Chapter One

February 1967

Eliot Jacobs stood at the crest of the hill, his eyes following Steve Danner's arm as it panoramically swept across Main Street. A thin crust of hardened snow crunched beneath his rubber overshoes as he shifted his weight back and forth in an attempt to keep warm.

It was a bleak February morning, the kind of morning that made residents of Greenfield, Vermont wonder why in hell they didn't head south or West. Some winter mornings the cold clean air sparkled under a cerulean sky; other days the graceful trees glittered with freshly fallen snow. On those days you didn't mind the cold, the snow.

But today the sky was dishwater gray, the air moist with the threat of more snow--and by now everyone had pretty much had it with the white stuff. Gazing down the gently sloping street, taking in the greasy Shell Oil station, the dilapidated drug store, and the grubby little A and P, Eliot found it difficult to envision the town according to Steve Danner, who was verbally painting a futuristic vision, part hippie Utopia, part Disney cartoon.

"Ten years from now--no, make that five--this street will be wider by a third. See that greasy spoon? Make it a veggie cafe. The parking lot will be turned into an outdoor patio with hanging plants and ivy covered trellises. You won't see so many trucks, either--more sports cars and family station wagons. The drug store and the supermarket will be renovated if they want to stay in business. Ten to one the hardware store gets replaced by some kind of pottery shop or art gallery. All the boarded up empties--they'll be filled with artsy fartsy shops. And as for this corner--it could become one of the most lucrative businesses in the state."

Eliot looked at the corner in question: an ancient candy store, its half-peeled lettering identified it as "Kaufman's." While it seemed to be doing a brisk business, and Eliot could attest to the authenticity of its malteds, it hardly seemed capable of becoming the crossroads of anything. He scrunched his eyes, but no matter what angle he put to the candy store--or the town--he was unable to see it the way Steve did.

"Eliot," Steve insisted, "I know what I'm talking about. It's like I told you on the phone--this is what's going to happen all over the country. I've seen it coming."

When Steve had phoned him, he'd told him that he, like Eliot, had chosen not to start practicing law immediately upon graduation. But unlike Eliot, who'd spent the past year "dropping out" in a commune, Steve had thrown all his belongings into a VW bus and aimlessly started driving. For a year he'd traveled from town to town and state to state, talking to people on the road and in the cities. He'd camped on Bear Mountain without a tent, dropped acid with freaks in Oregon, worked a food co-op in Boston, helped build a barn on a Colorado commune. Not for a moment did he imagine any of these situations as potentially permanent for him--nor did he see his trip as an Easy Rider kind of adventure. Rather, his year on the road had been a kind of fact-finding mission: he was gathering data. And what Steve Danner had gathered was that within a few years these young middle-class dropouts would rediscover the entrepreneurial spirit. The smart ones, at least, would surface from the subculture and use what they'd learned to create comfortable lives for themselves. They would, in short, spin straw into gold.

And while they themselves seemed unaware of it, Steve had been impressed by just how much gold was buried in the straw. The multi-colored layers of wax dripping over Chianti bottles were soon being scented, dyed, molded into new shapes--representing the rebirth of the handmade candle industry. Cotton clothing tossed carelessly into pots of boiling dye would be experimented with, the process refined. How-to manuals on everything from herb gathering to car building to bodily levitation would spawn more than a few new publishing companies. Even the drug paraphernalia had commercial potential.

These people were going to want to open trendy little shops, or sell their products from home-based cottage industries, as some were already doing. But they knew next to nothing about competitive capitalism, and didn't want to learn; indeed, many of them espoused socialism. Some were losing their mental faculties to drug overuse--but Steve's experimentation with hallucinogens had convinced him that, while the acid heads would soon be incapable of adding up a column of figures, they'd still be weaving wild patterns on their looms. Like idiot savants, they'd excel in some areas and be retarded in others: geniuses of creativity unable to function in a supermarket. Or so Steve Danner speculated. These people, he was certain, were going to need help. They were going to need accountants, tax specialists, publicists. They were going to need lawyers.

"Not to mention all the drug cases," he said.

"Huh?" asked Eliot.

"Oh, I was just thinking out loud--you know, all these kids who need lawyers now because of the pot."

