Rachel From the Edge Pt. 10

Rachel From the Edge Pt. 10

by G. Lawrence

Rachel's past shows the way to her future

I hope readers are enjoying the various chapters of this novel. This installment takes a flashback of Rachel's first meeting with Daniel and her interview for a scholarship at Yale. Pamela, Rory, and Sheila will discover that Rachel's capacity for work needs to be tempered. All characters are over 18 years old.

Author's note: All 15 episodes of Rachel From the Edge have been posted to the Literotica website but I have no power over when they are published. I am assuming one new episode will appear every day.

* * * * * *

Chapter Thirteen

IN THE BEGINNING

Daniel Benson was having a busy day. Though CEO of several large corporations, he was fondest of Marbury & Benson. M & B gathered information, mostly for large legal firms, and information could be very valuable if properly leveraged.

"Mr. Mendelson and the applicant are here," Keisha said, knocking on his door.

Daniel was sorry he hadn't cancelled the meeting. Some dropout from Harvard looking for money. He only agreed because Oliver was pressing him.

"Please show Mr. Mendelson in. Have the young lady wait," he said, taking a seat at his large mahogany desk with the yacht harbor in the background.

Mendelson walked in, a trim-looking lawyer in his late-50s. He still had plenty of his original hair, which was turning white. He had a tendency to take off his tinted eyeglasses and absently wipe them with a handkerchief.

"Take a seat, Ollie. Did you see Johnny while you were in Boston?"

"No time this trip. Important business," Oliver answered.

"You aren't usually one for mysteries. What's this all about? Why is my day on hold for a failed business student?"

Oliver grinned like he had a great secret.

"Remember Jacob Borowski?"

"Sure. What's Jabby been up to?"

"Treasure hunting. He says this makes you even."

"That skinflint isn't weaseling out that easy. I helped him beat a career-ending rap. Never even asked for a dollar."

"Jabby is our fraternity brother, after all."

"He still owes me."

"And now you're even."

"You, too?"

"You're going to owe him," Oliver said, making himself a gin and tonic from the liquor cabinet.

"Really? In my office? In the middle of the day?" Daniel questioned.

"My friend, moments like this are all too rare. They must be savored."

"Make one for me and start talking. An hour from now, I'll have company waiting for me at the Harbor Grand. A blonde. All blonde."

Oliver made the drinks and sat in his usual chair at the edge of the desk, still grinning.

"Marbury & Benson is my favorite client. Almost. What do you do here?"

"We supply financial documentation to litigators."

"Do you always have everything you need? Do you always find everything there is?"

"Of course not. There are always hidden accounts out there somewhere. It's amazing more aren't harder to find."

"What if you could?"

"Could what?"

"What if you could find everything there is to know?" Oliver clarified.

"You're wasting my time," Daniel dismissed.

"What if you could investigate a corporation and find every hidden record, every communication, every megabyte of data they ever produced?"

"It would be worth a lot. If the information was good enough."

Oliver just smiled, slowly working on his drink.

"What are you saying?" Daniel asked.

"I didn't go to Boston for the weather. I went for her." Oliver walked to the door and waved. "Come in, honey. Don't be afraid."

Daniel saw a petite, brown-haired beauty enter his office, glad he hadn't cancelled the interview. She was about twenty years old, modestly dressed in a long green skirt, a white blouse, and a black vest. Her luscious brown hair hung over her shoulders. Her eyes--

"Mr. Daniel Benson, allow me to introduce Miss Rachel Montgomery."

Daniel jumped up, ran around the desk, and invited her to sit, smelling her wistful perfume. Not expensive, but it seemed to suit her. Her makeup was discreet, and probably unnecessary.

"I'm very pleased to meet you," Daniel said, returning to his seat as Oliver watched him. "Mr. Mendelson claims you're some sort of wizard?"

Rachel was awed by the handsome older man. He had a charismatic smile. And nothing boasts of success like being worth several billion dollars.

"Miss Montgomery? Cat got your tongue?" Daniel asked. She looked down, hands in her lap, the long hair covering her face. "She does speak English, doesn't she?"

"Better than most, she's just shy. Rachel, it's okay. This is why we're here. Just tell Mr. Benson about your proposal," Oliver urged.

Rachel started to say something. Almost. Oliver went to the liquor cabinet, made a gin and tonic that was mostly tonic, and knelt at her side, urging her to take a sip.

