KALEIDOSCOPE  III
Cynthia Hatch

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Part 2b

Three hours of almost nonstop talking had taken its toll, and she stopped at the water cooler before returning to her desk. Deciding she deserved a break, that the call should have been made days ago, she dialed Jenny's office.

"It's about time," Jenny greeted her. "How was your trip--what's the matter with your voice?"

The trip was fine. I'm just a little hoarse. I've been doing some training sessions for the staff--trying to cram a month's worth of information into a few hours."

"Well if you can do that, Cathy, then it just goes to show they didn't need to keep you in Cleveland so long. I've got a lot to tell you."

"Great. Are you free for lunch?"

"I don't believe it--for once you're actually willing to walk out of that place in the daylight, and I can't be there to see it. I'm sorry, but I'm meeting Michael at the university. This is the day I'm going to sit in on one of his lectures."

"That does sound like a better offer," Catherine admitted. "I'll take a rain check. So things are still going well between you?"

"Cathy," her friend's tone was at once serious and exuberant. "I can't begin to tell you how well it's going. He is so . . . so wonderful. We've been seeing each other almost every night."

"That's terrific, Jen. Maybe you can call me later at home and fill me in on the details."

"I will . . . no, wait. We're going to meet some friends of his at the airport . . . and tomorrow night we've got symphony tickets. God, I hate women who do this."

"Do what?" she asked, amused.

'"You know--spend time with their girlfriends and then the minute some guy comes along, all bets are off."

"Michael hardly sounds like 'some guy.' Friends are great, but love's not something you find every day. You don't want to let it get away . . . or is love too strong a word?"

"The way I feel right now, Cath, I'm not sure it's strong enough. Thanks for being so understanding. At any rate you'll be meeting him soon. You haven't forgotten about the party?"

"No, I'm looking forward to it. Have you set a date?"

"Absolutely--the 31rst, 8 p.m. sharp. Marie and Jeff are coming. They already said you can ride with them."

"The 31rst?" she repeated dully. "Halloween."

"Yeah, we decided it would be fun to have a costume thing. There'll be a band, a fortuneteller. The guest list has gotten huge."

"I didn't realize . . . the 31rst. "

"Cathy, come on now--don't tell me you're busy. If you have plans for that night, just bring everybody along. The more the merrier. Don't forget, you promised."

"I know I did, Jen." She fought hard to keep the grinding dismay from her voice.

"Well, I have to get going, or I'll be late. I'm really glad you're back. If I don't get a chance to talk to you before then, I'll see you on Halloween. Oh, and I've still got that costume I wore to the Brockman's that time--the first prize winner? You're welcome to borrow it if you want."

"Medusa? No, thanks," she chuckled automatically, remembering what a splash Jenny had made. "Wearing snakes on my head all night is not my idea of a good time. See ya, Jen."

"Personal call?" Joe asked as she hung up.

"No," she said with a great show of patience. "It was the mayor's office, Joe. They wanted to discuss the city's reptile problem. Of course, it was a personal call. Is there something wrong with that? Is the budget so tight we can't even make an occasional local call without prior authorization?"

"Hey, hold off. You don't have to jump down my throat."

"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it. ''I'm just not in a very good mood at the moment."

"Could have fooled me. Why the switch? The last few days you've been pretty perky."

"Perky?"

Joe looked a little scared, apparently concerned that the ill-chosen word might provoke another flow of sarcasm. "I just stopped by to say you did a good job this morning, that's all."

"Thanks," she relented. "It made me a little nervous when Moreno dropped in. I couldn't tell if he stayed because it was interesting or because he wasn't satisfied with the way I was presenting the material."

"No problem, Cath. He told me afterwards he was impressed. In fact, he said you should have been a teacher."

"Considering that's not what he pays me to be, I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

"He was happy with the presentation, Radcliffe--trust me. There's a pizza on its way up here with my name on it. I can spare a slice or two if you want."

"I appreciate the offer, but I'd rather go out for a while. I have some thinking to do." She grabbed up her bag and coat and headed for the door, already wrestling with the unexpected dilemma she'd just been handed.

How often did Jenny ask a favor? Aside from her ongoing campaign to urge her into the safer waters of her profession, to be more careful, Jenny seldom made demands, and she'd been more than accommodating, never prying, though she had to suspect there was much she wasn't told. This party was obviously important to her. Something special was happening in her life that she wanted to share. Friends were supposed to do things like that, but how could she know this particular night--of all nights--was totally unique, that it would be a whole year before there'd be another chance to enjoy its distinctive freedom again?

The elevator was packed, but the pushing and jostling scarcely registered. So many nights--so many she spent home alone. What perverse quirk of fate had led her to end up with two vital commitments for one evening? Of course, Jenny would be sympathetic if she told her she'd rather be with the man she loved. Hadn't they just agreed that friendship should bow to romance? But telling her any such thing would open the way for an endless stream of questions that couldn't in good faith be answered, and Jen would never understand why she simply didn't bring him to the party.

Three more people squeezed into the elevator at the next stop, causing a delay while everyone maneuvered into a position that would allow the doors to shut. For a wistful moment she considered that alternative. The two of them actually at a party above: dancing together, threading their way through a room filled with people, protected by the spell of the Samhain, invisible: Vincent and Jenny meeting at last.

