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it in front of her as she veered off on a more narrow path that snaked in the general direction of the changing house. Oh, well, in two days she’d be on her way home and these people would forget they’d ever seen her. What did she care if she looked ghastly?
    The changing bungalow was nicer than her Cincinnati apartment. Textured glass made up the entire top half of the building. Thick rugs lay on terra-cotta tile floors, with heavy rattan furniture clustered around a sleek big-screen TV, which was black and silent at the moment. A pool table sat against a wall, the balls racked and ready for breaking. Alternative entertainment for rainy days, she supposed. As to the numerous comfy-lookingcouches on the perimeter of the room, she blushed to think about their intended use.
    Unoccupied, the only sound in the building was the swish of overhead fans and light reggae music from hidden speakers. On the other side of a long bar flanked by leather bar stools lay a stainless-steel kitchen that rivaled the one in her parents’ restaurant.
    There were two changing rooms, unmarked as to which was the men’s and which was the women’s. She chose one and entered a combination bathroom and lounge, with sinks and open showers and more couches. Not much privacy, she decided, then conceded that nudists were less demure than the population at large.
    Her eyes widened at her rumpled, windblown, dusty reflection in the full-length mirror. She didn’t even faintly resemble Frankie Jensen, the professional, fastidious systems analyst.
    Glancing over her shoulder every few seconds, she showered quickly, grateful for the abundance of thick blue towels. She borrowed a wide-tooth comb from a selection on a marble vanity and de-tangled her wet hair as much as possible. After stalling for so long, and worrying that Randy might come looking for her, she reluctantly reached for the borrowed suit and pulled it on, then turned around slowly to look in the mirror.
    “Oh my God,” she muttered. Always pale, her skin looked so bleached it was difficult to tell where she ended and the white suit began. The double-D top swallowed her single-B chest, the excess extending up to her collarbones and down to her navel. The bottoms, in comparison, consistedof a white eye patch held together by two strands of dental floss. There was no back that she could find.
    Soft footsteps sounded behind her, and before she could cover herself, the oil-slick, busty Sheely strode in, looking like a bronze goddess freed from her pedestal. “Oh, you must be Frankie,” she said, flashing a brilliant smile. “I’m Sheely. Does it fit?”
    Frankie stood speechless, flashing back to a similar nightmare in sixth-grade gym class. The woman was wearing only a navel ring, not that her stunning body needed any ornamentation at all. Frankie looked up to the ceiling, burning with embarrassment, trying desperately to think of something to say.
    But apparently Sheely needed no encouragement. She unabashedly perused Frankie’s body, gently turning her this way and that. “The top’s a little big, but the bottoms look great—do you use the stair climber?”
    Twisting to see for herself, Frankie said, “No, but I run every other day.”
    The woman nodded her head of dark hair. “Randy’s an ass man.”
    Frankie blinked at Sheely, her earlier suspicion about the two of them confirmed.
    “Why don’t you just skip the top?” Sheely asked, shrugging her lovely shoulders.
    “Well, I…” Frankie stopped, feeling a blush at the roots of her hair. “This is new for me.”
    The woman’s smile was understanding. “Didn’t Randy say you’re here on vacation for a couple of days?”
    Frankie nodded. “Sort of.”
    “Don’t worry—have fun,” she said, waving off Frankie’s concern. “You’ll probably never see any of us again.”
    And with a flip of her shiny tresses, Sheely left.
    “Thanks,” Frankie called weakly. The woman might be right, she noted with a frown. But big