"Take a deep breath. Relax your shoulders," Oliver urged. "Come on, honey, you can do it. Put your thoughts together and just start talking." She sipped the drink.

"Okay, this isn't like any job interview I've ever participated in," Daniel said, thoroughly intrigued. He rolled his chair sideways so the desk was no longer between them, leaning forward to appear less authoritarian.

"Thank you, Mr. Benson," Rachel said, her voice soft. "Professor Borowski said your company might have a use for my program. I need money."

"Everyone needs money, miss. How much money are we talking about?"

"$400,000 now, and $100,000 a year for five years," she barely said.

"$900,000? For something that no one will even talk about? I'm sorry, Miss Montgomery, it's out of the question," Daniel said, scooting back. Rachel got up to leave.

"Rachel, don't go far. Let me speak with Mr. Benson for a moment," Oliver said.

Rachel nodded and quickly fled the room. Daniel couldn't keep his eyes off her nicely rounded figure. Sad, he thought. I'd sure love a piece of that. His attention was returned by Oliver's angry glare.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Oliver said. "Is this your idiot day? Should I come back tomorrow when your head isn't so far up your butt?"

"What brings this on? Are you getting some?"

Oliver hovered over him for a moment, and then threw his drink in Daniel's face.

"What the hell? That stings," Daniel said, wiping the gin out of his eyes.

"Am I getting your attention now?"

"You have my attention."

"I didn't fly all the way to Boston and bring that girl three thousand miles back so you could ogle her ass. This girl has something to bring to the table. Something you can't even imagine. One more crack, and I'm taking her to Levenson instead."

"Send her back in. Alone. I'll have a talk with this wunderkind."

"You treat her with respect," Oliver warned.

"I treat everyone with respect," Daniel insisted.

"Not when you have something else on your mind."

"Believe it or not, I can control myself when I need to."

Oliver went to the door, motioned for Rachel, and whispered encouragement before leaving. The door was left open. Daniel guided her to the chair Oliver had been using.

"Miss Montgomery, I'm very sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Truly, very sorry. This is a loud, noisy business, filled with big egos. Myself included. We forget ourselves sometimes."

"I understand, Mr. Benson. Men think I'm pretty."

Pretty? Daniel thought. Is she that clueless?

"Tell me what I need to know," Daniel said.

"My academic record at Harvard was good. I didn't leave for lack of ambition. My parents are sick. They've lost their house and their insurance has run out. Doctors are declining treatment."

"Tell me about Harvard. Business? Accounting?"

"Mathematics."

"Good grades?"

Rachel looked down, embarrassed.

"That's okay. Harvard is very competitive. If you didn't--"

"I was top of my department last year, and the year before. And the year before that."

Daniel leaned back in his chair, completely reevaluating the situation. His son John had graduated Stanford before going to Harvard Law. A very smart young man, but never at the top of his class. Mathematics? This shy little girl?

"I would like to help you, but this is a business. Please explain to me what has Mr. Mendelson so excited."

"It would be easier if I show you."

"Okay, show me."

Rachel went to Daniel's office computer, sitting in the swivel chair and studying the monitor screen.

"Wait a minute, it's password protected," Daniel said, but by the time he reached over, Rachel had overridden the password and was in the system. Again, Daniel was impressed. He pulled up a chair.

"I was reluctant to do this, but Professor Borowski said you would need to be challenged. If you don't find this adequate, I won't waste anymore of your time."

Daniel noticed Rachel sounded annoyed with him. For someone so quiet and in need, she had an edge to her. Rachel took out a flash drive and activated a program. A series of files appeared on the screen.

"That's me. You researched me," Daniel said, flattered. He saw the usual birthdate, birthplace, parents, schools, first jobs while working for his father. And then he stopped.

"Wait a minute. How could you know that?" Daniel said, reading files on a secret deal he had pulled off. And then there was more. A lot more. Companies where he'd been a silent partner. Withheld records from the Huddleston case. Meetings he'd attended under assumed names. Women he had seduced.

"This isn't possible. There's no fucking way you could know half this shit," Daniel said. "I don't leave footprints. Not like this."

"Everyone leaves footprints," Rachel said, her brow furrowed.

"How did you do it?"

"It's a methodology I've been developing. Dr. Borowski found it promising."

"Promising? It's terrifying."

"I won't do this on an individual again. It's too difficult, and too intrusive. But the program can be developed to investigate business entities."

"Business entities? This will ferret out financial records?"