Lovely, enticing thoughts, but totally impractical. It was one thing for Vincent to roam anonymously through a crowd of masqueraders, as he had that first Halloween, lingering to speak with no one except Brigit O'Donnell, and she certainly hadn't been fooled. Whether it had been the intimacy of their conversation, the instant rapport they'd felt for each other or even Brigit's sensitivity to the spiritual undercurrents in life--whatever the cause, there was always a risk that someone else might realize the truth. And no one at the reception that night had reason to study the tall figure that moved along the periphery of the celebration. That certainly wouldn't be the case if she introduced him to Jenny. He would be frankly scrutinized. No doubt about it, and the weakest link in the subterfuge would be herself.

Vincent, she felt, could do almost anything. She was not entirely sure he couldn't convince everyone he met that he was exactly what he chose them to assume he was. No, she was the one who couldn't be trusted to carry it off. Jen knew her too well. She would see through her efforts at nonchalance in a minute. The excitement of being with him, of presenting him to her friend would be impossible to conceal--even behind a mask. She sighed, letting go of the alluring option. The risks were simply too great, and this was a time when she was bent on eliminating as many threats to their relationship as possible.

The elevator doors opened onto the lobby, and everyone spilled out. The day was bright but crisply cold, and she buttoned her yellow coat, falling into line with the lunch hour throngs crowding the sidewalk. There seemed no way to gracefully retract her promise to Jenny and no way she could disappoint Vincent--or herself. The quandary kept her oblivious to the noise and movement around her, until it dawned on her that someone was calling her name.

She stopped, looking back to see a figure in an impeccable cashmere overcoat elbowing his way toward her. Oh, no. Not this--not today.

"Cathy--I've been trying to get your attention for the last two blocks."

"Why, Elliot?" She squinted up at him, brushing the windblown hair from her eyes.

"Why? Because I wanted to talk to you. I can see you're in a hurry. Are you meeting someone for lunch?"

"No." Her irritation, she realized, arose largely from his unwitting intrusion into her thoughts, and with a conscious effort to appear more gracious, she added, "How have you been?"

"I'm okay. You look wonderful, Cathy. What do you say, I buy you lunch?"

"I don't think so. Thanks anyway."

A flash of genuine hurt crossed the confident face. "I was under the impression that you and I were friends."

"It's a friendship with limits, Elliot. You know that."

"And having lunch together is outside the limits? What's inside? Is it all right if I have my secretary send you a corporate Christmas card?"

Glib, as always, but there was a vulnerability behind the sarcasm that few would have connected with Elliot Burch. He had a point.

"I'm sorry." She smiled as warmly as she could. "I was just preoccupied with a problem. If you'd like to grab a bite with me, that will be fine."

Which was worse--the guilt of hurting him or the kind she felt now, as his face brightened? There were few shades of grey in Elliot's concept of his place in the world--only triumph or defeat. "I can have us a table at Le Cirque like that," he beamed, snapping his fingers.

"I said 'a bite', Elliot. I was thinking more along the lines of Chock Full O 'Nuts. "

"Whatever you say, Cathy." He fell into step beside her, drawing a few curious stares from passersby. His face was well-known to New Yorkers, the understated elegance of his clothes marking him as a man of consequence, and, she admitted, the glances he drew from women could simply be due to the fact that he was a very attractive man. His face was still bearded, his hair long, adding an impression of rakishness to the successful businessman image. She took it all in dispassionately, still longing to brood over her dilemma in solitude. "I'm a pretty good troubleshooter," he reminded her, "if you'd like to run your problem past me."

"I appreciate the offer, but it's a little esoteric."

"Fine points of the law? I've probably spent as much time in litigation as you have."

She threw him a baleful smile. "Not too recently, I hope."

"No, I'm trying to avoid it."

They joined the thick knot of people just inside the door of the diner and miraculously were taken almost immediately to a booth, although she was sure there had been others waiting before them.

When the waitress had taken their order, he spoke, uncannily echoing her own thoughts. "Somehow it's hard for me to imagine you spending your lunch hours in a place like this."

"I have a busy schedule, Elliot. There's no time for lingering over sorbet."

"And you really don't mind, do you, Cathy? Most women--most people--only think about moving up to a grander life style. You're willing to sacrifice yours for the sake of your work."
 
"It's not a sacrifice to give up something that doesn't matter for something that does."

"Still, you probably never saw the inside of a greasy spoon until a couple of years ago."

"Probably not," she admitted.

"Well, we've got that in common. I lived in this city for years before I could afford to go into a place like this. It was a big treat. I'd save my nickels for weeks just for the privilege of coming inside. A burger and fries--that was my idea of heaven."

"You've raised your sights a little since then. I read about your new project on the west side."

"It's nothing ostentatious . . . well," he amended with a rueful smile, "you might disagree with that, but it doesn't threaten anyone, Cathy--two condemned warehouses and a vacant lot--that's all we'll be preempting."

"Elliot, you don't have to justify everything you do to me."

"No . . . no, I know I don't have to, but I want to. I'd like your opinion."

