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Brandon. I’ve run out of courtesy.”
    The man pushed past her and walked down the street in such a hurry that he almost knocked over a trash can. Rue swung around to watch him go, her stance belligerent. She might look ruthless to the human eye, but Sean could tell she was full of shame at being so stern with a man as guileless as a persistent puppy. When she went up the steps, Sean drifted down the street, wondering all the while about a beautiful woman who didn’t date, a woman who camouflaged what she was under layers of unattractive clothing, a woman who was deliberately rude when her first inclination was to be kind.
    Rue May—Layla LaRue LeMay—was hiding. But from what? Or who? He’d been dancing with her for two months now, and he didn’t know anything about her.
    * * *
    â€œWe got a call from Connie Jaslow,” Sylvia said two weeks later. “She wants to hire three couples to dance at a party she’s putting on. Since it’s warm, she’s determined to have a tropical theme.”
    Rue and Sean, Julie and Thompson, and the third pair of dancers, Megan and Karl, were sitting in the padded folding chairs that Sylvia usually pushed against the walls. For this meeting, they’d pulled the chairs in front of Sylvia’s desk.
    â€œShe’d like the gals to wear sort of Dorothy Lamour–style outfits, and the guys to wear loincloths and ankle bracelets. She wants some kind of ‘native-looking’ dance.”
    â€œOh, for God’s sake!” said Karl, disgust emphasizing his German accent.
    â€œConnie Jaslow is one of our big repeat customers,” Sylvia said. Her eyes went from one to the other of them. “I agree the idea is silly, but Connie pays good money.”
    â€œLet’s see the costumes,” Julie said. Rue had decided Julie was a good-hearted girl, and almost as practical as Sylvia.
    â€œThis was what she suggested,” Sylvia said. She held up a drawing. The women’s costume showed belly button; it was a short flowered skirt, wrapped to look vaguely saronglike, with a matching bra. The long black wig was decorated with artificial flowers.
    Rue tried to imagine what she would look like in it, and she thought she’d look pretty good. But then she reevaluated the low-rider skirt. “It would be that low?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” Sylvia said. “Showing your navel is in right now, and Connie wanted a sort of update to the island look.”
    â€œCan’t do it,” Rue said.
    â€œSomething wrong with your button?” teased Thompson.
    â€œMy stomach,” Rue said, and hoped she could leave it at that.
    â€œI can’t believe that. You’re as lean as you can be,” Sylvia said sharply. She wasn’t used to being thwarted.
    Rue had a healthy respect for her employer. She knew Sylvia would demand proof. Better to get it over with. Dancers learned to be practical about their bodies. Rue stood abruptly enough to startle Sean, who was leaning against the wall by her chair. Rue pulled up her T-shirt, unzipped her jeans and found she’d worn bikini panties, so she hardly had to push them down. “This would show,” Rue said, keeping her voice as level as she could.
    The room was silent as the dancers gazed at the thick, jagged scar that ran just to the left of Rue’s navel. It descended below the line of the white bikinis.
    â€œGood God, woman!” Karl said. “Was someone trying to gut you?”
    â€œGive me a hysterectomy.” Rue pulled her clothes back together.
    â€œWe couldn’t cover that with makeup,” Sylvia said. “Or could we?”
    The other two couples and Sylvia discussed Rue’s scarred stomach quite matter-of-factly, as a problem to solve.
    The debate continued while Rue sat silently, her arms crossed over her chest to hold her agitation in. She became aware that she wasn’t hearing a word from Sean. Slowly, she turned to