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It was this assurance that sustained her through a difficult marriage—Burt had been a drinker (she hated the word alcoholic)—including his subsequent illness and prolonged death. Afterwards, she sold the house, where they had raised kids and welcomed grandchildren, and bought a condo.

It sounded posh but was practical. Her son had helped with the paperwork and closing. It was the first real thing that was hers alone.

Alone, not lonely, not like being married.

She prayed the rosary and Serenity Prayer two or three times a day, feeling centered in her own space as she watered potted tomato and basil plants on her south-facing balcony, warm even in the winter. She’d sit outside at noon with a cup of coffee and a People magazine from the checkout lane at the grocery. She liked to quip to the cashier that it was her only vice, but that wasn’t exactly true. There was the porn.

She couldn’t remember when it started. Maybe after the last election, or during menopause when she grew a tummy. Definitely after Burt died, after the move.

It wasn’t about sex. God, no!

She didn’t take cruises like some of her lady friends, who came back fifteen pounds heavier. Or let loose with online ordering. She watched her money carefully. It was all discreet and budget friendly—lest her son ask questions come tax time. She put it into the same category as buying raspberries in February or expensive ice cream. A little something for herself. Me time.

It started with online gaming. Playing Solitaire before bed on her Kindle Fire. There were little box ads with the most ridiculous messages, such as eating raw eggs to take away foot odor or sucking on the end of a USB cord to solve memory loss. (Haha, it didn’t work!) Her son once described such advertising as clickbait, warning her to stay away from scams. The problem with being tricked is you have no idea you are being tricked until they take all your money. She listened, petrified of falling prey to a crime ring.

Until finally one ad (haha, clickbait!) led her to check out another game. This one with a chesty, scantily-clad animated character leading a stranger down a dark hallway in a haunted house he had wandered into. Fantasy, as it were. She stayed out of the S & M rooms. But some of the doors offered what she called romps—involving wrestling, beds, strawberries, disrobing, and more wrestling.

Yes, it was sex. Just not the wet, sticky kind. Without the mess. She made sure the game was closed and wiped from her history whenever her son visited.

A guilty little secret, except she didn’t feel guilty. There was real life and this other part, just for her.

She’d spent a lifetime teaching Sunday School: an object lesson, a treat, a craft. She knew how to get kids to settle down and listen and how to reward them. This was simply a last hurrah—a sweet bit after having endured.

In some ways she was doing what her pastor had advised her to do after losing Burt. He used the words “self-care.”

Okay, I’m not perfect, she said to herself (of course, no one is, except Jesus!). I am someone I should care for.

It made sense—the prurient pleasure.

So it started as a concession. She wasn’t paying money. It was a free app online. The only thing she was spending was time. A few hours before turning off her bedside light, before her evening prayer. In a world of pluses and minuses, of give and take, this was the part she took, tucked into the folds of her day.

Ann used an alias at a website called Protégé. Her relationship with the site started after a particularly frenetic day. She’d grocery shopped and had to carry two twisty handled bags up the stairs to the condo. In the rain. The potatoes were heavy, and the orange juice was a dollar more than the week before. She’d stopped buying the occasional chocolate bar. She shed her raincoat and plugged in the kettle for a cup of tea, after which she settled onto the couch. Where was her cross-stitch project?

It wasn’t in a the basket beside the couch. What with all the gaming, she’d neglected handwork lately. She looked under the couch, irrationally under the cushions. Then she proceeded to tear apart the closet. The more she searched, the crazier she felt. The more she obsessed over finding it, the more it eluded her. Until she decided to distract herself with her tablet, whereupon she clicked on Protégé.

It was sleek, booby. Very booby. 3D tits. Lifelike. Solid. Gorgeous. She wanted to lick the screen, and immediately turned it off. Her tea had grown cold.

After reheating her tea and, again, nestled on the couch, she plunged back into Protégé and created an account. It was a bit like trying to write a novel; she wasn’t exactly sure what her character wanted. All Ann knew was, she didn’t want to be Ann.

She wanted to be inside. She wanted life. Not the rain, the burdens, or the feeling of helplessness that often overcame her. (Ha ha, especially when she lost stuff, which happened frequently.) Escape, then, is what she typed.

There were so many options. She had no idea.

Soon it was time to make dinner. She laughed when she found her cross-stitch in a plastic bag in the vegetable drawer. Oh, well. There you are, you naughty girl. She continued to fry up potatoes and eggs—ravenous after her afternoon.

And that’s how it went. She reserved Protégé for Sundays. Special me time.