Two plates were unceremoniously shoved in front of them, and as she picked up the sandwich, she said, "I'm sure you know a lot more about the law than I know about real estate development."

"It's not about real estate--not completely, not this time. I used to live in that neighborhood, Cathy, in a tenement just a block away. I played stick hall in the lot every chance I got when I was a kid. For years I couldn't go back there at all. It seemed important to pretend that it didn't exist. This project didn't come about by accident. I chose it--carefully."

"Is it meant to give you some kind of satisfaction?" she asked softly, "to return in triumph, to be the one in control?" His voice was so sincere, his eyes glowing almost silver with a fervor whose meaning still eluded her.

He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. "What return? Elliot Burch has never been near that neighborhood, not until recently anyway. It's a mixed-use project, Cathy. There's a good portion of it committed to affordable housing."

She nodded. Was that it? Did he expect to impress her with the news that not every square foot of his latest enterprise was dedicated to profit? "I do know the law," she reminded him, "and I'd be very surprised if low-income housing wasn't mandated by the zoning ordinances in that area."

"You're right, it is but, Cathy, I want to do more than that. I want to put in a recreation center with a basketball court, a couple of pool tables, maybe even a bowling alley--things kids really want to do in a place that isn't filled with dopers and bookies. And I want to set part of it aside for a park with a playground and baseball diamond."

She studied his expression, the sandwich forgotten. "Elliot, that's all commendable in theory, but what about the other investors? They're not going to sit still and watch their R.O.I. dwindle away just because you want to do something generous for the community."

"I've figured that out, or at least I've got a battery of highly paid attorneys figuring it out for me." He'd grown more animated. "Cathy, it all gets down to the G.L.A. That's the bottom line--" Her expression told him he'd lost her, and he backtracked.

"The G.L.A--gross leasable area. Usually it's our prime target for maximization--profitability depends on it. I've built an empire on my ability to guarantee that to the people who do business with me."

"But what you're proposing. . . would affect profits drastically."

"Only my own. The contracts are being structured so that my partners' investment will be tied exclusively to viable commercial space--and so will their return."

She assimilated what he'd said for a moment. "Elliot, why are you doing this? Is it just for the pleasure of seeing the Burch Baseball Field, the Burch Recreation Center--what?"

"Cathy, believe it or not--I don't want that. They can call it Mr. Park for all I care. As for as the public will ever know, it's a civic project. Let them think it was a provision of the zoning permits--whatever--it doesn't matter to me."

"You really don't want any publicity from all this?" By now she should have grown used to his ability to surprise her, zigging just when she was almost convinced it was in his nature to zag. And there was a nagging sense that she'd had this conversation before, or one very like it, but with who, when?

"It's the last thing I want." He took her hand, and she didn't pull away, sensing it was all part of his need to make her understand. "Maybe . . . maybe what I'm trying to do here is to find a way for Elliot Burch and Stosh Kazmarek to meet, to find some kind of peace together. I don't think I can really be happy until that happens. It's like two separate parts of myself, and each one has spent a lot of years denying the existence of the other. I think I need to find a way to end that in order to feel complete. Can you possibly understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Yes," she said softy. "I understand it very well."

"And. . . as for why am telling you . . . well, the truth is, I couldn't think of another soul who had any chance of understanding it."

His smile had grown wistful, and a pang of sorrow touched her. He was so alone. She squeezed his hand. "Someday someone will come, Elliot, who understands everything. I'm sure of it."

The sympathetic remark carried with it a reminder that the someone would never be her, and he withdrew his hand. "I take it nothing's changed?"

There was no need to ask what he meant. "No, Elliot, it hasn't, and it won't."

Even as she said it, she realized that the words weren't strictly true. Something had changed--drastically--since they'd seen each other. Briefly, the memory of Elliot's kiss flitted across her mind, what she'd felt, what she'd tried to explain to Vincent afterwards. It was followed by the memory of other kisses, so shattering that they seemed to belong to a different plane of sensuality altogether. His kisses, and the other night . . . when he had let the power of his passion flow over her--in his hands, his mouth.

"God, do you know what I'd give to put that look on your face?"

The whispered comment was blunt with pain, and she realized she was blushing. Love might take precedence over friendship, but there was no reason one should detract from the other, and she had the uneasy feeling that she'd been a little lax in the friendship department lately, regarding Jenny's excited invitation as a burden, treating Elliot with suspicion and letting her mind stray to other matters when he obviously needed a friend.

"It's hot in here, don't you think?" she said, ignoring his previous remark. "Tell me more about the project. How long will it take to build?"

Happily, he took his cue, and they finished their lunch, even lingering over a cup of coffee as he described the work he loved, and she told him about her trip and the subsequent program at the office. They might have been casual friends, untouched by the weightier matters that hovered beyond the conversation. It wasn't until they were back on the street, and he took her hand in parting that he allowed a deeper emotion to creep into his voice.

"You know I have the strangest feeling, Cathy--that I might not see you again."

"Come on, Elliot. I thought you got where you are by being pragmatic. You 're not going to tell me you're secretly psychic?"

"Never have been," he admitted.

