"You have."

"Then why don't you have a moustache and a Cuban accent?" Lawrence laughed. "I can't help it, when I was growing up, if someone hijacked a plane, it went to Cuba."

"Maybe they have a Cuban restaurant, if you're really desperate. So, is there any particular route we need to take? Some sort of tour thingy?"

"I expect there ARE guided tours, but I have no desire to shell out cash when I can just be chauffeured around."

"Just drive?"

"Just drive. I used to do this when I was a kid. We'd do the run between Christmas and Thanksgiving, of course, looking for yard displays and elaborate lights. But sometimes my mother would just drive through nice neighborhoods any old time, and we'd look at all the big houses. I'd always point to something about the size of a small hotel and say, 'Wouldn't you like to live there?' Mom would always answer, 'Only if I have someone else to clean it.' I had to grow up to understand that, but yeah, buddy, she was right. Never get anything bigger than you have to unless you can at least afford day help. Therefore I will probably live in efficiency apartments till the day I die."

There wasn't much traffic, so there was no one to honk horns behind us if we took our time going down a street. Lawrence wove a path through residential areas, and we gazed at houses that had once lodged the cream of Galveston society. We cruised slowly past the Bishop's Palace, which was the closest thing to a Cinderella type castle I'd ever seen. Then there was the Moody Mansion, and the Ashton Villa--both of which looked to me like they could have housed a small town comfortably. There were a good number of brick buildings, but most of them had wooden siding ("I hate to think of how often that has to be replaced or painted with all this humidity and salt in the air, but bless them for not slapping on vinyl," I told Lawrence.) There were cupolas, bay windows, and enough gingerbread trim to satisfy the witch from Hansel and Gretel. There were a few colors that made me shake my head, but hey--if you can afford a house that size in a place where land is at such a premium, you can jolly well paint it with peppermint stripes, as far as I'm concerned.

After awhile we parked and strolled down along Seawall Boulevard, looking out at the beach and peeking in store windows. "Have you ever been to The Strand during the Christmas events?" he asked.

"Sure. I came in costume. I make a very plausible Victorian governess. They're great because they weren't expected to be fashionable, so I didn't have to mess with bustles, petticoats, padding, and such. I wore a wig, though. Respectable women back then didn't cut their hair unless they were sick."

"Really?" Lawrence studied me. "I wonder what you'd look like with long hair?"

I have dark reddish-brown hair. When I can afford it, there's a little more red in it than Mother Nature originally intended. It's very curly--only about a half-step away from poodle fluff. I usually keep it quite short. In fact, if I can grip a strand of hair at my hairline and pull it down, and the tip touches anywhere past the top of my nose, it's past time for me to get a haircut. "I grew it long--once. I got bored and curious, and just didn't cut it for about three years."

"What did it look like?"

"Well, for the first year or so, I looked like a dandelion most of the time. Then the weight started to pull some of the curl out of it."

We were passing a store called Dolphin World, and Lawrence said, "Let's go in here."

"Has it got tacky, touristy souvenirs? I love those." "It has everything to do with the beach."

"Suits me. I'm ready to get into some air conditioning, anyway."

"What about after the first year?"

I wandered up and down the crowded aisles, looking at lurid satin throw pillows emblazoned with risqué sayings, seashell novelties, and sunglasses that would have cost me lunch for a week. "After that it did hang down more than it bushed out. Eventually it got to where if it was wet, it reached the middle of my back. However, when it was dry the curl still kept it around the bottom of my shoulder blades. I wore it in a ponytail all the time, and that sucker was as thick as a Coke can at the base. Do you remember Topsy-Tails?"

"Should I?"

"Maybe not, since you're a guy, and you don't wear your hair long enough to use one. They were sort of plastic loops on the end of a stick that were supposed to enable you to fix your hair in all kinds of fancy dos with the greatest of ease."

"Oh, yeah, I remember seeing an ad for those. They claimed that it would work on any hair."

"They

"Why didn't you keep your hair long?"

"I got sick of it. I was working food service then, so I had to keep it bundled up. It was hot, it made the back of my neck itch, and I kept shedding. I shed worse than my cats. And I can't abide finding a hair in my food, so it had to go. I went to a beauty shop and asked for a cut. When the girl asked how much I wanted taken off, I told her all of it. She almost had kittens in the middle of the salon. I ended up swearing in front of witnesses that I wouldn't hold her accountable if I changed my mind later. Like I told her, though--it's hair--it'll grow back." I rubbed a hand over my head, enjoying the springy feel of the curls. "I didn't let it, though. Besides, I'm too old for that long-flowing-hair-down-around-your-shoulders nonsense."

"I wish you'd quit talking about yourself like that."

"Like how?"

"Like you're over the hill."

I shot him a skeptical look, but there wasn't a smirk in sight. "Yeah, well, I just don't want to be mutton dressed as lamb. Or perhaps more accurately, matron dressed as maiden."

"But you are a maiden. You said so quite clearly last night."