Eliot shuffled his feet, bit his lower lip, and squinted his eyes, trying to decipher what his old classmate saw so clearly, not only on this street, but also in him, Eliot. Why had Danner taken the trouble to track down a guy who had literally, at a public demonstration, spit on his law degree--and, incidentally, his family's aching ambitions--in favor of a radically different lifestyle? Why did Danner, who'd graduated in the top ten percent of their class, want a partner who'd graduated in the bottom third? And was the charismatic Steve Danner so confident that he expected Eliot to abandon his own cherished vision and jump right onto his trip? Or had he somehow learned that Rolling Stone Acres wasn't rolling so smoothly? As far as he knew, Danner had never been out to the farm.

It was true that Eliot was getting bored with macramé, and that Jan, his girlfriend, complained about the growing numbers of naked toddlers who occasionally deposited bodily excretions around the house and grounds. Still, he intended to stick it out awhile longer. And when and if he did split the farm, it sure wouldn't be to return to business as usual--certainly not to the kind of high-powered real estate law practice that Steve Danner seemed to be suggesting.

"Here's how I see it," Steve continued. "We could make history here in this little burg. We could transform Greenfield into a model town, a town that would reflect our generation's values. On my trip cross-country I saw all these dropout kids trying to create their own self-contained little worlds--the trouble is, they're starting from scratch. We don't have to. We've got law degrees."

Under the spell of Steve's relentless optimism, Eliot's vision shifted slightly. Instead of seeing decay and neglect, when he looked down Main Street now he saw a skeleton, a Tinker Toy city that awaited the addition of colorful people, zippy little sports cars, chimes tinkling softly over quaint little storefronts.

Steve, sensing Eliot's mood shift, rushed on. "I know you want something different, Eliot, that's why you didn't sign on with some big corporate lawfirm--because you want to change things. But what kind of impact are you having holed up on that farm?"

Eliot hunched his shoulders and remained silent; offers from legal high rollers do not come pouring in when you've graduated in the bottom third of your class.

"Eliot, I have this gut feeling about you. I can see you're disillusioned that you don't want to be just another cog in the so-called wheels of justice. You're right to reject that--but dropping out isn't the answer."

So that was it, thought Eliot. It was precisely his streak of idealism that had made him a prime candidate for Steve Danner's mission.

Steve's tone softened. "What I said before about this corner--imagine it as an outlet for all the crafts your friends on the farm are selling for pennies now."

Actually, thought Eliot, that was not quite accurate: his housemates more often traded their wares for food or marijuana.

"Let's go inside and get some java," said Steve, gesturing toward the future crafts store. "It's colder than a witch's tit out here."

Eliot followed; after all, he was freezing--and it was probably warmer in the candy store than back at the farm anyway.

As they approached the door, a red-faced young woman encased in a hooded parka came trudging up the hill, identical little boys dangling on the end of each arm. Eliot smiled and held the door for them, idly wondering if the twins were toilet trained.

Inside, all the counter stools were taken. The woman with the twins sat down in one of four booths; he and Steve slid into another.

Marie Beldoni shook off the hood of her parka, peeled off her damp woolen gloves, then unzipped each boy's jacket in turn. She grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and swiped at Mikey's dripping nose. Practicalities done with, she took stock of her environment.

In the corner were two old-fashioned telephone booths with lights that went on when you closed the accordion doors. Newspapers were stacked on the floor in front of the plate glass window. Chrome malted machines gleamed behind the fountain, tended by a silver-haired man with a weather-beaten face. A glass case displayed red and black licorice, paper strips of pastel-colored sugar buttons, and real rock candy. Now this, thought Marie, is a candy store--not a luncheonette, not a coffee shop, definitely not a café. This was a candy store straight out of her Bronx childhood.

The silver-haired man came to take their orders.

"How y'all doin' today?" he asked. "Cold enough for ya?"

Marie murmured something in response. She wasn't accustomed to friendly waiters.

"Name's Joe Kaufman," he went on, thrusting out a hand. Marie reluctantly shook it. To her surprise, Mr. Kaufman shook the twins' hands as well. They sat up a little straighter at being treated in such an adult manner. "So," Joe asked again, "what'll y'all have? We got burgers, fries, malteds, you name it."

"Just three hot chocolates," Marie said.

"Whipped cream on top?"

Marie hesitated. The boys started jumping up and down in unison. "Yes, yes, whipped cream, we want whipped cream!"

"Take it easy fellas," said Joe Kaufman. "It's a rule in this establishment that twins automatically get whipped cream."