"Yes. I'm sorry if it's not worth the money I asked for. But I understand. This is a business."

Rachel pushed the delete key and the file was erased. She got up and headed for the door. Daniel blocked her from leaving.

"I won't sleep with you," Rachel said.

"Are you a mind reader, too?"

"Just a woman."

"I owe Ollie an apology. How does this work?"

"I need to pay my father's medical bills."

"I'll pay his goddamn medical bills. How does this thing work?"

"Multilayered fractal interfacing."

"I don't even know what that means."

"MFI is a forensic accounting matrix that doesn't rely on primary sources."

"I still don't know what that means. Is this a new field?"

"It's more of a new concept."

"Are many people working on multiple ... fractal ... whatever?"

"Me."

If Daniel hadn't seen his own file, he wouldn't have believed it. But he had. There were events he hadn't even remembered. Details that only he knew. Or so he thought. Data organized in a manner that any enemy could exploit.

"This program isn't fully developed yet?"

"No, it's still in the research phase."

"How far along is it?"

"There needs to be a mode of analysis to oversee the variables. This requires a series of progressive stages, linked at specific separation levels, and then redacted into viable formula."

"I see. Top of your class at Harvard? What did they think?"

"Dr. Borowski showed enthusiasm."

"And?"

"I try not to embarrass myself by explaining things people can't comprehend. It's easier to discuss simpler theories."

"E = mc2?"

"That's a fun one, though Professor Einstein failed to recognize the underlying translational--"

"Just a minute, Miss Montgomery," Daniel said, going to the door. "Mrs. Lincoln, will you please place Miss Rachel Montgomery on our payroll? Assign her to the forensic accounting department. Cut her a signing check for $400,000."

Daniel looked back at Rachel, still standing near the computer monitor, looking grateful. Daniel couldn't help thinking he'd find a way to make her more grateful.

* * * * * *

The scholarship committee was wrapping up on a late Friday afternoon, Harvard Yard visible through the wide windows. The long Maplewood tables were a combination of laptops and printed files, reviewing hundreds of applicants. They had an unexpected visitor.

"Jacob? We don't see you here very often," Dean Horowitz said, motioning him to a thick padded chair. Tall and graceful, just past fifty, Horowitz was enjoying her tenth year on the committee. Her long black hair was turning silver.

"Thank you, Carol," Jacob said, still looking like the lean Yale basketball player he'd been thirty years before. "You know I don't involve myself in the scholarship process very often, but every once in a while, I think there's someone special for you to look at. And this time, I have someone very special."

Three administrators remained in the office sending invitations for the fall semester. The rustic wood paneling and stylish decor spoke of an ancient university steeped in honored traditions.

"We have the best here, Jacob. Top candidates from all over the country," Dr. LeRoy Smith warned, late-fifties, bald and paunchy.

"From all over the world," Dr. Debbie McIntire added, short, plump, and reaching her late forties. She liked wearing her dyed-red hair up in a bun to show off her long dangling earrings.

"And you're not going to find this woman on any of your lists, which is why I'm here," Jacob pressed. "Sometimes good kids fall through the cracks, and no one gives a damn. Today, I want you to give a damn."

"You have our attention," Horowitz said.

Jacob gave each of them a file. There was a photo of a very young woman. She looked fifteen or sixteen. Thin, with long brown hair and big brown eyes. Her academic records were sketchy.

"I've uploaded more files," Jacob explained, reading their expressions. "I realize she doesn't have enough units for an academic scholarship. And she doesn't have community service achievements. And I know the scholarships are almost expended. I would like you to award her a swimming scholarship. She's worked hard and would contribute to the team."

"Swimming? Jacob, you chair the business department. Isn't sports a little out of your expertise?" Smith asked.

"It's the only program she can qualify for this late in the process. But her major won't be physical education. It will be mathematics."

"There isn't much in her records about math. In fact, I'm having trouble figuring out what these records say," McIntire said.

"Not everything can be found in the records. Not yet," Jacob said. "This introduces Miss Rachel Montgomery. She was born in Palmdale, California. Her father was a night watchman at Lockheed Martin who fell on hard times, became a drunk, and beat her."

The committee looked at the photo again. The subject looked so small. Delicate.

"Rachel was put into foster care, where she was assaulted, hospitalized, and institutionalized for a time," Jacob continued.

"That's very sad, Jacob. She looks like a sweet kid, but that's not grounds for a scholarship to Harvard," McIntire said.

