Edited for Death by Michele Drier

art.”
    “You’re being naive,” Phil says. “Art and politics have ALWAYS mixed. Look at Roman political sculptures, look at the Renaissance. If an artist wasn’t political, he couldn’t support himself.”
    Art History 1A isn’t the lecture I wanted. “Well, I know all that,” I say, “but it just doesn’t seem that a dealer now is the same as an Italian duke or something.”
    “The difference is in the middleman, now. Today the collectors aren’t the governments, they’re just people with tons of money. The gallery owner, dealer or agent who has a formidable client list attracts the politicians.”
    Money. I know that running for county supervisor can be up to seven figures. A statewide campaign for U.S. Senate can be millions. He’s right, follow the money.
    “I’m not sure what I want to know or why, but where did Nevell get his money? It has to take a lot of money to open a successful gallery. Does he specialize in a particular kind of art? The show tonight was really a combination. And what about...” I say.
    “Hey, this is Saturday night. Email me Monday with all these questions,” Phil says. “I can dig through the morgue and get more information. Right now I have my own questions”
    Making love in his bed this time is slower and more verbal. When Brandon left, he took a big chunk of my esteem. Having sex with Phil, a friend I’ve known for years, is safer and easier. Some of the insecurities Brandon left me with in exchange for taking my soul begin to untangle.
    We make love again Sunday morning, staying in bed until a need for caffeine hits us. But after bagels and more coffee I look at the clock.
    “Oh, hell,” I say. “It’s after one. I have to get on the road.”
    It takes almost an hour to shower, gather my stuff and say goodbye. Especially the goodbye.
    A part of my brain finally gets in gear as I drive onto the Bay Bridge. Oh, Lord, I forgot to call Heather.
    My daughter is doing well this summer. For me, though, I need to talk to her at least once a week. She works at a Starbucks coffee shop. She has health insurance, a cell phone plan and free coffee every week. She shares an apartment with two friends from UC Santa Barbara and they spend their free time shopping, hanging or at the beach. Sometimes I’m jealous of her; thin, beautiful, tan and above all young. She’s sure that life will always be like this.
    I hit her number coming off the bridge. To my surprise, she answers on the first ring.
    “Where have you been? I left messages since yesterday! You didn’t pick up! What are you doing?”
    “I spent the weekend in San Francisco. I turned my cell off before dinner Friday.”
    “Who did you stay with? What did you do with Mac? You didn’t put him in some kennel, did you?”
    Heather’s shrill voice is edging toward snide.
    “Hold on. You were trying to get in touch. What’s wrong?” I ask.
    “Jen and Jes had a big fight and now Jen is moving out and we can’t afford this place with just two of us and I don’t want to just put up a note for a roommate and it’s too early to look for someone for the school year and it’s just a big, fat mess and I’m so pissed at both of them.”
    Heather’s roommates, Jennifer and Jessica, have been friends since high school and have always fought. The Js have a lot of pals but almost no close friends because of their emotional rollercoaster.
    “This will blow over, sweetie,” I say. “I can help with part of Jen’s share of the rent for a little bit.”
    Well, there go any plans for a week away. I hadn’t made reservations, but am testing the idea of a few days by myself to see if I can travel alone.
    “Thanks, mom,” Heather’s tone tells me that the emotions and most of the fear is gone. “Hey, really, where were you all weekend?”
    “I drove over to San Francisco Friday night and stayed with Phil, you remember him, right?”
    “Yeah, but he’s a friend of yours; did you stay with him? What is this, a big