"You know where to find me, if you want to talk, and I'll be at the opening-- of Mr. Park. I'm happy for you, Elliot. I really am."

His smile, though a little forced, was as charming as ever. "You stay happy, too--okay?" He touched her face briefly with one softly gloved hand and turned to dissolve into the crowd.

Catherine had paid the driver and started toward the entrance of her building when she paused. Pivoting, she looked back at the park, resplendent in the late afternoon sun. All the riotous colors of autumn blazed in the trees, feathering the grass with bits of yellow and red and orange. The pale, unchanging colors awaiting her in the apartment seemed suddenly dull, the carefully controlled temperature in the silent rooms uninviting, even as a place to spend the short time until she went below.

Shuttling between her office and the courts, there was little chance to appreciate the season. Autumn would be gone soon, the bright circus of colors all turned to a flat brown. The park seemed suddenly like a particularly enticing art exhibit, one that would close before she ever had a chance to admire it. Retracing her steps, she crossed the street and headed into the open area, grateful that the hearing this afternoon had been postponed and that Joe, mindful of the overtime she'd technically served in Ohio, had suggested she knock off early.

The sun's rays seemed almost horizontal now as they prodded their way through the buildings to flame in the foliage swaying overhead, crunching underfoot. The weather had seesawed daily of late: one day would be warm as summer, the next so crisply cold that the conversations of people on the street hung before them in plumes like the speech of cartoon characters.

Today the brittle air carried with it something of the ocean and the pungent scent of burning leaves, although it was doubtful that anyone would be raking their lawns in Manhattan. It was probably the memory of other autumns in other places, that clung to the season, making the illusion complete.

Pulling in deep breaths of the exhilarating air, she tugged her coat closer and slowed her pace as the drainage duct came into view. Most of the people she'd passed were undoubtedly headed home. No one lingered in the area, and it was easy to slip unnoticed into the shadowed circle, steadying herself with a gloved hand till the sloping walls of the pipe gave way to level ground. She swung back the gate and found the lever with practiced ease, nevertheless breathing a familiar sigh of relief as she passed through the portal and the door closed solidly behind her.

On the long journey down it struck her that the feeling of the season was not the exclusive property of the world above. The orange glow of the utility lamps, the beckoning yellow of the torches, even the bright bursts of mustard-colored steam, the rusty pipes vibrating with their warm messages--all of it had the feet of fall about it. The people she passed as she neared the populated tunnels seemed dressed for the season in their clothes patched with chestnut and russet leather, and she had to laugh, encountering Samantha whose first words were "Catherine! Come with me--we're all going to have hot apple cider"

"I'd love to, Samantha, but I really should look for Vincent first."

"Oh, he'll be there too. Lots of people will be there. We're going to carve jack-o'-lanterns. Come on."
She found herself being tugged along, as much by the child's enthusiasm as her eager hand, to a chamber just off the kitchen. It was sparsely furnished with only a table and a few chairs, but it seemed that all the tunnel children had gathered here, along with a few adults, among them--amazingly--Pascal. They were arranging pails and pots, passing out pieces of crayon and dipping mugs of steaming cider from what looked like an old-fashioned washtub. An untidy pile of pumpkins overflowed one corner of the room.

"Look who I brought," Samantha announced with an air of authority that might have meant she'd personally gone above and snatched her prize from the courtroom.

The chorus of greetings, punctuated with a few hugs from the more extroverted children, was heartwarming, and the adults were equally unaffected, quick with comments about how long it seemed since they'd seen her, asking about her trip.

"You're very brave, coming here this evening," Rebecca said with a laugh, offering her a mug of cider. "Some of the kids will be carving their jack-o'-lanterns for the first time--instead of just drawing the faces and letting the grownups do it. I just thought I'd warn you."

"I'll keep that in mind," Catherine chuckled, sipping the warm sweet liquid, so redolent of other Octobers. "Is anyone else coming?"

"He'll be here any minute." Rebecca's tone was reassuring, but it didn't keep a blush from rising as she realized the transparency of her feelings. "He's just gone to get the last load."

"Catherine! It's so lovely to see you again," Mary exclaimed as she entered the room, yet another shallow pan in one hand, carrying a child who clung to her neck in what looked to be a stranglehold.

Catherine hurried to take the pan, and Pascal pushed a large, oak rocking chair forward, urging the older woman to sit down. She sank into it gratefully, easing the little girl onto her lap. "Now remember," she said to the room at large, "nothing must be wasted. If you're very careful to put the insides of your pumpkins in the pans, we'll have toasted seeds."

"And pies?" someone asked.

"Well, certainly, if some of the pumpkins can be spared, I'm sure William will be happy to make pies, but that's only if there are some left over after you've made your jack-o'-lanterns."

"We want to put faces on 'em," Willy declared earnestly.

"On all of them?" a voice interjected. "It could take some time. We might have jack-o'-lanterns at Winterfest this year." All heads turned toward the apparition in the doorway, and her heart jolted. The personification of autumn, she decided in a rush of poetic feeling. His clothes the color of the season--from the supple tan boots to the doeskin vest. His hair the image of ripe wheat rippling in the fields. His eyes the color of a clear October sky. His arms were laden with round, orange pumpkins.

