Vincent's Taj community was coming today for a picnic, and a game of lacrosse. The farm residents were bustling about, setting up tables, lighting the bar-be-que grill, icing down canned drinks in coolers.

"Cathy, your bones are perfect," said Father. They'd gone outside to remove her casts, so as to not fill the house with plaster dust. They filled a trash bin. "You'd better stay with us for another few weeks for some physical therapy," he said. She was sitting in a wheelchair; after not walking for six weeks, she would not be able to.

"Ugh, I didn't realize how bad it would smell," said Catherine.

Father laughed. "Yes, six weeks of sweat and sloughed skin, inside plaster…Vincent, help Catherine get washed up, would you?"

In her room, he started to gather sponge bath equipment, but she preempted him with, "Vincent, do you think you could help me with a real shower?"

He inclined his head to show assent.

"Oh, thank you, so much! To be able to wash my hair in an actual shower! I'm so excited!" She was stretching, bending, testing and flexing muscles and joints that had been immobilized for weeks.

He put a shower chair in the stall, and started the warm water. He helped her take her clothes off, and began to notice how very lovely her body was. For six weeks, he'd bathed her, helped her with a bedpan, dressed and undressed her, but now that she was unencumbered by plaster or cervical collars, it was harder to deny his arousal.

"Ohmuhgosh, Vincent," she said as he picked her up, "I smell so bad! I am so sorry you got stuck doing this for me! Do you want me to pinch your nose shut?"

"Trust me when I tell you it's not bothering me at all," he said. 2014 Royals, sixth game of the World Series, Billy Butler has a game-tying RBI single in the first, he thought, trying to put out the flames.

He lowered her into the shower chair, tested the water. There was a hand held shower head, which she could use, although she had to use both of her hands.

"Oh, my gosh, this feels so good," she moaned, moving the stream from her head down her body.

Salvador Perez doubled in two and Omar Infante followed with a two-run homer in the sixth inning…

"Huh. You know, I'd kind of forgotten that one day it would be time for me to go home. It'll be hard to leave." Her eyes settled on Vincent.

Vincent looked away, focusing on soaping her body. The joy he'd felt at seeing her freed from the plaster stocks was immediately replaced by cold anxiety at the prospect of losing her.

"I'll miss you, Vincent," she said, and waited for him to answer. When he remained silent, she continued, "I guess I'd better start trying to figure out what to do for a job."

"What do you mean?" asked Vincent. "You'll go back to your law firm."

"I can't. I can't do that anymore. I mean, I can practice law, but I can't get back into the cesspool and swim with the sharks anymore."

"Why not?" He poured some shampoo into her hair.

"What do you mean, 'why not', Professor Higgins? You know damn well, why not, because my conscience is functional once more, thanks to you. Mmmmmmmm, ahhhhh," she moaned as he massaged her scalp, "Vincent, that feels wonderful! Mmmm…maybe I'll switch to real estate…or estate planning…hmm. Oh, maybe I could teach. Huh. Teaching…teaching and public speaking…" she thought for a moment. "I wonder if I could work for a think tank…"

"…in New York…" added Vincent. He didn't need to think about baseball now. The flame of his ardor had been quenched by the smothering reality that he was going to lose her.

Catherine was silent for a moment. "Yes, in New York," she answered.

"Your friends and family will be so happy when you return."

"I'll be glad to see them, too. But I'll miss you. Will you miss me, Vincent?"

"Yes, very much. But New York is your home." They were finished. He shut off the water and wrapped her in towels. He carried her to her bed, and sat her down. He retrieved a hair dryer, and plugged it in close to her.

She was silent, then said, "Yes, New York is my home." She brightened a bit. "It's where I keep my stuff." A leopard can never truly change its spots, and while she may have changed, she was still fundamentally the same. It hurt, enormously, that he did not ask her to stay. But why had he not? Had she misread his feelings toward her? Was there some reason he would not want her to stay? She needed answers, but she'd never find them by acting mopey, so she affected cheerfulness, an old, well practiced ploy.

"It's where you hang your hat," said Vincent, also affecting cheerfulness. His instinct prodded him to tell her that he wanted her to stay. But his reason asked, snidely, stay and do what? Set up housekeeping and abide with him? He had a mental image of dozens of men vying for her attention, rich men, powerful men. That was where she belonged, dressing in fine clothes, leading important meetings at her office, attending charity galas, not wearing thrift store pickings, rejoicing in the come ups, and cooking his meals. And eventually, she should be a wife to a man with a position in society, a thought that made him clench his teeth.

"Home sweet home," she said. Her hair was beautiful, wild, free. It had no respect for the part he made in it; it flowed defiantly. Her bang refused to stay brushed up and off her face; it hung down willfully, framing her eyes

"Home is where the heart is," he said, and regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth. He helped her on with her foundations, then jeans and a tee shirt.