The boys immediately sobered. "Do lots of twins come in here?" asked Ricky. Marie couldn't help but smile: the boys were always on the lookout for other twins.

"Ya, sure, all the time," replied Kaufman, winking at Marie, who couldn't decide whether to be annoyed at him for usurping her parental role, or grateful for the intervention of another adult. "We've even got a set of triplets in Greenfield," said Kaufman. "They get sprinkles and whipped cream!"

"Wow," said Mikey.

Gratitude won out over pride; Marie smiled. The crinkled grin Mr. Kaufman returned, aiming a clear gaze straight into her eyes, stirred something inside her, something akin to hope. When he returned to the counter to fill their order, Marie inwardly clutched at the feeling.

Mr. Kaufman returned with their steaming cups, all three topped with a frilly mass of cream. The twins' were festooned with colored sprinkles.

"Because it's your first visit here," explained Kaufman.

Marie felt like crying. Back in New Haven she'd felt so isolated with the twins, who didn't even attend nursery school--Michael believed that children belonged at home with their mother. Day in and day out, it was she and she alone who interacted with them. At twenty-four--merely twenty when she'd had them--Marie found that she liked caring for children: she didn't mind the feeding, the bathing, the dressing; she didn't even mind the toilet training. What she minded was being the only adult they turned to for answers to their questions, or to resolve their fights, or to listen to the songs they made up, or to watch them perform acrobatics. The constant demand on her intellect and emotions made her physically dizzy. It numbed her mind, turning her into a machine that went through the motions of life.

"Ma," Mikey was saying excitedly, "did you hear what he said? There must be other twins around here."

Marie smiled. "Oh, I don't know Mikey. I think he might have been teasing you."

"Was not."

"Was too," smirked Ricky.

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

"Hush! That nice man won't let you in his candy store again."

Undaunted, they continued, each and every "Was not! " or "Was too!" punctuated by a poke in the ribs.

"Hey there," called Mr. Kaufman from behind his counter. "Looks like them sprinkles are gettin' runny. Maybe I shouldda saved 'em for them other twins."

The boys immediately stopped fighting. Marie shot Mr. Kaufman another look of gratitude. Again, that clear-eyed gaze.

With the vapors of a million cups of hot chocolate misting her eyes she turned to the twins and said, "Let's move to Greenfield."

Joe Kaufman leaned across the countertop, moving his face close enough to hear what Jake Sullivan was trying to say.

"I said," hissed Jake in a loud whisper, saliva flying through the spaces where teeth had once been, "Is that another one of them hippie gals from up the old Maslin place?"

Kaufman glanced over at Marie to make sure she wasn't listening; she was talking to the kids. This one didn't look like the other young women who'd been coming to Greenfield lately. For one thing, her dark brown hair was carefully cut to shoulder-length, not hanging down to her waist, and although she wore the fashionable denim of her generation, hers was a neat, matching suit with little flowers on the collar and cuffs. She was small-boned and thin, with a Romanesque nose that flared at the nostrils. Her soft brown eyes were circled with black liner, but the makeup failed to hide a fading bruise. "I don't think so." Joe told Jake.

"Too clean, huh?" Jake said, then guffawed loudly.

"Too hurt," Joe said softly. "This one's runnin'. But that fella over in the corner--he's a roller."

Jake twisted his head around, making no effort to hide his curiosity.

"Not that one in the fancy suit?"

"Course not. The other one, the longhair in the rainbow suspenders." Jake guffawed again; this time Joe joined in: who wouldn't laugh at the absurd suspenders?

Jake stopped laughing; his face grew serious, almost troubled, as he leaned across the counter. "Why do you think they're comin' here all of a sudden, Joe? What's so special about Greenfield anyway?"

Joe shook his head. This was something he'd given a lot of thought to. Lately it seemed like newcomers were arriving in Greenfield every day. They came from New Haven and New York and Boston. They came with kids and spouses and money. Sometimes they came with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

"I dunno for sure," he told Jake, "but it seems to me that folks have had it with city livin'. It isn't only here in Greenfield. From what I read in the paper, it's happenin' all over Vermont."

"And all these women with kids, without any menfolk? What do you make of that, Joe? You think they come here lookin' for husbands?"

Joe folded his arms across his chest and surveyed Jake, an oil burner serviceman. Like most bachelors in Greenfield, he worked hard during the week, drank hard Saturday night, and kept to himself the rest of the time. With his missing teeth, stubbled chin, and veined nose, at forty he looked sixty. Joe Kaufman studied this typical male specimen of Greenfield and chuckled softly. "Well, if they are," he said, "they're sure gonna be disappointed."