Ever been able to feel the blush creeping up your face? "I still think I should have lied. I sincerely doubt that crew back at the beach house is going to let me forget that any time soon."

We'd reached a section that resembled part of a clothing store, but I'd never before seen clothing rails with that little fabric dangling from them. "I wonder how much business they do on bathing suits?" I thought out loud. "I mean, most people come to Galveston expecting to swim, or live here and already have a suit, so how many impulsive tourists do they get buying?" I pulled an iridescent green thong off the rack and checked the price tag. It made me suck my teeth. "Mother of pearl! It wouldn't take many of them to turn a profit at these prices."

Lawrence checked the tag. "It isn't all that bad for designer swimwear. Go try it on."

I stared at him. "I don't think I've ever been this close to a genuine crazy person before."

"Oh, go on."

"No! There's enough blackmail material on me already from last night." I held up the so-called article of clothing. "I've worn scarves that had more fabric than this, and I've seen Kleenex that was more opaque. As a matter of fact, I think that job on the cover of Sports Illustrated that consisted of a gauze strip and two strategically placed scallop shells looks dignified next to this one."

"Then try another--like this one." He pulled out a candy apple red job that did use about three times the material as the first one. That meant that a six year old would still be in danger of violating decency codes.

"Are you kidding? I'd look like a marshmallow with two rubber bands around it."

"Stop it! You're not fat--you're just not thin."

"Have it your way, Sir Gallant. I am that pale, though. I'm so pale that I'm surprised I don't glow in the dark. You saw my legs yesterday."

He grinned. "Sure did." He offered the suit. "Like to see more of 'em."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, and it damn sure won't get me into one of those tourniquets. Charlie has a camera. It could be recorded for posterity."

He glanced around. "Miss?" The perky blonde (naturally) sales girl bustled over, smiling expectantly. He pointed at me. "She's being stubborn. What size would you say she wears?"

The girl studied me critically. "Careful," I said.

She walked down the aisle a few feet and pointed. "I think these would fit her nicely."

"Yeah, they look about right." He started sorting through the hangers. "What sort of color do you think would look good on her?"

"Lawrence?"

"Well," said the girl. "I wouldn't recommend pastels with that hair. Something dark and dramatic. How about this royal purple with white trim?"

"Those are my high school colors, and I haven't willing worn them for more years than I care to remember," I snapped. "This is ridiculous." I started pointedly examining the sand castle sculpting tools that were displayed on top of the rack.

"Scratch the purple," said Lawrence. "Hey, I like this dark green." Actually, it was a pretty nice suit. A lot more conservative than most of them, but it still managed not to look like something my grandmother would wear, despite the little skirt at the front.

"The yellow accents keep it from being too somber," the girl agreed.

I couldn't take it any more. "Hello? I'm right here. I am not buying a swimsuit, Lawrence."

"We'll take this one."

"Hey!"

"You're not buying it--I am." He pulled out his wallet and extracted a credit card.

I stood there for a moment, opening and closing my mouth while the sales girl gleefully rang up a sale that was going to do nice things for her commission. Finally I said, "Well, all I can say is that you're going to look damn funny wearing it, but I can't recall us having done a story on cross-dressing for the beach, so maybe it'll keep Charlie busy with that devil box of his." I stalked out of the store.

He caught up with me a few minutes later (damn, he had long legs), and fell into step beside me. "Don't be like that."

"You know, that's one of the most irritating things a man can say to a woman. It's interpreted as 'You're being totally unreasonable, but I'm willing to forgive you if you'll just see things my way'. Lawrence, in case you haven't noticed, I am not a Barbie Doll. I don't have the figure, and I do have a brain. No one has picked my clothes since I got enough allowance to buy them myself."

He shrugged. "It wasn't meant to be disrespectful, but you do need a bathing suit, and I didn't get you anything for your birthday."

"My birthday is next month, and I wasn't with the magazine on my last birthday."

"I just wanted to give you something. Is that a crime?"

"No, but it's suspect. My mother told me that there were two things a girl didn't accept from a man unless they were practically engaged--clothing or jewelry."

"I bought you a cover-up to go with it." I looked away. "It has a cat on it."

Ooo.

He was good--I have to give him that. I'm feline dependent--I had two currently being pissed with me because I'd left them with a neighbor instead of bringing them along. "Let's see it." He pulled it out of the bag. It was white terrycloth, and looked sort of like a very loose bathrobe. It would reach almost to my knees, and there was, indeed, a cat on it. He was sprawled in a beach chair, all four legs raised in the 'dead cat' position, and was wearing shades. The inscription said So there is another reason for sand...

I wanted that cover-up. I won't go so far as to say that I lusted for it, but I came close. Let's say I coveted it. But I knew that the only way to get it was to take the bathing suit, too, and the only way to keep it would be to wear it--over the bathing suit.

I took the bag. "Why aren't you the head of this magazine, Lawrence? You're a master manipulator."

He smiled at me and took my free hand as we walked back to the car. "Give me time."