a moment. "Maybe something she told us will provide a clue."

"I think I know what it is," Jean said. "She said quite a bit about Charlie. Maybe she needs to find out just what happened to him before she can move on."

"That makes sense," Bob said. "She certainly isn't in denial about being dead. I wonder how we can find out about Charlie?"

"There might be a way," Jean said. "My law firm uses detectives. Maybe one of them could get some lead on Charlie's whereabouts."

"It's worth a try," Bob said.

"I'll put Paul on it. He owes me a favor, anyway."

* * * * *

Within a week, Paul had a file of information about Charles Sommers.

"Look at this," Jean said as she read the contents of the file. "This is a picture of Charlie and his bomber crew." The photo showed a group of men posing in front of a B-17. The nose of the bomber was painted with a picture of a woman holding a sword riding a winged horse. The lettering beneath proclaimed this bomber the "Jenny C".

"It looks like he named his bomber after Jennifer," Bob said.

"Yes, I wonder what she would think about that?"

"I already know," said a familiar voice. They turned to find Jennifer standing next to them. "Charlie wrote to me about the Jenny C. I immediately asked him to change the name, but by that time it was too late. His crew felt that it brought them good luck."

"Jennifer, I hope you don't think we were too bold," Jean said. "I had one of our staff detectives investigate the fate of your husband. Would you like to know?"

Jennifer appeared frightened, as if in anticipation of very bad news. "Yes," she finally said, "it would not change the outcome one bit to finally learn the fate of my husband. Please, tell me."

Jean scanned the report. "Paul managed to track down one of Charlie's crewmates. This was the bombardier, Tom Joyce. Mr. Joyce considers Charlie to be '...the finest, most courageous man I have ever met.'"

Jean read the report aloud. "According to Mr. Joyce, ' The Jenny C had finished its twentieth mission and was flying back to England when we were jumped by a pack of Luftwaffe fighters. We managed to fight them off, and gave as good as we got, but the Jenny C was shot up pretty bad. We limped over the channel on two engines, and one of them gave out before we could get home.

"'Our last engine was already failing. We knew we were going down. Captain Sommers ordered us to bail out. But he stayed with her. We were over a populated area. If he bailed with us, the Jenny C might have crashed into a house. He stayed with her to steer her away from the houses, so nobody else would be injured. I saw her crash into a meadow. There's no way he could have survived.'"

Jean paused for a moment, then continued. "The Army was unable to recover Charlie's remains. His body burned to ashes in the wreckage of the Jenny C. Charlie's squadron held a memorial service for him. His name is inscribed on a monument with other American Airmen at the site of the airfield."

Jean looked up. Jennifer looked as though she were ready to cry. "Jennifer, I'm so sorry. I wish I had better news for you."

Jennifer appeared to look into the distance. "He died to save innocent lives. That is so like my Charlie. Always thinking of others first and himself last. I always knew he was brave. And I always knew that if he had breath left in his body, he would return to me."

She looked up at Jean. "I suppose we should not have kept our marriage a secret. The War Department would then have notified me of Charlie's death. But Jean, I'm not at all angry with you. I had suspected something like this had happened."

Tears were now trickling down Jean's cheeks, and Bob's as well. "Tears?" Jennifer asked. "Please, don't weep for me. Many men gave their lives in that awful war. And many of the deaths were senseless. At least I know that Charlie's death made a difference.

"Thank you, my friends, for this marvelous gift. I shall always remember it." Jennifer smiled, and then vanished.

* * * * *

It turned out that the fate of Charlie was not the unfinished business keeping Jennifer in the Cressman Manor. She kept popping in on the Conrads, albeit politely. Bob and Jean had grown rather fond of her by now, and did not resent her presence. But Jean was still concerned, and she shared her concern with Bob.

"I really thought that providing Jennifer with closure would help her to move on," she said.

"Are you trying to get rid of her?" Bob asked. "She isn't really a nuisance. In fact, I've grown fond of her."

"I have too, but I'm still worried. How will she feel when we start having guests? Will she be annoyed with them? I don't want to hurt her feelings. And besides that, isn't it kind of selfish for us to keep her here? I really think we should help her."

Bob sighed. "I suppose you're right. I do like having her, but it isn't fair to her to keep her bound to the mansion. But how can we help?"

"I don't know. She's so polite, I don't think it would be wise to just ask her what her unfinished business is."

"True. I don't want to offend her. The poor soul has been hurt enough."

"Maybe she might open up if we invite her to another tea party. Do you think she might come?"