"Yes. There's no place like home," she said, and she failed to keep her annoyance with him out of her voice. Where the heart is my ass, she fumed. My heart is here with you. Why don't you feel the same way?

"East or west, home is best," he said, revealing some of his frustration in his tone.

"The lights are on, but nobody's home," she snarled.

"Nothing to write home about," he growled.

"Is there a problem?" she snapped.

"No. What are you upset about?"

"Nothing!" She showed her teeth.

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

He carried her back outside, and sat her down at a picnic table. Trucks and vans carrying the members of his community started to arrive, and he left her to meet them. Brooke and Claire came out carrying trays of raw hamburgers, chicken and ribs to be grilled.

Jennifer, Mary and Emily came out, carrying plates and tablecloths. They started wiping down the picnic table Catherine was sitting at.

"Looks like they're going to start the game," said Mary. It was going to be Shirts versus Skins; half of them were peeling off tees. "C'mon, Cathy, I'll help you inside."

"Why do I want to go inside?"

"These games can get pretty rough," said Mary.

"Still, Mary," said Emily, "there's a lot of time before they do, and the game is so exciting." She sounded wistful.

"Yes," agreed Jennifer, "very exciting." Definitely a dreaminess in her voice, thought Catherine.

"Holler if you change your mind," said Mary, and she disappeared back into the house.

Not very likely, Catherine thought. Glancing over, she discovered the breathtaking cause of the women's beguilement. No artist ever portrayed masculinity more divinely than these beings embodied it. They had leonine facial features, and beautiful flowing manes. Tawny blond, honey blond, golden blond, streaked with cinnamon, tan, caramel. Backs bulging with sinewy, ropey muscles; chests stretched wide with huge, carved muscles; arms rippling-rippling!-with brawny muscles. Long, unbelievably long quadriceps, the muscle so massive it was mounded, stretched from hips to knees.

Brooke and Claire meandered over. "Do they have more muscles than human men, or are they just more massive?" asked Brooke.

"Hmmm…" said Emily.

"Hard to say…" Jennifer let her sentence trail off.

"Let's keep looking, maybe we can figure it out," said Emily.

"Those arms look so strong a girl could get lost in them," sighed Claire.

"Oh, yeah, once he got his arms around you, you couldn't get away," said Brooke. She sighed, closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

"If you wanted to," breathed Catherine.

Vincent had peeled off his shirt, and Catherine was lost in a fog of admiration. He was the first to face off for his team. He squared up to his opponent. The official blew his whistle to commence play; Vincent threw a right cross which knocked his opponent out, and scooped up the ball.

Vincent ran down field, opponents trailing. Catherine marveled at his grace, the beauty of his form. Amazing.

"Yes," agreed Brooke. Catherine hadn't realized she'd spoken.

Vincent reached the midfielders. He body checked most of them, others he winded with an elbow to the stomach. He slung the ball into the goal, then broke his stick over his knee and flung it away. He and his mates chest-bumped and roared.

Catherine was almost panting. "I know," said Brooke, putting a hand on her shoulder; Claire, Emily and Jennifer sighed, murmured and moaned agreement.

Vincent's victim from up-field had recovered and came at him at full sprint. He launched himself at Vincent, tackling him without ever slowing down. While they rolled and wrestled, Catherine marveled at his strength, the beauty of his body, his agility.

The other players left them to it and played the next point. Vincent and his wrestling partner rejoined the game and played the next point. Some of them were getting warm from exertion, and their skin started to glow with sweat. They didn't have large amounts of fur on their bodies, more like a fine covering of it starting at the sides of their ribs, thickening toward the spine, none lower than their ribcage. Another fine covering of fur covered their thighs, but only enough to accentuate their well-developed quadriceps. A few at a time started shedding their shorts, or jeans, or whatever pants they wore, and…

"Oh, my goodness. Loincloths?" asked Catherine, surprised, and appreciative.

"Loincloths," echoed the women severally, and appreciatively.

"They have like, it's more than a foreskin, it's less than a sheath…" explained Brooke.

"…so they can get by with…" started Claire.

"…loincloths," finished Emily.

"I've got chills," said Catherine.

"We all do," said Jennifer.

The women's eyes narrowed, and their chests heaved. Brooke bit down on her lower lip, which was noticed by one of the Taj. "Oh, my god," he remarked to his fellows, "she kills me when she does that." He missed the break, and was knocked down by the flow of the game.

He limped over to the women. "Hi, ladies" he said softly, looking at Brooke.

"Hi, Alby," whispered Brooke.

"Nice day."

"Very nice."

"Could I get some water?" he asked.