Jake, oblivious to the personal nature of Joe's assessment, continued his questions; everyone in Greenfield looked to Joe for answers. "Well, what about those two fellas? Maybe the women are comin' after guys like them."

"You got a point," Joe conceded, glancing over at the men again. He'd never seen that spiffy one before, though others just like him were starting to drift into town along with the misfits and hippies. He had a pale, pinched face, the kind of face Kaufman had learned long ago not to trust. He was doing all the talking while the hippie fella fiddled with the silverware. He was all het up about something. Joe figured him for some kind of salesman, maybe even a politician. Or a lawyer.

Chapter 2

Steve slipped Jimi's Electric Lady into the cassette player and turned up the volume, tapping out rhythms on the steering wheel as he mentally spun finely tuned visions of his future. By the time his white Volkswagen crossed the Vermont border into New York, he'd filled in the details of his fantasy life: a classy office and sprawling estate in the hills of New England; a town that, with his help, would become an oasis for those wanting to live a sane lifestyle. With his partners he would create a place that combined the best of alternative and mainstream culture.

But first he needed partners.

Eliot would sign on, if only out of confusion and lack of direction. That meant one down and two to go. He shot a glance at the photo in the open alumni book on the seat beside him. A thin woman with dark frizzy hair gazed almost vacantly out from behind thick glasses. Meredith Wolfe, one of three women in their graduating class, had kept her brilliance well hidden behind an ethereal facade, pretending in most situations to be not quite present, something Steve had learned was a form of self-protection when he'd briefly dated her.

Scrawled beneath the picture was an address: 148 East 10th Street, New York City: obviously Meredith hadn't exactly made the big time. She was working for the famous Barry Vander, founder of the biggest labor lawfirm on the East Coast; rumor had it that Vander had adopted her as his latest protégé, and was directing his legendary brutality at this tough little female who'd put up with anything to apprentice with him.

Early on Steve had decided that his firm would not be another boring manifestation of the old boys' network, but a dynamic partnership of egalitarians. For this reason he regretted the absence of a black candidate on his list--but maybe one would come along later. For now, he'd get his woman, and then complete the package with George Nichols, a civil rights attorney stuck in the hellhole of Legal Aid.

He stepped on the gas pedal, and the VW hurtled downhill, the Catskill Mountains whizzing by in a blur of white, brown and green.

**************

Eliot drove the six miles back to the farm, his car uncharacteristically silent. Usually the first thing he did when climbing into the gray Volvo was light a joint and turn on the radio, but now he didn't want to add to the cacophony of voices competing to be heard inside his head.

He could still hear Danner, yammering away with his grandiose schemes. Other voices joined in: His mother's the loudest, admonishing him not to throw away the golden opportunity to partner up with a respectable WASP. His long-dead socialist grandfather told him to go back to lawyering, but only for the good of humanity. Then there was the voice of his yoga instructor, blithely saying, "Stay in the moment." His friends at the farm told him in their slow lazy voices not to hassle, his karma would unfold as it was meant to if he'd just let it flow. And then there was Jan, claiming in one breath that she wanted him to do whatever would make him happy, and in the next breath expressing her need for more security.

The last leg of the journey consisted of nearly a mile of upward curves, the narrow roadway thick with sand-covered ice. Several times in the past Eliot had slowed too soon and gotten hopelessly entrenched in his own tire tracks; once he'd even skidded into the ditch. It seemed to him that they all spent half their lives digging each other's cars out of the snow; negotiating the approach to the farm automatically induced an adrenaline rush and tense muscles.

He made it safely to the end of the road, parked the Volvo among the VW buses and broken-down jalopies, got out and stood in the large circular driveway. The main house itself, in which Eliot and Jan shared an upstairs bedroom, stood three stories high. Despite its need for a paint job, the house blended almost seamlessly into the white landscape. Four smaller cabins formed a semi-circle just a few yards behind the big house.

Though the sky was still relentlessly gray, up here the air seemed to shimmer with a higher, finer vibration. Eliot breathed deeply, taking the crisp cold air into his lungs. He gazed out beyond the driveway at acres of smooth shiny whiteness, the sight calming him. Slowly and methodically he inhaled, then exhaled, making the exhalation twice as long, letting his eyes unfocus and meld with the landscape. Within minutes he felt peaceful. That was the gift of Rolling Stone Acres: here, the pressure to "do something" with his life subsided. Here, he'd found peace and some measure of contentment.