After a while there were offers, supplements that cost just a little bit more. More, because there had been an initial set-up price when creating “her” profile. She had a budget and stayed within it at first. Really, how much is happiness worth? No one ever said self-care was free, and how much would you pay for well-being? Her friend’s husband was into golf. Talk about excessive fees: there were membership dues, plus reserving tee time. It added up. Same with another girlfriend whose family owned a boat. Dry storage isn’t cheap, nor is the care and maintenance of a vessel. Ann convinced herself that she was being reasonable, until her son found out.

“What is this miscellaneous?” he asked.

“It means random, assortment,” she answered—while thinking Shit!

“Yeah, I know that Mom. What’s it for?”

“This and that.”

An accountant by trade, he was going to get to the bottom of it. Bottom. That was her latest upgrade. Luscious buns. Spread.—

“Toast?” she offered, getting up from the kitchen table where they were going over her accounts. “Buttered?”

He wasn’t biting. She snickered to herself. Get it, she thought.

“Mom? What’s going on? You seem different.”

“Oh, well, honey. You know. I’ve been forgetful.”

Now, he was really concerned. He left later that day, saying he wanted to find someone to check in on her. Ann was annoyed, but soon forgot about it, indulging in her latest fantasy at Protégé. Ha ha, aptly called “Assistant.”

So she was surprised when on the following Wednesday Rachel knocked at her door. “Who are you?” Ann asked.

“Your new helper.”

It was awkward at first. They went through the closet and reorganized. Rachel did a pretty good job cleaning out the fridge while Ann sat and watched. Later they ate cereal, dry, as she’d had to throw out the expired milk. Rachel was a good sport about it. Every week her presence surprised Ann. “Who are you?”

They went grocery shopping together and to appointments. Ann wondered how much her son was paying Rachel. He laughed, you’re paying her.

Oh. If that’s the case. . . .The next time Rachel arrived Ann arranged that she clean behind the toilet—she wanted to check out Rachel’s butt. A thought occurred: She turned on the sink and “accidentally” splashed water down Rachel’s backside. Ann volunteered to throw her wet uniform into the dryer. So Rachel completed the task in her bra and undies.

The next week Ann went a little wild with the sprayer while doing dishes and drenched Rachel. This time she asked Rachel to strip down, offering her the couch throw which barely covered her ample body. For her part, Rachel said she didn’t mind. She didn’t want to defrost the fridge anyway. She spent the hour sitting on the couch, next to Ann who kept reaching across her for her cup of tea, brushing Rachel’s nipples in the process.

Ann began to look forward to Wednesdays. Part of the service was personal bathing, She suggested they shower together (saying she felt unsteady by herself). Ann clung to Rachel, while Rachel held her tightly by the waist, sometimes spooning standing up. Rachel suggested a massage, and Ann tipped her. She’d been saving money by staying off Protégé—except for times of intense stress when she snuck in. But it was the physical contact she most loved. It was well worth it. It meant a lot. Why not?! Afterwards, Rachel would fetch hot blankets fresh from the dryer as they cuddled on the couch, warming up.

Soon Ann forgot about Protégé; she forgot her password and couldn’t get into the site. She asked the home health company that employed Rachel to send her out two days a week. Cleaning and almost all other chores were put aside, as both referred to their time together as Our Time.

Countermelodies: A Memoir in Sonata Form

by Ernestine Whitman

    Growing up in the shadow of a brilliant older sister, with a father who dismisses her ambitions, music is the one place Ernestine belongs. Her flute teacher sees what no else does: talent, fire, and potential. For years, he is the father she never had. She excels in competitions and dreams of being a professional musician, but her father ridicules her plans and insists she attend Emory University as a math major. At twenty, she wins a seat in the Atlanta Symphony, sitting beside that beloved mentor. It is everything she ever wanted. After her successful first year, however, the mentor turns against her and tries to get her fired. He chips away at her confidence with relentless verbal attacks, sending her spiraling into depression. Confused and isolated, she faces a choice no young artist should ever have to make: whether to leave a prestigious job with no guarantee of finding another or stay and face further abuse from her mentor. In the fiercely competitive world of classical music, Countermelodies is a story of betrayal, resilience, and the stubborn love of music that refuses to be silenced. Winner, NYC Big Book Award (2024) and Indie Reader Discovery Award (2025) “A disturbing and compelling tale of resilience, determination, and musical passion.” — Kirkus Reviews “Whitman explores power dynamics, patriarchal oppression, and music as personal salvation. … a story of persistence and survival in a world at the mercy of toxic misogyny.” — BlueInk Review https://ernestinewhitman.ag-sites.net/index.htm Available from Amazon, Bookshop, Barnes & Noble, and your local independent bookstore.

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