"Sure," said Brooke. She led him over to the cooler, where bottles were floating in ice water. They stood there, staring at each other wordlessly, but appreciatively, while he drank. "You're playing a great game out there, Alby," she finally thought of something to say.

"You think so?" he asked. Lost in his hazel eyes, she didn't answer.

Gradually, a few more thirsty Taj drifted over looking for water.

"You guys look really great today," said Emily to the three gathered around her.

"Do you think so?" they asked.

"Uh-huh," she answered.

"You look really pretty today, Emily," one of them said.

"Thank you, Colm," she answered.

Hugh punched Colm in the arm. "I was gonna say that!" he snarled. "Thank you, too, Hugh," said Emily. All was well again. Jennifer and Claire also had clusters of admiring Taj gathered around them.

A young Taj approached Catherine. "So, I haven't seen you before. What's your name?" he asked, but was immediately swept away by a metal folding chair, wielded by Vincent.

"Now it's a party," quipped Brooke.

One of the older Taj took Vincent by the arm, and pulled him back. "If she's yours, put your mark on her. If she has no mark, don't beat your brothers for approaching her."

Vincent sighed, and took a step toward Catherine. The young Taj he'd hit with the chair came up behind him with the same chair, and let him have it across the back. Vincent shrugged. "I had that coming. I apologize, Jarlath."

"Next time, if you're not going to give her a ring, at least hike your leg and pee on a female so a Taj can know who's taken," he snarled. He stomped back to the game.

"When you're right, you're right," he said, and stepped up to Catherine.

"Tell me there will be no leg hiking," said Catherine.

"No. Can I take you to the garden, Catherine?" he asked

"I'd love to," she answered.

He sat her down on the bench in the gazebo. "I'll be back," he said. In a few minutes he returned and sat down next to her. They sat for a long time in silence, not touching. Finally, he sighed.

"Catherine, you are a beautiful woman. You're unbelievably smart, talented, brave, kind, warm…you could go anywhere you wanted to go and do anything you wanted to do. You could have any man you wanted. You could live a life of beauty, excitement, travel to exotic places." He knelt down in front of her and took her hands in his. "I'm asking you to lose your mind, give all that up, and stay here with me. Your future here will include hard, dirty, manual labor, sweating, cleaning, cooking, sore muscles, dangerous farm labor, obtaining your clothes from thrift stores, and living in a cultural wasteland, compared to New York. You can look forward to making do and doing without; boredom is the only thing we have here in abundance."

He kissed her fingers. "But if you stay with me, Catherine, I will love you as no woman was ever loved. We will bond; we will no longer be two separate people, but truly one heart, one soul. I will cherish you, I will listen to you, and I will respect you. In sickness, in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, I will never take for granted your smile, or your loving looks. You will be my queen, and I shall be your champion. You will be happy, because I will not rest until you are. Catherine—will you make me the happiest Taj on earth? Will you say you'll stay, and join with me?"

"I could do all that and more," she answered, "but there are some promises you must make before I say 'yes'."

Just for a second, he was stunned that she didn't reject his proposal and laugh in his face. "Tell me," he said quickly.

"Do you promise to believe that I choose you as my champion, that I trust you with my life, that I will follow where you lead?"

He knew what she was asking. He was going to have to stop the self doubting, the brooding, the reluctance to ask for what he wanted. But surely she could not be asking to subordinate her will to his? "I lead you?"

"You carry the light," she answered.

He felt more than understood what she meant. She was saying that he was her inspiration to always choose integrity over baseness. And while his position might be light-bearer, that didn't mean that her role, whatever it might reveal itself to be, was less important. "I promise."

"Do you promise to believe that I desire you above all others? To believe that my heart aches when we're apart, and that my soul hungers for you alone?"

This went to the heart of his self doubt. It would not be easy. "I promise."

"Do you promise to have steadfast faith that I love you today, and tomorrow I will love you yet more, in sickness, in health, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, all the days of our lives?"

That love already burned in his heart; he felt it. "I promise."

"Then I make my promise to you, Vincent, you shall be my champion, I shall be your beloved. I shall love you as no man was ever loved. It is my heart's only desire to bond with you, and for us now two, to join heart, soul and mind, and become one."

She put her hands on his shoulders; he circled her waist in his arms. They pressed their lips together and kissed, tenderly, deeply.

He pulled back and reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out a diamond ring, in a setting of white gold. He slipped it on her finger, and kissed it. Then, he took an ear cuff from his pocket, set it on her ear, and kissed it.

"We can pick out our wedding bands," he whispered, "but these were my mother's. I would like for you to have them."

She covered her mouth with her hands; he reached up, clasped her fingers in his hands, and kissed her. When he opened his eyes, he noticed a tear glistening on her cheek. He kissed it away, and marveled, all these months, never a tear…til now…