That's when the light clicked on in Bob's brain. "That's it!" he said. "I know what Jennifer has left undone!" Quickly he explained his insight to Jean. She was doubtful at first, but soon was convinced.

"Just one question," she said, "how can we do this so quickly?"

"Let me make a few phone calls," Bob said. "I think I can line up some troops to help us out."

* * * * *

It was a week later, and Bob had transformed to Shannon once again.

All of the renovations were complete. Cressman Manor was awaiting supplies and staff, but was otherwise ready for business. Shannon opened the door to Jennifer's room and walked in.

The vanity she had restored was there, along with the freestanding full-length mirror and the armoire. The bed-ruffles and canopy complemented the lace curtains nicely. Shannon was convinced that this was the finest guest suite in her Bed and Breakfast.

"Jennifer," she called, "are you here? We need to talk."

Jennifer appeared next to the vanity. "Hello, Shannon. My, but you look lovely today. Are you wearing one of my hats?"

"Yes, I am, Jennifer, and thank you for noticing. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, dear. You look just lovely. I always said that a lady looks her best when wearing a hat. But I also see you are wearing white gloves. And the style of your dress looks a bit, well, antique. It looks like something from my younger days."

"That's the idea, Jennifer. Jean and I are having a sort of a dress rehearsal today. We want to have High Tea here at the mansion on Sunday afternoons. We think it will be quite a hit with our guests."

Jennifer looked surprised and elated. "Wonderful! Oh, I'm so happy that High Tea is returning to my home. Are you having guests today?"

"Yes. We invited a few friends for our first High Tea. They should be arriving soon."

"Oh, that sounds so exciting. Shannon, dear, would you mind terribly if I observed? Discretely, of course."

"Jennifer, we need you to do something special for us."

"Oh. I suppose you want me to keep quiet and not disturb the guests," she said, with a hurt tone in her voice.

"Not exactly. Jennifer, we would be honored if you would consent to being our hostess."

The look of utter surprise on Jennifer's face was priceless. "Hostess? I?"

"Who better to host High Tea at Cressman Manor than the Mistress of the Estate. Would you do this for us, Jennifer?"

Jennifer was momentarily speechless. "But, then all of your friends will know about me. I'm not sure I want that."

"These friends are quite good at keeping a secret," Shannon said. "They are members of my support group. Most of them are cross-dressers like myself, and some of them have brought their wives or girl friends. We all are dressing in antique clothing, and we shall all wear hats."

Jennifer looked stunned. "And you want me to be the hostess?"

"Yes, I do. So does Jean. It would mean so much to us."

Jennifer seemed hesitant. "What do they know about me?" she asked.

"Only that you shall be our hostess. That is, if you wish to be. If you would like to share your story with them, go right ahead, but I don't want you to feel pressured into this."

If Jennifer felt any pressure, she did not show it. Her response was enthusiastic. "Of course, I shall be delighted. But Shannon, dear, you will have to introduce your friends."

"Certainly, Jennifer."

"Oh, and we must have maids to serve our guests. Have you arranged for this?"

"Yes, I have. Three of my friends will be arriving shortly. They enjoy playing 'Maid' and have suitable uniforms."

Jennifer was elated. "Shannon, I don't know what to say. I have always wanted to serve High Tea here at Cressman Manor. This is a dream come true."

The doorbell sounded. Jennifer said, "I believe that some of your friends have arrived."

"That would be Angelique, Bridgett, and Consuela, our maids for this afternoon. Jennifer, would you be so kind as to inform them of their duties? I must see to the food."

"Of course, Shannon. It will be my pleasure."

* * * * *

The ladies from Shannon's support group soon arrived. High tea was a smashing success, served in the restored parlor of Cressman Manor. The ladies were resplendent in their antique dresses, made all the more elegant by their white cotton gloves and their hats.

Jennifer was the perfect hostess, greeting her guests and welcoming them to the Manor. Shannon had followed Jennifer's advice and obtained her pastries and breads from the baker at the farmer's market. The cookies, cucumber sandwiches, and petit fours were excellent, as was the Earl Gray tea served in Abigail Cressman's antique tea service. Jennifer graciously consented to entertain her guests with a selection on the piano, which was now properly tuned. And of course, she enthralled her guests with her stories about the history of Cressman Manor.

The shadows soon stretched long, signaling an end to the afternoon. Jennifer's guests all properly thanked their hostess for a lovely Tea, and departed. The maids hurried to tidy the parlor and to clean up and put away the tea service. Finally, they also left, thanking Jennifer for a most lovely afternoon.

"Well," Jean said, "I think High Tea was a big success. Do you think we can do this on a regular basis?"

