Free Another Kind of Love by Paula Christian

and all the things her mind suddenly recoiled at: illicit love, prepaid orgies, drunken parties, empty promises, loneliness.
    Then, she saw Ginny sitting on the far side of the lobby. She sat in a straight-back chair, the bleak wall of the room behind her. She was staring blankly at nothing.
    Laura felt her throat constrict with sympathy. My God, that poor kid. She felt an overwhelming need to help Ginny, to offer her friendship, to take care of her.
    As Laura walked slowly toward Ginny, her body tingled strangely and her mind seemed very sharp and clear.
    â€œCome on, Ginny,” she said with a new, quiet tenderness. “Let’s get out of here.”
    Ginny sat still as if unable to move or to speak. Her face was rigid.
    Laura put out her hand, helped the girl to her feet, and led her out of the hotel. The street looked like a ghost town now; everyone was gone, it seemed, except for a few scattered people. Even the cabaret barkers had gone indoors out of the hot sun. Laura became aware of the dirt of the town, the gaudiness of it.
    She led the silent Ginny halfway down the block to a small restaurant she had seen earlier, and walked in behind her.

C hapter 7
    T hey sat down at a table against the imitation-adobe wall, their chairs scraping noisily on the floor in the nearly empty restaurant. The restaurant boasted checked tablecloths, painted gourds, hanging wall plants and fake balconies with awnings. All trite, Laura thought. And shabby.
    Ginny still said nothing.
    The waiter came up to their table, surprised to have customers at this time of day.
    Laura ordered two ponies of brandy and advised him they would not have dinner. As he walked away, she asked, “All right with you, Ginny?”
    Ginny nodded and suddenly burst into tears. She covered her face with her hands and turned toward the wall. “I’m so ashamed,” she gasped softly. Then, incongruously: “That whore!”
    It was almost more than Laura could bear, just watching her cry. She said, “You don’t have to say anything, Ginny.” But Laura knew she didn’t mean it; she did want an explanation. She waited for Ginny to regain control of herself.
    The waiter placed their drinks in front of them and walked away, apparently unconcerned with these crazy Americans.
    Ginny straightened up slowly and sighed almost perceptibly. She dried her eyes. Then she raised her glass with an unsteady but manageable hand. “Here’s to self-pity and psychiatrists,” she said quietly, with a trace of bitterness in her voice.
    Laura smiled and met Ginny’s eyes with her own, hoping she looked as casually friendly as she wanted.
    â€œAnd—honesty,” Ginny added in a whisper.
    â€œFeel like telling me about it?”
    Ginny gave a short little laugh. “Saundra seems to have covered the most important facts. . . .”
    â€œI was asking for your version.” It was terribly important now to Laura, as if by knowing what had happened to Ginny she could avert . . . avert . Now there’s a good word.
    â€œCould we leave here?” Ginny asked suddenly.
    â€œWhere do you want to go?” Laura felt her stomach tense strangely.
    Ginny shrugged hopelessly. “Home, I guess.”
    â€œNo,” Laura said decisively. “I don’t think you should be alone tonight. You can stay at my place until we figure out what to do with you.”
    Ginny made no protest, and Laura paid the check. They took a cab to the border and walked across to Saundra’s car. Automatically, Laura slid into the driver’s seat.
    She had just assumed that she would drive, and it didn’t occur to her to ask Ginny; she was taking care of Ginny; it was her obligation to help Ginny. The silence between them was now becoming unbearable.
    As if Ginny sensed Laura’s need to know her story, she lit a cigarette for Laura, then, faltering a moment, began, “Still want to know?”
    That so much time had