Three Fates

make. If she didn’t keep on schedule, Malachi and the others would worry and wonder.
    There was an odd comfort in that, she realized. Having someone worry about you. She supposed, if she were honest, she’d let herself fall into that comfort zone with her mother. Always. Though the truth was Alma didn’t worry about her daughter nearly as much as she worried about herself.
    That was her nature, Tia told herself as she stepped out of the cab on Wall Street. All the therapy sessions with Dr. Lowenstein had never pushed her into understanding and accepting that one fact.
    It had taken an Irishman, three silver statues and an odd mix of new friends to clear her vision and stiffen her spine.
    Or maybe, in some strange way, it had taken Anita Gaye. When all was said and done and her life got back to whatever passed as normal, she’d have to thank Anita for thrusting her into a situation that forced her to test her own abilities.
    Of course, if things worked out as she hoped, Tia doubted Anita would appreciate the gratitude.
    She hummed as she rode up the elevator in the brokerage firm. Tia Marsh, she thought, scheming, plotting, having regular sex. And all without chemical aids.
    Well, hardly any.
    She felt rather smug, almost confident. And secretly powerful.
    It was even better when she stopped by Carrie’s assistant’s desk and realized the man didn’t recognize her. “Tia Marsh,” she said, flustered and delighted when she saw him blink in surprise. “Does Ms. Wilson have a minute to spare?”
    “Dr. Marsh. Of course.” He stared at her as he reached for his phone. “I’ll just let her know you’re here. You look wonderful today.”
    “Thank you.”
    She was going shopping, Tia decided, at the first opportunity, for an entire new wardrobe to go with the hair. And the attitude.
    She was going to buy something really, really red.
    “Tia.” Carrie hurried out of her office. She looked sharp and smart, and very rushed. “We didn’t have an appointment, did we?”
    “No. I’m sorry. I just need a few minutes if you can manage it.”
    “A few is what I’ve got. Come on back. Tod, I’m going to need the analysis on the Brockaway accounts by noon.”
    “He didn’t recognize me,” Tia commented as Carrie led her into her snazzy corner office.
    “What? Oh, Tod?” Carrie laughed, shot a look at the computer screen where she’d been working, then headed to her coffeepot. “Well, you do look different, honey. Fabulous, really.” She poured a cup, didn’t bother to ask Tia if she wanted any, as it was real coffee. Then took a good look at her friend as she sat. “Really fabulous. Not just the hair, either.” She set the mug aside, got back to her feet, scrutinized Tia’s face.
    “You’ve had sex.”
    “Carrie! For heaven’s sake.” Tia closed the office door, quickly.
    “You’ve had sex since I saw you.” Carrie wagged a finger. “Spill it.”
    “I didn’t come here to talk about that, and you’ve only got a few minutes.”
    To settle the matter, Carrie simply strode to her desk, snatched up her phone. “Tod, hold my calls, and tell Minlow I may be a few minutes late for our ten o’clock. There.” She hung up the phone. “Talk. I want details. Names, dates, positions.”
    “It’s complicated.” Tia gnawed on her bottom lip. It was like being Clark Kent, she decided, and not being able to tell anyone you were really Superman. She couldn’t stand it. “You can’t tell anyone.”
    “What am I, the town crier? It’s Carrie, Tia. I already know all your secrets. Or I did. Who is he?”
    “Malachi. Malachi Sullivan.”
    “The Irish guy? He came back?”
    “He’s staying with me.”
    “He’s living with you? I’m going to cancel my ten o’clock.”
    “No, no.” Tia pushed her hands through her hair and laughed. “I don’t have time. Really. As soon as I can, I’ll tell you everything. But he . . . we’re . . . it’s amazing. I’ve never felt so . . . potent,” she decided and, unable to keep still, wandered around the office as she spoke. “That’s a good word. Potent. He can barely keep his hands off me. Isn’t that something? And he actually listens to me, asks my opinion. He makes fun of me, but not in a mean sort of way. He makes me look at myself, Carrie, and when I do, I’m not so stupid, so clumsy, so inept.”
    “You’ve never been any of those things, and if he’s letting you see that, I’m disposed to like him. When do I meet him?”
    “It’s