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Gretchen, the poor woman looked like she was at a complete loss, an expression she never expected to see on the face of Gretchen Kaiser a.k.a. Cruella De Vil. Kylie’s tears were free-ß owing.
    She sniffed and grabbed Gretchen’s wrist, worried that the panicked woman would ß ee in terror within the next few seconds, before she had a chance to explain herself. With her free hand, she snatched a tissue from the box on her desk and wiped her nose, then her eyes.
    After a few minutes, when she felt like she could speak, she realized absently that she was still holding Gretchen’s wrist. The skin was soft and warm in her hand…not at all cold and brittle like many
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    might suspect. It was with regret that she let go and with great relief that she noted Gretchen didn’t leave. She looked up into Gretchen’s eyes, as dark as rich coffee, and saw worry there. Concern.
    Surprised by the depth of emotion in them, she pointed to the picture on her desk and said softly, “That’s Rip. I lost him four weeks ago. He was Þ fteen. I’ve had him since I was twenty-two. He was very old and weak and sick and I Þ nally had to put him down. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Her eyes welled once more and she cleared her throat to keep it from closing up.
    “Oh, Kylie. I’m so sorry.” Gretchen’s voice was tender. She looked at the bag in her hand and embarrassment clearly registered on her face.
    “I’m so sorry. God, I’m an idiot.”
    “No,” Kylie assured her. “No, not at all. I think it was sweet. It was a really nice gesture.”
    “Well, still. I’m really sorry. I feel terrible.”
    Kylie couldn’t help herself; she laid her hand on Gretchen’s bare wrist once more. “Really. It’s okay. You had no way of knowing. Thank you for thinking of me.”
    “You’re welcome.” Gretchen licked her lips and glanced around the empty ofÞ ce. “You should go home. It’s late.”
    “Tomorrow is another day, right?”
    “Yes, it is. I’ll see you in the morning.”
    “Okay.”
    Kylie watched Gretchen walk back to her ofÞ ce and toss the doggie bag into the wastebasket. She blew her nose a Þ nal time, gazed lovingly at the picture of Rip lying on his back, paws up in the air, hamming it up for the camera, and sighed.
    v
    “So, she threw you a bone, huh?”
    Kylie couldn’t help but laugh at Mick’s analogy. “Yeah, I guess she did. It was a nice thing to do.”
    “Whatever.”
    Kylie rolled onto her side on the couch and switched the phone to the other ear. Absently, she hit the channel change button on her remote, surÞ ng through shows as she talked. She recalled Gretchen’s face, the
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    horror at having made her cry, the worry in her eyes. Her empathy revealed a side of her that Þ lled Kylie with pleasant surprise.
    Stopping on a rerun of The Simpsons , she said, “You could give her a chance, Mick.”
    “She had her chance with me,” Mick spat. “She treated me like a peon. I don’t need that from somebody who doesn’t even know me.”
    “I know, but like I said before, it was her Þ rst day. There were extenuating circumstances.”
    “Whatever,” Mick said again. “You seem to have given her enough chances.”
    Kylie made a face at the accusatory tone. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
    “Nothing. I just don’t like her. I don’t like the way she treats people at work. I don’t like that she’s closeted. I just don’t like her.”
    “We’ve been through this before. You don’t know that she’s closeted.”
    “She’s certainly not out and proud.”
    “Like you.”
    “Damn right.”
    Kylie frowned. “She does have that picture, though…” she said, more to herself than aloud.
    Mick heard her. “What picture?”
    Rolling her eyes at giving more ammo to Mick, Kylie reluctantly elaborated. “She’s got a picture on her desk of her and some guy at a Mexican place or in Mexico or something. They look