The children rushed to relieve him of his burden, and Samantha announced, "Look, Vincent, we've got a present for you, too."

The comment did nothing to quell the blush that had risen the moment she saw him. Was their secret a secret from anyone at all down here? His eyes twinkled, and she found she didn't mind the simile in the least. It was a present he was clearly delighted to be offered, and her imagination was quick to elaborate with a tantalizing vision of the two of them, alone, the forbidden pleasure as he slowly unwrapped his gift.

"My goodness, all of our helpers must have had the same notion at once. I wonder if William has a recipe for pumpkin bread?"

"I'm sure he can create one if he doesn't, Mary," Vincent assured her, as he crossed the room to where Catherine stood with Rebecca.

"This is a welcome surprise," he said softly.

The children were all preoccupied with selecting their pumpkins, but she was acutely aware of the mysterious phenomenon that made it feel as if they were the only two people in the room, as well as the obvious fact that they were not. "I had no idea I'd be disrupting such a festive occasion."

"Disrupting'? No. Making it complete, if you'd care to stay, unless there was something . . . "

"It can wait," she smiled. "I'd love to help if I can. Where do we start?"

"I've got the knives," Pascal said, joining them, "but I don't want to be the one to decide who's old enough to use them."

"By the time we've carved every one of these," Vincent said, surveying the room now littered with golden balls, "all of the children will be old enough. Perhaps you should decide, Rebecca. Are there candles enough to light so many?"

"I'm afraid there are," she laughed. "But if it looks like it's getting out of hand, all we have to do is remind them of the pies."

"It's nice to see you here, Pascal," Catherine told him, as she selected an old kitchen knife. "You must have left the pipe chamber in capable hands."

"Well, Zach's been studying hard. I thought it might be good for his self-confidence to let him have the responsibility for a while."

"Don't believe him, Catherine," Rebecca advised. "You're looking at the master pumpkin carver of the tunnels. He can't resist trying to outdo the fantastic jack-o'-lantern he did last year."

"It was pretty good, wasn't it?" the little man smiled nostalgically.

"Pascal's contribution last year bare an uncanny resemblance to Father." Vincent explained. "We all agreed that it deserved a prize."

"And what was the prize?" Catherine asked.

"I don't remember," said Pascal. "Probably everyone's promise not to let Father see it."

"I got the biggest one," Nathan announced, staggering under the weight of a hefty pumpkin that was on the verge of slipping through his hands. He plunked it down in front of her expectantly. "Would you show me what to do, Catherine?"

"Of course I will. Why don't you run and get a crayon, and you can draw the face you want it to have. Then I'll help you cut it out."

She sat down next to Vincent, who was immediately surrounded by chattering children, and the fun began. Faces were drawn and redrawn to the owners' satisfaction. Lids were carefully cut with notches to guide them back into place. The spoons used to scoop out the contents were quickly discarded for the pleasure of thrusting hands into the mysterious tangle of fibers within, and comments about how gooshy and squishy it was shrilled joyously throughout the room.

The children buzzed like bees, one moment concentrating on the task at hand, the next running to show their creations to their friends or make another selection from the pile of harvest gold that dwindled only slowly. William made a courageous foray into the hubbub long enough to replenish the tub of cider and quickly disappeared again.

For a few minutes the tide of children tumbled away from them. Gathering up the debris around her, she took the opportunity to say, "I saw Elliot this week."

Vincent's expression was carefully noncommittal. "What did he want?"

"I'm not sure really. My approval. . . . maybe. He's developing a project in the neighborhood where he grew up, and contributing some of it to the community--at his own expense. It's all tied in with the commercial package. I don't think he's doing it for public attention."

"Perhaps, he's doing it for your attention." He shook his knife free of the gleaming pumpkin threads that supped into a waiting pail.

"No, I didn't feel like it was an attempt to impress me . . . more like he was trying to find his way back to what he really wants under all that need for power."

"He wants you, Catherine."

"He knows that's impossible. I've told him so."

"To a man like Elliot 'impossible' isn't a word. It's a challenge. And if, as you say, he's truly trying to change--for the better, if his weaknesses and faults should disappear . . . " He shook his head briefly at the irony of the thought.

"What? It might become harder to dislike him?" I

"I don't dislike him now, Catherine. How can I, when he helped save my life--and Father's? Should I blame him for loving you?"

"It seems to make you uncomfortable."

Unwilling to comment on the obvious, he concentrated on wiping the knife blade clean, his lower lip so resolutely set that his mouth became an inverted V.

"It doesn't make me particularly comfortable either, Vincent. I care for Elliot. There's a part of me that feels sorry for him, because he couldn't possibly comprehend just how impossible that impossible is."

Several emotions played in his sidelong glance. Even the one he would be most reluctant to acknowledge had its charm.Regardless of her sympathy for Elliot, regardless of Vincent's efforts to renounce the response altogether, it played briefly across her heartstrings, reminding her what a human emotion love really was.

"There's nothing wrong with feeling jealous, Vincent. It's just a waste of time. How do you feel about Lena?"

"Lena?"

