142:

"Morning Marc." She called, fake cheer in her tone, no music at all.

The gentleman in question turned in mock surprise, his camera turning with him, snap, flash. "Morning Trace, nice swells, huh? Is that Blaze Phelps with you?" snap, flash, flash.

They both hefted their boards and turned to walk back at the same time. Tracy didn't answer.

"You know him?" Blaze asked as they trudged across the heavy sand. Now more flashes in the dawn indicated they really weren't alone.

She nodded, and mumbled something, hurrying her awkward pace. "I come here all the time, and they know it."

"But you don't want to be seen with me?"

"For your sake, not mine. I'm a bad press rap."

"You're not a bad press rap, whatever gave you that idea?"

They cleared the sidewalk; two paparazzi leaped out of a van close by and started snapping away. It was getting light enough to see them clearly. There were calls, questions, Tracy didn't answer them, and the calls and questions turned to jeers and rudeness, slurs against her or her endeavors. Blaze, finally having enough, stopped.

"No!" Tracy hissed. "No, don't give them what they want. Right now they have nothing, don't answer them, don't give them anything."

"Jerks." He said and turned once again to honor her request, but the jeers became even more slanderous, if that were possible, and several cameras were now ahead of them, blocking their path rudely. Tracy simply smiled at them, brushed her hair out of her face, and dazzled them with blue and white lightning.

She did manage to push past them, she: gently, with quick laughs, and a funny little remark, a joke, a flirting tone. He, on the other hand was furious, used to having unpopular press for himself, but not in her presence, or around her, or on her behalf, as it was right then, and he discovered he had become quite protective of her.

He pushed past roughly, shoving them out of the way, and getting a few cutting remarks aimed in his direction, most having to do with his once bashing a store window in with a two by four, when paparazzi wouldn't leave him alone. The taunts and jeers flew, but Tracy had moved into her secured, gated community where they couldn't come, and eventually, after throwing several dry, annoyed, even biting remarks back at them, Blaze followed.

They showered outside, dried the boards and hung them on their rack in the garage studiously avoiding any conversation about the recent confrontation. He'd been in her house only once, a few weeks back, as soon as they'd come home from Paris, and then only to retrieve a CD she was loaning him, and he'd been up at Rocks, hoping she'd accompany him to a club, but she wouldn't. So, now she led the way inside, shivering slightly, and startling Lorraine who was now on the couch with one of the twins, asleep, but obviously having a tough night. Lorraine's eyes popped open accusingly, and she thrust the sleeping baby at her mother and departed up the stairs and to her own apartment, shutting the door without a word, effectively letting her daughter know she wasn't happy to have stayed up most of the night with a crying baby.

"My mom." She stated, as Blaze stripped out of the wetsuit, letting it dangle on the floor.

He nodded, curious, but not pryingly so. "Can I shower and change here?"

"Sure, you can om... use my bathroom, upstairs to the left. There's towels and stuff in the cupboard." She was nonchalant, moving effortlessly into the role of hostess without a pause. He gave her a quick, appraising look but found her totally absorbed in examining the sleeping baby, and he saw her move down the hall, still in her wetsuit, as he made his way up the stairs.

Tracy peered into the gray dawn of Danny's room, reassuring herself that all was well, that the sudden fear that engulfed her whenever she reentered the house after surfing, was based on nothing but imagination. It happened each and every time, but this morning, holding Megan asleep, cuddly against her cold arms, the smell of warm baby pee, engulfing her in reassurance, she heard again that voice.... Yes, His voice, and she had to wonder where it came from... how she could possibly qualify for such supreme tenderness.

I have a plan daughter, trust me. Follow me.

Suddenly she had a huge desire to get out her scriptures, curl up on the couch and study... something, anything.

And yet, she'd promised Blaze she'd make him breakfast and then the kids would be getting up and her day would turn into its normal rhythm of controlled chaos. Her escape.

She knew she needed to change first, even her wetsuit would not warm up if left to itself right now, and the baby was squirming. Would reality always close in on her best intentions? Would she just have to put her thoughts of study aside, in favor of perhaps sharing some small portion of the gospel with this new aspect of her life, or should she say, in her life? How did she attract these guys?

Tracy set Megan in her swing and turned its soothing lullaby on, turning to the kitchen to prep the omelet, her thoughts once again recalling the swift and alluring voice she'd heard earlier. There was an answer here. She just had to grasp it.

*****