"Maybe this will help," Jacob said, trying not to sound impatient. "When Rachel was emancipated from St. Mary's and went out on her own, she had two years of high school to make up. She did it in one. That's why her records look so confusing. She has a 4.0 GPA. She qualified for the swim team, and though she'll never go to the Olympics, look at those times. Ladies and gentlemen, Rachel is barely 5'2. She would need three winter coats to weigh a hundred pounds, yet she has strong times in the 800-meter and 1500-meter freestyle. Physically, she shouldn't be able to achieve these times. She does it with mental discipline. Here are her SATs."

"Perfect scores? That says something," Smith said.

"It's more remarkable than that, Roy. Miss Montgomery could only prep for the SATs part-time. She works to support herself while going to school."

"What does she do?" Smith asked.

"She's a short-order cook at a café in the California desert. Good food, too. I've eaten there. She lives in a small room behind the restaurant and spends most of her time at the library. Sometimes to stay warm. She has no money and no family to support her, yet she has a tremendous work ethic. She came to my attention through my daughter, who mentioned that a high school student had translated Pride and Prejudice into Latin. I asked Rachel what interests her most, and she wrote this essay for me. She apologized for the Archimedean section being in Ancient Greek. She wants to develop programs that break down numbers to their essentials through a series of layering techniques. I'm current in the field and she has ideas no one else have even examined."

"She sounds amazing, but as you say, this is late in the process," Horowitz said.

"The swimming scholarship would only be for the first year. I've talked to Coach Jenkins, and she's onboard. After that, I have no doubt the mathematics department will want to keep her. If they don't, the business department will."

"You seem quite set on her," Smith said.

"I brought Miss Montgomery with me," Jacob replied.

"Here? Now?" Smith asked.

"She flew in this morning. Her first time ever on a plane. I would appreciate it if you'd meet with her," Jacob said.

"We have a few minutes, considering all the trouble you've gone to," Horowitz agreed.

"I need to warn everyone first," Jacob cautioned. "Rachel is very introverted. Making conversation with strangers is difficult for her."

"We'll be careful," Smith said.

Jacob went to the door and waved. A small young woman entered dressed in a knee-length black and red checkered skirt, black wool socks, and a white blouse. Salvation Army retreads. Only her gray jacket looked new, probably a necessary gift from Dr. Borowski. She kept her head low, looking up just enough not to be rude. Jacob sat her in a chair before the committee.

"Welcome, Miss Montgomery. We're pleased to meet you," Dean Horowitz said.

Rachel glanced up briefly, then dropped her head again, the long hair covering her face. Her hands were clutched in her lap.

"Don't be afraid, Rachel. These are nice people. Friends of mine. They aren't demons," Jacob said, brushing her hair back.

When Rachel smiled, the committee sensed something different. Her eyes grew brighter. Her deportment stronger. Smith noticed she wasn't just pretty, but striking, with creamy skin, high cheekbones and a pert nose. And yet she wasn't flaunting it. She didn't even seem to know it.

"I am sorry to be so shy," Rachel said. "I don't get out much."

"Harvard must be quite an adventure for you?" McIntire said.

"It's frightening," Rachel confessed, trying to straighten up. They noticed good musculature. A swimmer's physique.

"We hear you're interested in math?" Smith said.

"Mostly numbers. But there are many mathematical theories that are also interesting," Rachel said.

"Anything special?" Horowitz said.

"Breaking down partial differential equations into primary formula is exciting. PDE's are especially interesting when revising theories on gravitation. It may be necessary to revisit current models of discrete values. The integers are not so separated as some believe."

"How would you know that?" Smith inquired.

"I've done the math," Rachel replied, her thin eyebrows bent.

"What do you do for fun?" McIntire asked.

"Fun?" Rachel said.

"What do you enjoy when you're not working?" Horowitz said.

"I like studying four-dimensional manifolds," Rachel hesitantly answered. "Though I'm having trouble grasping pseudo-Euclidean vector space."

"Anything outside of science?" Smith asked.

"What is outside of science?" Rachel replied.

"Art. History. Philosophy," Horowitz suggested.

Rachel took a deep breath, trying to organize her thoughts. Dr. Borowski wanted to whisper encouragement but knew she had to do this on her own.