"You must, my dears," Jennifer said. "High Tea is a tradition that has been so neglected of late. But if you would not mind some small advice..." She hesitated.

"Not at all, Jennifer," said Shannon. "You are the expert in these matters."

"Might I suggest that you open these sessions to the general public, and not restrict them to, well, to Shannon's special friends."

Jean and Shannon both laughed. "Yes, we will," Jean said. "Shannon will have some special weekends for her friends a few times each year, but we will be catering to the general public. I loved having High Tea, and I think a lot of ladies would also enjoy it."

Shannon smiled. "How lovely. Perhaps there is some room for gentility in the world."

The ladies were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Who on earth could that be?" Jennifer asked.

Shannon and Jean were taken aback. "Jennifer, I thought you were aware of everything that happened in the Estate. How could somebody arrive without you knowing?"

"I don't know! Curious, indeed! Shall we answer the door?"

They opened the door to see a young man. He was dressed in a World War II aviator's uniform. His hat showed the classic "25-mission crush" that resulted from wearing headphones, and his leather jacket had the Seventh Air Force patch sewn on at the shoulder. He was handsome, with a boyish grin and curly hair, and a thin moustache that reminded one of Clark Gable. "Excuse me," he said, removing his hat, "I'm looking for Jennifer Cressman."

Jennifer nearly screamed with delight. "Charlie!" she called, "Oh, my sweet gallant Charlie! I knew you would return! I always knew it!"

She ran into his outstretched arms and they embraced, their lips joining in a passionate kiss. Jennifer's demure ladylike manners were momentarily forgotten as she held her husband close to her.

"I knew you would come for me!" she said. "I never doubted for an instant."

"And here I am, back from the war and ready to claim my bride!" he said. "Let everybody in this home know that Jennifer is my wife, and I am proud to be her husband!"

Shannon and Jean were awestruck. But Jean managed to recover sufficiently to invite the young man in, which he accepted.

"I'm sure I could brew some more tea," Shannon offered as they settled into the parlor.

"No need to bother on my account," said Charlie, for indeed this must be Jennifer's husband. They sat together on the sofa, where Jennifer held his arm and gazed at him like a schoolgirl. He gazed back. One could almost see the love flowing as a current between them.

Charlie then looked around the parlor. "Oh, the memories this room has for me. Did Jenny tell you that I proposed to her here?"

"She did," answered Jean. "She was always talking about you."

"Was she?" he asked. "My goodness, Jenny, you must have bored these poor folks to tears."

Shannon returned to the parlor with a tray containing cups of tea and two frosty mugs of beer. "I believe this is something a pilot can appreciate."

Charlie's eyes lit up as he hoisted the mug and quaffed the cold, amber liquid. "Ah," he sighed, "excellent. And cold, too. As much as I enjoyed England, I never did grow very fond of warm beer."

"Agreed," said Shannon, quaffing her own brew with appreciation, "I like my beer cold and my women hot." This remarked brought about gales of laughter from Jennifer, Charlie, and Jean. Shannon looked around puzzled, not understanding the joke. Then she blushed. "Oh," she said, "my dress. I guess I forgot."

"Don't be embarrassed, old man," said Charlie. "Did Jennifer ever tell you about her childhood friend, whose aunt would dress him in petticoats and frills?"

"Yes, she did," Shannon answered.

"Well," said Charlie, with a twinkle in his eye, "that was none other than I."

"It's true," said Jennifer. "Imagine this strong, gallant man in feminine finery. But my Charlie was ever a man, and always a gentleman."

Jean asked a question. "Charlie, why did it take you this long to return? I read your war record. You were awarded a Silver Star posthumously."

Charlie paused for a minute. "I actually found myself here shortly after my death. I wanted to appear to Jennifer to give her some comfort, but something held me back. I knew she had some business to complete, and it was important that I allow her to finish. And so I waited, and watched. And today, I knew that her task was accomplished. For my lovely Jennifer was indeed the hostess for High Tea at her family home."

Jennifer beamed. "Yes, it's true. I never realized it, but Charlie did. He was always so clever."

"So what will happen now?" asked Shannon. "Are you going to stay here? You know that you're both welcome."

"No," said Charlie, "out time here has ended. It's time to move on to the great mystery that awaits us all. But I wanted to thank you, both of you, for helping Jennifer realize her fondest dream."

"Yes, my friends," Jennifer said, "although I didn't know it, I was always fated to be the Mistress of Cressman Manor, and the Hostess for High Tea."

Jennifer and Charlie both stood. Jean and Shannon did so as well. "Goodbye, my friends," said Jennifer. She hugged Jean and Shannon. Charlie then hugged Jean and extended his hand to Shannon, who grasped it firmly and shook it.