There was something innately spiritual about the place. Some claimed it was because the land had once belonged to Native Americans. Others said it had been inhabited by Druids. Townspeople pooh-poohed these tales, saying it was just typical Vermont farmland, that crazy old Abe Maslin had built all those cabins in an attempt to keep a leash on his daughters once they got married. But Maslin had died before any of them managed to wed, and, so local folklore went, they sold the property and ran off to California before their father's bones were cold.

Eliot liked the townspeople's version best; he relished the notion of the four Maslin girls heading West like modern-day pioneers, and entertained visions of them in long skirts and big hats traveling by stagecoach.

He released a final exhalation, mounted the porch steps, banged the snow from his boots, and opened the door. A wave of steamy kitchen aromas engulfed him: bread baking, soup simmering, pies cooling. If his eyes had been closed, the glorious smells might have convinced him he was entering his grandmother's big old house in Scarsdale.As it was, though, they were wide open--and the first thing they landed on was a small pile of excrement in the corner of the living room. At least it wasn't human; at least it was only cat shit.

The room was large and oblong-shaped, furnished with pieces of wood covered with foam and madras spreads, mounted on bricks to create makeshift sofas. These lined one wall; the opposite wall was furnished with a mattress on the floor and a rudimentary table holding a stereo. A big tree stump that they moved around as needed served as table or chair. Every inch of wall space was covered with posters of political or musical heroes along with children's whimsical, if crude, bright crayon drawings.

Eliot made his way through the large front room to the kitchen and grabbed some paper towels, mumbling a brief greeting to whoever was in the room. He came back and deposited the mess in the garbage. Cynthia, Barbara, Roselinda and Ralph were sitting at the round wooden table sharing a joint.

"It's our resident shit-cleaner," Barbara said fondly.

"Yeah, well, it's a dirty job but somebody's gotta do it. I wish it didn't always hafta be me."

"Lighten up," Cynthia said.

Eliot bit his lip; Cynthia pushed his buttons like nobody else he knew. He sat down at the table and accepted the joint from Ralph.

"Whatcha been up to, bro?"

"Went into town to see an old law school buddy."

Cynthia cut her eyes at him. Ralph playfully punched him in the arm. "So how's one of the masters of the universe?"

"He's not like that, actually. He wants to start up a new kind of lawfirm. More progressive."

Ralph raised his eyebrows. "And he asked you to join him."

"How come you always know what's going on with me, Ralphie?"

"I can read you like a book. So, what'd you tell him?"

"That I'd think about it."

"I knew it!" Cynthia laughed bitterly and shook her head.

"Knew what?"

"Knew you'd fink out on us eventually."

"Hey, I haven't made up my mind."

"Yeah, right. And bears don't shit in the woods. Come on, El, you're just not cut out for this lifestyle. Ya can't even deal with a little catshit on the floor."

Eliot stood abruptly. "Where's Jan?"

They all looked at each other. "Come to think of it," Roselinda said, "I haven't seen her since this morning, when we baked pies."

"Her car's outside," Eliot mused. "Maybe she's upstairs." It wasn't like Jan to be idle: she was usually baking or fixing something in the house or playing with the kids. He wandered upstairs and found her lying in bed under a heap of quilts, reading a cheesy paperback novel. She usually read history or political books.

Their room was the largest in the house. Unlike the others, theirs had a real bed, not just a mattress on the floor, and expensive oak furniture garnered from Jan's parents' New York penthouse. Real curtains covered the windows rather than the madras spreads or tie-dyed sheets the others used. Their housemates referred to their digs as the Taj Mahal, a joke that made Eliot uneasy--but not uneasy enough to toss out the comforts he so enjoyed.

"Hey gorgeous? You sick or something?"

"Nope."

"So what's up? It's not like you to be in bed in the middle of the afternoon."

Jan put her book aside. "We have to talk," she whispered mysteriously. She seemed to be simultaneously worried and happy.

Eliot sat on the edge of the bed. "What's up?" he asked again.

The bedside lamp shone on the red highlights in Jan's brown hair, creating a halo-like effect. After four years of looking at her, Eliot never failed to be struck by her beauty.

"I'm pregnant," she said simply.