"Plato wrote that philosophy begins in perplexity, and I'd like to find out if that's true. Sister Louise at St. Mary's said to look to God. She likes Acts 26:18, but she only knew the Latin translation, so I needed to study the text in the original Greek. I'm wondering if philosophy isn't really math with a layer of religion over it."

"You've studied the Bible in ancient Greek?" McIntire asked.

"Acts was written in Koine Greek, ma'am. I didn't learn Doric Greek until I sought a better understanding of Archimedes' Method of Mechanical Theorems."

"Why would a young woman such as yourself wish to study Archimedes?" Smith asked.

"I needed to examine his process."

The board members grew quiet. They couldn't remember ever having such an unusual applicant.

"You translated Pride & Prejudice into Latin?" Horowitz asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Dr. Cotton's translation needed updating."

"Where did you learn all these languages?" McIntire said.

"Father Buchanan helped me with Latin. The rest I learned in the library. It's not so hard."

They realized Rachel wasn't boasting. Though her demeanor was modest, there was an extraordinary ambition in her expression. A thirst to learn.

"Dr. Borowski has shown us an essay you wrote on accounting programs," Smith said. "Is this something you wish to pursue?"

"Yes, sir. I've been looking at fractal interspacing. Nearly every process is burdened with false assumptions. There should be a formula that reduces everything to the basic values."

"Isn't fractal interspacing a bit outdated?" Smith asked.

"No, sir," Rachel disagreed, her eyes squinting. "Using a Level 9 matrix is outdated. Proper data processing requires a Level 10 matrix to integrate storage and analysis."

"Do you know how to stabilize a Level 10 matrix?" Smith said.

"No, sir. Not yet. But I'm working on it," Rachel said, her jaw set tight.

"How old are you, dear?" Horowitz asked.

"Almost eighteen, ma'am. I've lost a lot of time."

* * * * * * *

"What's going on?" Pamela asked, entering Marbury & Benson late on a Monday morning.

Her staff had gathered outside Rachel's laboratory, but quickly dispersed. Pamela found Big Bob McLane guarding the security portal.

"Bob, what is this?" she asked.

"It's been a long weekend, Mrs. Benson," McLane said, looking weary. His booth was filled with empty coffee cups. He'd taken his boots off, sitting in his socks.

"Long weekend? No one told me about a special project."

"Rachel didn't want to worry you."

"Well, I'm worried now," Pamela said, going for the door. It wouldn't open. She entered her personal security code. It still wouldn't open.

"She asked for no interruptions," McLane said.

"How long has she been in there?"

"Since Friday morning."

"Three days? Have you been out here the whole time?"

"Mostly. Simmons and Mackinaw filled in when I needed sleep."

"Open this door," Pamela said.

"I'm not supposed to."

"Open it anyway. Not for me. For her."

McLane thought it over, and then entered his code. Pamela noticed what had once been an opaque glass door was now reinforced steel. Pamela entered, but McLane stayed behind, sliding the hatch closed.

The outer office was empty. Rachel only used it for extra clothes and her kitchen. Pamela saw dozens of used tea bags and empty donut boxes. She went into the lab, so filled with monitors, chalkboards and workstations that the room didn't even have windows anymore.

"Rachel?" Pamela whispered. The laboratory was quiet except for the humming of the computers.

She found Rachel curled up in the corner, asleep. She was covered with an L. A. Rams fleece blanket, her head resting on a thin pillow. Her sleep was fitful. Pamela heard her mumbling equations.

"Rachel, honey, are you all right?" Pamela asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her.

Rachel stirred. Her eyes were blurry, the hair a mess. Little remained of the makeup she'd worn to work three days before. Normally she wore a white lab coat while working, but now she was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and gray sweatpants.

"Good morning, Mrs. Benson," Rachel said, yawning.

"You're supposed to call me Pam, and why are you sleeping on the floor?"

"Is Mr. McLane still here?"

"Yes. He's guarding your cave like a junkyard dog."

"Please tell Mr. McLane to go home. It's Aliyah's 17th birthday. He needs to be with her."

"His job is to protect you, and you are here."

"Nothing is more important than family," Rachel insisted.

"I'll speak with him," Pamela promised. "Isn't it time for you to go home?"

"I have another sequence to run."

"Honey, you look exhausted. You'll work better after getting some rest."

"No, I don't function like that. But this stage will be completed in a few hours."

"I can't just leave you here like this."

"I'm okay."

"That's what you told Rory in your apartment when you were dying of pneumonia."