"Don't look so surprised. Do you think I haven't noticed the way she looks at you? And I know you care a lot about her, but I don't for a minute suppose she could come between us."

"Catherine, I never meant . . . "

"Vincent, I can't get the lips right on this," Samantha walked up to them, frowning, and banded him a half--carved jack-o'-lantern. "I want it to look like a girl. Can you help me?"

"I'll try, Samantha." He looked at her uncertainly over the child's head, and she smiled warmly, letting him know nothing he'd said had disturbed her. It was a smile, too, that admitted the circumstances weren't conducive to serious conversation and a smile of sheer pleasure at sharing this cheerful evening by his side. Mary had her hands full directing the safe passage of seeds to the waiting pans. She had her hands full literally as well, Catherine realized, as the little girl on her lap had never budged. Probably six, or seven, she observed the activity without expression and made no move to join in, though Catherine had noticed Mary coaxing her.

"Vincent, I don't remember ever seeing that little girl before. Who is she?"

At the moment the children were engrossed in their tasks, talking only to each other, and he leaned toward her, speaking quietly. "Her name is Gina. She came to us only three days ago, after one of our helpers found her. He spoke to the street people who saw it happen--her mother was one of them. She was stabbed by a man who sometimes sold her drugs."

"Killed?" she said, horrified. "Did the child see it?"

"No. Gina lived on the streets with her mother, but she was often neglected, left alone for days at a time, while others tried to share with her what they could."

"And there was no one else? Has she talked about it, Vincent?"

"She needs time, Catherine. She's still confused and afraid, but she hasn't rejected our attentions. For now it seems enough for her just to be held, to be part of things as an observer."

The little girl sat with one finger in her mouth. Her honey colored hair fell in long untidy waves, nearly the same color as her skin, and she studied the other children with sad green eyes that nevertheless showed a healthy interest in her surroundings. Catherine's heart went out to her. To be so little and so alone. "I think I'll try and talk to her." Vincent nodded his approval, and she crossed the room to crouch beside the rocking chair. "Hi, Gina. My name is Cathy." The child looked at her but did not respond.

"Gina doesn't like to talk," Nathan warned her. "We took her to play with us, but she didn't wanna. She just watched us."

"That's because she's new here, Nathan. It's hard to join in when you just come to a new place. Gina, would you like to make a jack-o'-lantern?" There was no answer, and Catherine picked up a pumpkin that hadn't yet been spoken for. "This one needs someone to give it a face. What kind do you think he should have?"

The little girl considered the question in silence.

"Catherine can help you, sweetheart," Mary encouraged. "You can have a jack-o'-lantern of your very own, and we'll put a candle in it, so he can smile at you when you go to bed tonight. Wouldn't you like to make a nice, happy face for him?" The finger snapped out of the sullen little mouth. "No," she said.

Mary looked uncertain whether to be grateful for the response or not.

"What kind of face should he have, Gina?" Catherine asked softly.

For a moment she thought no response was coming, but then the little girl said emphatically. "Mad. A mad face."

"Oh, sweetheart," Mary said, distressed, "wouldn't a smile be so much nicer?"

"A very mad face," Catherine nodded, ignoring Mary's well-meant fretting. "Would you like to draw it?"

Gina shook her head, shrinking back into the safety of a warm lap.

"Would you like me to draw it for you? If you want to come with me, Gina--right over there, I can draw some faces, and you can tell me when it looks the way you want it to . . . okay?" She held out her hand, and after a moment's hesitation, the child took it, sliding to the floor, looking back at Mary uncertainly.

"I'll be right here, Gina," the older woman assured her. "You can surprise me with your jack-o'-lantern when you've finished."

Catherine glanced at Vincent as she returned to sit beside him, Gina in tow. He was guiding Toby in the fine art of pumpkin carving, but she felt he was well aware of everything she was doing, and just being close to him gave her a quiet pleasure and renewed confidence.

Several expressions were sketched across the smooth surface and rubbed out as the little girl watched her with interest, withholding comment. "Not quite right yet, is it?" Catherine looked at her latest attempt critically. "Let's see if we can get someone to help us. Willy," she called, "could you give us a hand here?"

"Look at my punkin." He ran toward them, clutching his grinning, snaggle-toothed creation. "Becca cut it, but I drawed it."

"He's wonderful," Catherine said admiringly. "Willy, Gina and I would like to have a really mad pumpkin, but I'm not sure how that looks. Do you think you could make a mad face for us?"

"uh--huh!" The little boy was clearly delighted to demonstrate a skill no doubt learned from the older boys, and he proceeded to contort his small, round face into a number of unlikely expressions. Secretly, she thought he only succeeded in looking darling, but a flash of a smile appeared briefly around the finger still stuck timidly in Gina's mouth, and at last she said,
"That one."

"Right, try to stay just like that a minute, Willy." Catherine sketched the crooked mouth and squinty eyes, and Gina watched, intrigued, as their model struggled to maintain the pose that had gotten him so much unexpected attention. Once the drawing had been approved, Willy sat down to observe, along with Gina, as Catherine sliced chunks and slivers until their pumpkin sat glaring back at them. "How's that?" she asked, pushing the hair out of her eyes. Gina nodded in solemn approval.

