Rebecca pushed a thick handled broom in front of her. Cigarette butts, coarse sand and gum wrappers created small piles marking where she had been. Sweeping wasn’t glamorous but she did take a certain satisfaction from tidying up a place that she loved.

An older chap escorting a pair of children with sticky hands added a candy wrapper to one of her piles and shrugged, before asking, “Excuse me, sir. Do you know where I can find the wash room?”

She pointed down the hall and consciously lowered her voice an octave. “First hall on the right, near the Georgia O’Keeffe water colors.”

The old man nodded his thanks and dragged his charges off in the direction of soap and water. Rebecca didn’t begrudge him him his mistake of her gender. With her hair tucked up under her hat, she admitted ruefully that she looked more boy than a girl.

“Becca? Is that you again? How many times do I have to tell you, you don’t work here.” A heavy hand fell on her shoulders.

“I will one day and besides, just who am I hurting?”