Rachel slowly sat up, moving stiffly, and stretched her legs. She'd removed her shoes, wearing pink socks with embroidered puppies.

"I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to do this again, but I've gotten the layering in free flow," Rachel said. "Now criteria is needed to establish protocols for a solution."

"What if I tell you to stop? To pick this up another day?"

"The process is too advanced to stop now. It would set the program back."

"I won't have you exhausting yourself," Pamela pressed.

"I'll do anything you tell me to do when it's for me. But this isn't for me."

"Can you explain?"

"I'm trying to stabilize the Level 12 extension."

"Dear, we have plenty of clients. We have plenty of money. Damaging your health for bigger cases isn't worth it. Not to me."

"This isn't an accounting program," Rachel said. "It's a database."

"Like a library?"

"Like an interactive library."

"It's still not worth this price. Look at you? I'm sorry, honey, but you look awful. I think you're running a fever." She put her hand to Rachel's forehead, feeling the extra warmth. "You are running a fever."

"A mild one. It's common," Rachel said, searching around for a bottle of water. They were all empty. Pamela fetched another from the kitchen.

"Let me call a doctor for you," Pamela said. "Just to be safe."

"I'm okay. Just tired. Want to play tennis this weekend? Rory is taking me to the Royal Titans."

"You can't even stand. You'd never keep up with me on a tennis court."

"You're old."

"Not that old. How about if you and I play against Rory and Oliver?"

"That would be fun. I haven't played doubles yet."

"Golf on Sunday?"

"I don't know how to play golf."

"I'll give you lessons. But you must eat properly. No more donuts for dinner. And we've got to do something about these long hours. You need a life outside of work."

"What happens to me isn't important," Rachel declined.

"It's important to me, and it's important to Rory. I'll make you a deal. I'll order Mr. McLane to spend time with his daughter. You'll wrap up this segment, or whatever you call it, and then sleep in the executive suite while I finish the new contracts. After work, we'll have a nice dinner at Bon Temps and Sam will drive you home. Am I communicating clearly?"

"Yes, Pam," Rachel said.

"This extension thing you're talking about, what does it do?"

For a moment, it looked like Rachel might answer her question. But then she returned to her workstation, putting on a headset and staring at the multicolored shapes zipping across the monitors at unfathomable speed. Pamela only got the barest glimpse of the screen. Squares. Triangles. Hexagons. Strangely twisted numbers. It looked like a big swirling puzzle. Rachel tapped inputs and whispered instructions, her brows bent in concentration.

With her presence forgotten, Pamela reluctantly left the lab, pausing at McLane's guard station.

"When Rachel says she's okay, is she telling the truth?" she asked.

"She's never lied to me," McLane answered.

"But is she being straight with me?"

"Mrs. Benson, Rachel can be secretive, but lying isn't in her nature."

"To think, I once accused that girl of sitting around the office all day playing video games. I was so clueless."

"I wish more people knew about her, but she doesn't want that."

"This project, is it really so important?" Pamela asked.

"It's going to change the world," McLane grimly replied.

"You know what it is?"

"Yes, but I'm sworn to secrecy."

"She won't stay a secret forever. In the meantime, Mr. McLane, please take the rest of the day off. I hear it's your daughter's birthday. Miss Montgomery will be with me. I also think we should increase her security detail. Do a full review of Canby Place, and upgrade security here in the Mitchell Building."

"Are you expecting trouble?" he asked. Pamela knew he carried a concealed weapon. As she did.

"I hope not, but let's not be blindsided."

On the way back to her office, Pamela stopped by Keisha's desk.

"Mrs. Lincoln, has Rachel always worked these crazy hours?"

"She did at first. For the first year or so. Once Mr. Benson started dating her, discreetly, you understand, she couldn't do these long stretches anymore. He wouldn't allow it."

"Danny was good for her, wasn't he?"

"He tried to be," Keisha replied.

* * * * * *

"Well, ladies, here we are," Sheila said, leading Rory and Rachel down into the shadowy saloon. "This was Danny's favorite haunt. We had some great parties here."

The women entered an Irish pub near the waterfront with an oak beam ceiling and sawdust on the floor. The walls were decorated with sports photos. The tavern was busy with a dozen businessmen sitting at the bar or playing pool. A few patrons occupied tables eating lunch. Sheila led them to a red leather corner booth, seating Rachel between herself and Rory.

"Let's be clear. I took the rest of the day off," Sheila said. "I made sure Rory took the rest of the day off. And Rachel is taking the rest of the day off."