"That's a pretty scary looking jack-o'-lantern," Pascal commented, coming to kneel before the little girl. "I'm afraid the one I did wouldn't scare anyone. It looks too happy." He held it out to show her, a marvel of toothy smile, complete with dimples and eyelashes through which a candle already shone. "No, wait," he said, turning briefly away and back again. "I meant too sad." Miraculously, the smile had turned downward. A teardrop glowed on the orange cheek. Gina watched in fascination, as he repeated the process, and some of the other children gathered round to admire the "magic" pumpkin.

"I sure wish mine would look mad," Pascal said wistfully. "It might scare away anyone that tried to come down here--to our safe place."

"How about a trade?" Catherine suggested. "Pascal really likes your scary pumpkin, Gina. Maybe he'd be willing to give you his in return."

The little girl didn't hesitate, nodding enthusiastically. She reached for her prize, as Pascal blew the candle out and thanked her, smiling appreciatively at the irate looking vegetable he now claimed as his own.

"Can I show Mary?" Gina regarded her shyly.

"Of course, you can. She'll help you carry him back to your chamber."

"Can I show her too?" Willy asked.

Gina looked at him a moment, this tiny boy who'd made her smile, and apparently saw a non-threatening friend. She nodded again, reaching out to take his hand, and the two of them crossed the chamber to Mary's waiting embrace.

"I had no idea Pascal was so creative."

"He has a talent for communication," Vincent said quietly, wiping his knife on an old dish towel. "As do you, Catherine. You would make a wonderful mother."

The pain nearly hidden beneath the remark came, she knew, because he saw no way to reconcile the observation with dreams of their own future. To him one automatically excluded the other. To her, they did not. The same bond that whispered ceaselessly inside her of their love told her as clearly that on this count he was wrong. Someday he would see that. When it was time, he'd know how wrong he'd been, and the realization of that misconception would be the source of a joy beyond any he'd ever imagined.

The knowledge made it possible to bear the sadness detected in him now, and she was able to answer him lightly. "You think I should be a mother, Joe said something similar a few weeks ago, and today my boss said I should have been a teacher.

Am I the only one who thinks I've made the right choices?"

"Catherine," he said swiftly, "I would never presume to dissuade you from the choices you make about your life. I promise you that."

She looked into his eyes, fixing him with an enigmatic smile. "Someday, Vincent," she said softly, "I may remind you of that promise. Someday, maybe not too long from now." He continued to gaze at her, attempting, she was sure, to interpret the undercurrent in her voice. "I really should be getting back soon. I have several hours of preparation to do for a hearing tomorrow."

He helped her up, and they said good-bye to the others still lingering among the gaily colored carnage. "Something's troubling you," he said, as they slipped out into the dim passageway, and he took her hand.

"I don't know how it happened, but there's a problem with Halloween." Consternation washed over her anew, as she was forced to confront the issue again. "My friend Jenny's met a man. She thinks she may be in love, and I promised her weeks ago that I'd come to a party they're having, so I could meet him. I had no idea that they'd decide to have it on Halloween."

There was only a brief pause, and when he answered, it was in the calm tone of reason so natural to him. "Jenny is important to you. This party--this man--is important to her. How can you disappoint her?"

"How can I disappoint you . . . and myself? It's the only night -- "

He stopped, turning to clasp her arms gently. "It's a night like others at this time of year, when darkness comes quickly, when it lingers long past the hour of summer dawns. What time will the party end?"

"I don't know . . . but I don't even have to stay till it does. I could spend some time with Jenny and Michael and leave while it's still going on. There'll be a lot of people there. One less won't even be noticed. We could meet--by midnight anyway. If you 're sure you don 't mind . . . you really understand?"

"Catherine, your caring for others--it's who you are. I wouldn't change that. I watched you tonight with Gina--your patience, your understanding . . . "

"About Gina," she said uneasily. "Are you so sure she has no family above?"

"As for as we could learn, there was only her mother."

"But you can 't be certain. The mother might have been a runaway. That doesn't mean there might not be . . . grandparents somewhere who would want to know about this."

"If Gina's mother found it necessary to run from them," he said grimly, "they could be brutal, uncaring."

"And they might not be," she said gently. "You know that as well as I do. People don't always run away because they're treated badly at home." His glance told her he understood that very well, but she sensed how adamantly he wanted to believe that this world was the best place for a little girl who had suffered so much. She believed it too. Knowing firsthand the system designed to take care of children like Gina, she couldn't be confident that a better option existed above. The bureaucratic tangle meant to help society's outcasts didn't guarantee the one vital ingredient that could make all the difference in a young life, the love that abounded here in this gentle community. It had been a long time since she'd felt so clearly the conflict between her allegiance to the ways of her own world and this one.

"Vincent, I know how you feel, believe me, but what if there is someone who's worried about her . . . grieving? We have to consider their feelings too."

"What is it you want to do?" he asked without inflection.

"I just think I should find out what I can, see if she has any family who wants her. It only seems fair to get as much information as we can. Beyond that, the decision will have to be yours."

He nodded.

"You're not angry with me, are you?"

"Catherine, we each have to do what we think is right. And how could I ever be angry with you?"