"Goodbye, Jennifer," said Jean. "And goodbye to you, Charlie. You know you are always welcome here."

"Thank you as well," said Charlie. "Who knows? We might just come back for a visit."

Charlie and Jennifer held hands, and gazed into each other's eyes. Then, they vanished.

Shannon took a long pull at her beer. Jean took the mug from her hands and drank some herself. "Do you ever think we might see them again?" she asked.

"Maybe," said Shannon, "but I don't think it will be in this life."

They were tired. It had been a long day. With no word spoken between them, they climbed the steps to their suite on the third floor.

* * * * *

It was exactly one week before the Grand Opening of August Cressman's Country Inn. The rooms were all ready. The needed help had been hired, supplies were making their way into the Inn, and the first guests had been booked. There was still a lot to do, but the Conrads were throwing themselves into it.

They were enjoying some of the last free time they would have for many months in the privacy of their suite. Jean had a little surprise for Bob.

"I want you to have this, " she said, and she handed a shopping bag to Bob. He peeled back the tissue paper to find something surprising. It was a sundress. There was also a pair of white sandals.

"Jean," he said, "I really don't know what to say. Does this mean you've accepted Shannon?"

"Maybe not completely," Jean said, "but our experience with Jennifer taught me something. I don't want our spirits bound to earth because of unfinished business. When we go, I want us to just go."

"What does this have to do with this dress?" he asked.

"Something I heard you say. You said you wanted Shannon to walk in the sunshine. Well, we'll soon have an Inn full of guests, and Shannon will be back in her closet until that special weekend you talked about. I just wanted you to be Shannon, and walk in the sunshine, before we have to put her away.

"So what do you say? Shall we take a stroll in our garden?"

Tears of joy welled up in Bob's eyes. He hugged Jean tight and kissed her tenderly. She kissed back. "Go on," she said, "get changed."

And so Shannon and Jean enjoyed a stroll in the garden. The sun beamed down warmly. They picked some flowers to arrange. But mostly they just walked, enjoying the beauty of a spring day.

As they brought their flowers into the kitchen, Shannon asked, "And what business do you want to finish, Jean?"

"That should be obvious. I want to be the Mistress of Cressman Manor, and hostess for High Tea."

* * * * *

The Bed and Breakfast was a success from the very beginning. Word of mouth spread quickly, and the Conrads were soon booked solid for the next year. Guests would come from all over the Eastern Seaboard, dropping in for a night, a weekend, or a week. They found comfortable rooms with antique furniture, individual fireplaces, king-sized beds, and satellite TV. And breakfast was always a feast. Eggs, Pancakes, French Toast, Belgian Waffles, sausage, bacon, scrapple, quiche, blueberry muffins, bagels, and much more was always ready for guests of the Cressman Inn.

Jean and Bob have become far more content with their life. The work is perhaps a bit harder, and the hours are longer, but they love their life together more than ever. They love their little inn in the country, and enjoy caring for their guests. For here, away from the cares and stresses of corporate America, the Conrads have found true peace. The peace they had so desperately wanted back in the sixties was now realized in the new millennium. And along the way, they fell in love all over again.

Jean still practices law, but she gave up her partnership in the city. She no longer defends criminals, preferring to practice family law. She prepares wills, powers-of-attorney, and legal documents for her friends and neighbors. Her practice is now a part-time affair, and her office is a corner of the library, where she keeps her antique roll-top desk, her file cabinets, her law books, and her PC.

Sunday afternoon High Tea has once again become a fixture at Cressman Manor. Bob will help out in the kitchen while Jean dresses the ladies in antique hats and cotton gloves, and serves them tea, cookies, pastries, and cucumber sandwiches. Jean has become quite a skilled storyteller, holding the ladies in rapt attention as she recites the history of the mansion, and of all the famous, notorious, and not-so-famous inhabitants and guests. All of her guests agree, Jean gives a truly fine High Tea.

But for one weekend in the spring, and one in the fall, Jean does not host High Tea. These are special weekends, in which the guests are not quite what they appear. Friends of Shannon, some from her support group and others, who have heard of the special weekends at Cressman Manor, will gather together to enjoy a very special High Tea. On these weekends, Shannon is the hostess. And, in addition to serving exceptionally fine tea, cookies, cakes, and cucumber sandwiches, Shannon will share with her guests a special love story of how a woman's faith in her man's love transcended the barriers of life itself, and how a man's love gave this woman her heart's fondest desire.

© 2000, Valentina Michelle Smith