Shock waves reverberated throughout his system. His mouth almost fell open, but he caught himself in time. They'd agreed not to have kids while in this state of limbo; they'd agreed to give themselves all the time they needed to decide what they wanted to be when they "grew up." They did not want to add to the confusion of kids already at the commune, or raise children in the happy chaos of Rolling Stone Acres. Jan, who wouldn't take so much as an aspirin let alone birth control pills, used a diaphragm.

"You're not happy," she said, actually pouting.

"I didn't say that."

"You don't look happy."

"I'm surprised, that's all. What happened?"

"What do you mean, what happened? Those feisty little seeds of yours leaked through the walls of defense. Diaphragms have a fifteen percent failure rate."

He'd known that. Still, he hadn't really thought he could reproduce. It just seemed so, well, so grown up; He felt like too much of a kid himself to believe he could actually create one.

"Do you want to have it?" he asked feebly.

"Do I what?"

"Well, you know, we agreed not to have kids until we figured out what we were doing. We haven't even decided if we'll stay in Vermont."

Jan hauled herself out of bed, her face red, her hair almost electrified by her sudden fury. "I don't believe this! You're just like every other slimy male creature in the universe." She stormed into the bathroom and shut the door with a bang. Eliot sighed and followed her. He knocked on the door. "Jan, come on out, let's talk. I didn't say I don't want to have it."

"You didn't have to."

"Come on, Jan, I just need to adjust my thinking here."

No answer.

Eliot stood quietly for a moment, listening to Jan's sniffles. Shit, he'd really fucked up. He banished the churning thoughts and feelings provoked by her news, and focussed entirely on seducing Jan into forgiveness.

"I dream of Jannie with the light brown hair," he crooned, tapping on the door with his knuckles.

"Go away!"

Undaunted, Eliot switched songs. "What are we gonna do when Uncle Samuel comes around, asking for the baby's name?" He heard Jan blow her nose and flush the toilet.

"...Let's not tell them about him."

Suddenly the door swung open and a red-eyed Jan stood before him, a half-smile on her face. "Who says it's a him?"

An hour later they descended the stairs and, hand in hand, announced to everyone in the kitchen, which now included an assortment of children and adults from the cabins, that they were going to have a baby. The news was greeted with loud cheers. Ralph rummaged around in a drawer and produced an old stale cigar, which he lit and passed to all the men. The women fussed over Jan, bringing her a pillow for her back, asking how she felt, suggesting androgynous names that could be used for either gender. Eventually they ate dinner--their usual fare of vegetarian stew, salad and fresh baked bread. Jan wasn't allowed to help serve or clean up. The atmosphere was beyond merry, and Eliot found his attitude growing more positive. When they returned to their room, Eliot was honestly able to convince Jan that he wanted the baby--though he was still wildly confused.

"Now I have something to tell you," he said, as she lay back on the overstuffed pillows, her hands folded across her abdomen as if it had already ballooned to eight-month size. "I'm going to practice law."

She sat bolt upright. "No!"

"You don't want me to?"

"I want you to do whatever makes you happy. You hate the law."

"Well, something's come up." He told her about Steve Danner, how their practice would be different, how they'd be helping people, people like their friends on the commune. "He's got the whole thing figured out, Jan. He's a helluva smart dude."

As he set about to convince Jan that he wanted to practice law with Steve Danner, Eliot was convincing himself. He'd begun to view her pregnancy as a cosmic message of sorts: that it had come on the very day he'd been offered the partnership made both events seem like a message: This is your karma. This is what you must do now. There was no question they'd move out of Rolling Stone Acres, and he had to support the kid somehow.

"So," he finished, "everything will work out. We'll get a place to live, have the baby and I'll go to work like a grownup."

"If you think you'll really like it...." Jan's voice trailed off. It didn't matter what she said, not really. Eliot hated to admit it, but Cynthia was right about him, about both of them. For all their attempts to defy convention, they were who they were, and would probably end up living pretty much the way their lives had been mapped. But maybe he could deviate just a little bit from the charted course. Maybe Steve was right: he could use his privileged background to create social change.

"Ya know," he said, pacing around the room, working himself up for the imminent changes, "it's kind of exciting. We're going into a new phase. So we've been pushed into it--but maybe that's what we needed. We couldn't sit around here baking bread and doing macramé forever. We always knew that." His own words echoed in his ears, and he almost believed them. No, not almost. He believed. He did.