"Me? No, I have work to do," Rachel protested.

"You can't work all the time," Sheila said.

"You better not try to stop me," Rachel replied with an angry frown.

She grew agitated, her small fists clenched. Rory had seen these outbursts before and looked to Sheila for her reaction. To her surprise, Sheila just smiled.

"Rachel, no one is stopping you," Sheila said, taking her hand. "We are enjoying the day with our friend."

Rachel lowered her head, looking embarrassed.

"After lunch, we're going for ice cream on the Santa Monica Pier," Sheila continued. "Then Rachel will take a nap at my place, and tonight, we've got tickets for Northanger Abbey at the Ahmanson. It's a musical."

"It sounds like fun," Rory said. "Doesn't it sound like fun, Rach?"

Rachel remained quiet.

"Rach, it's okay. We understand," Rory said.

Sheila slid closer, giving Rachel a heartfelt hug.

"We know about your moods, sweetie, and we love you anyway," Sheila said. "Don't ever be afraid to speak to me. About anything."

"Thank you," Rachel said, sniffling. Rory gave her a tissue.

Drinks were provided, but not by an ordinary waiter. The gentleman was tall, thin, and better than seventy years old. Tuffs of white hair stuck out over his ears, kept in check by wire rim glasses. He had a barbershop striped shirt and a stained apron.

"Glad to have you back, Sheba. And glad to meet your friends," Mickey said, serving white Russians and adding a bowl of pretzels.

"Rory, Rachel, this is Mickey Conran," Sheila introduced. "He's the owner. Mickey and Danny were friends for many years."

"Close to twenty," Mickey said. "When I almost lost the place, Danny bailed me out. He was a great friend. I'll be charging Sheba, she's an old-timer. Maybe charge her double, being so successful and all. But I won't take money from his daughter, or his ladylove. No arguments."

Mickey took their orders, salads all around, and scampered off.

"Sheba, it's great seeing you again," Rory said. "We've both been so busy. Except for the funeral."

"I haven't scored any points with your mother lately," Sheila replied.

"Yeah, she still hates your guts. But I love you," Rory said.

"I saw Johnny in Boston. He's looking well. And his girlfriend is a cutie."

"I haven't met her yet. Mom, either."

"He wants a get-together. Maybe over Thanksgiving. Alicia's family is spending the holiday at Martha's Vineyard."

"That could work," Rory said.

Rachel listened and sipped her drink, but she wasn't talking.

"Jump in anytime you want," Sheila urged.

"I'm surprised by what Mr. Conran said. I don't understand," Rachel questioned, looking up now that no one was watching them.

"What don't you understand, honey?" Sheila asked.

"How does Mr. Conran know if Daniel cared about me?"

"Danny talked to Mickey about all sorts of things, including wanting to marry you," Sheila said. "It's a bartender thing."

"There is a blogger. I try not to pay attention," Rachel said. "They say many of the stories about Daniel and I--things we did--came from O'Casey's."

"It's probably true, Rachel," Sheila said. "Danny was a bold man. He liked to brag. In the early days of your relationship, he liked to brag about you. How beautiful you are. And exciting. And passionate. Sometimes he'd get a little too explicit, but that's the way Danny was. Hell, honey, if I was gay and got to pop you, I'd brag about it, too."

Rachel looked down into her lap, her face turning red. Rory saw she was smiling.

"But Danny stopped talking about you after it got serious," Sheila continued. "And Mick doesn't permit anyone to badmouth you in his bar. Not ever."

"That's kind of him," Rachel said.

"It's only fair," Rory insisted. "No one has a right to say shit about you. When I read those bloggers, or see those talk show clowns, I just want to go off on them."

"What do you think, Rachel? Do they bother you?" Sheila asked.

"There's nothing I can do about them," Rachel answered.

"You could fight back?" Sheila urged.

"How?"

"These cowards aren't gods, just bullies with a platform. Punch them hard and they'll fold."

"I've never punched anyone," Rachel said in shock. "I've used bottles and hammers, though."

Sheila thought it was a joke, but Rachel wasn't smiling. Rory wasn't, either.

"I'm just saying, you don't have to take their crap lying down," Sheila said. "I work in media all the time. If you ever need advice, just let me know."

* * * * * *

Supported by Pamela and Rory, and coached by Sheila, Rachel will finally challenge her media critics head on. And they have no idea what's coming.