"We're bound to be mad at each other sometimes, Vincent. I find it just as hard to believe as you do," she slipped her arms around him, smiling at how absurd the notion seemed, "but nobody agrees on everything all the time. We don't need to be afraid when that happens."

His arms closed deliciously around her, and there was the trace of a smile in his expression. "Is there anything at all that you do fear?"

"Only one thing," she said, suddenly serious. "Only one I couldn't bear."

"Never," he whispered, pulling her close against the solid reality of his body. "Never," he repeated, burying his face in her hair, skimming his mouth across her cheek to join hers. There was an affirmation of their love, their bond, in the intensity of his kiss and with it the vivid sensory memory of their last encounter, blazing through every nerve as if once again she was vulnerable to the cool breeze in the Chamber of the Falls, the exquisite torment of his mouth . . . fevered kisses on fevered skin.

A tremulous sigh escaped her, as their lips parted. "What is it?" she managed finally to respond to his rapt study of her face.

"I've never known a need, a hunger," he whispered unsteadily, "that increased so with every effort to satisfy it."

"I found that kiss extremely satisfying," she said, adopting an injured tone and nuzzling at his ear. "I'm sorry if you didn't." Her touch had the desired effect, but his expression as he drew away to look at her, told her he knew very well he was being teased.

"You forget, Catherine, that your feelings are as apparent to me as my own. I think you understand what I'm trying to say very well."

She smiled, continuing to brush her lips along the strong, enticing line of his jaw. "Are you saying you can see right through my efforts to play hard to get?" She placed soft, fervent kisses on his chin. "You mean, you can actually tell I find you irresistible?" She reached his mouth, allowing the tip of her tongue to tease at the downy cleft of his upper lip. "And after I've tried so hard to hide it, too."

"Catherine." His voice held a warning tone, but his eyes sparkled as he moved her away decisively. "You are not making this parting any easier."

"Why should I?" she smiled languidly. "It isn't fair that we have to be apart to begin with. The least I can do is resist whatever twist of fate has made it necessary."

He seemed to be having a difficult time pulling his gaze from her parted lips. "It is not fate you will have to resist if you don't leave soon," he cautioned pointedly.

"It wouldn't be the worst thing you ever did, Vincent--keeping me here. It really wouldn't." She spoke softly, but the tension between them for all its flirtatious nature was very real, and she relented, dropping her eyes, knowing the love, the desire she was incapable of hiding couldn't help but increase his discomfort. "Jenny's party is out on Long Island. I'll get back to town just as close to midnight as I can, but where should I meet you?"

"I'll find you," he assured her. "Enjoy the party, Catherine."

"I'll try. . .  Good-night, Vincent."

Now who's having trouble looking away, she asked herself, as he continued to stand, arms at his side, his face too beautiful to run from, but turn she did with a determined effort, and grasping the ladder, she climbed back toward a world about to drop its mundane guard in homage to the age-old magic of the Samhain.

Once a compromise had been reached about how she would spend Halloween night, luck seemed to tilt in her favor. A phone call to Jeff and Marie had elicited an eager invitation to join them on their drive to Long Island.

"But you'll probably want to catch a ride back with someone else," Marie had said apologetically. "Jeff has an early flight the next morning, so we're going to have to bow out about the time things really start rolling."

"Actually, that would work well for me, too," Catherine replied. "I have some early morning plans myself."

And now here was Rita, nearly hidden behind the two boxes she carried, headed toward her desk. "These came for you a while ago, Cathy. I signed for them."

"Thanks, Rita." She hurried to take the packages from her, noting the label with satisfaction: Greene Bros. Theatrical Costumers. "It was pure luck that they had a costume I liked still available, but they had to do some alterations. I was afraid it wouldn't be ready in time."

"That's your Halloween costume?" Joe regarded the oversized dress boxes with a dubious frown. "What are you going as, Radcliffe--the Hindenburg?"

"It's not as complicated as it looks. There's a dress in one and something for my head in the other."

"So, do we get to see it or what?'

"I don't want to open them here, Joe."

"Forget what I said about taking your cues from this one, Escobar. She could be a bad influence. Just how risqué is this outfit, Radcliffe?"

"How risqué can it be if it takes up two boxes?' she retorted good-naturedly. "It might be bad luck to open it before I plan to wear it, that's all."

"Since when are you superstitious?"

"Sounds to me like a wedding dress . . . and a veil," Rita quipped. "You're not supposed to let anyone see you in those till the ceremony."

"I think that's just the groom," Catherine said mildly, impervious to their teasing.

"That's not it. Is it?" Joe persisted, "You're not about to elope to Atlantic City and leave me with the Murdock trial?"

Catherine threw him an odd look. "I think you've been watching too many old movies, Joe. People don't wear formal attire for an elopement. What are you doing for Halloween, Rita?"

"Oh, I'm going to a party. I was planning to be Cleopatra, but you've given me a better idea. A wedding gown could be just the hint my boyfriend needs."

She turned to go back to her desk, and Joe added. "Subtle, too. You know, it's amazing the lengths you women will go to just to get through to some guy."

"What's amazing," she grinned, "is that men could be so oblivious we have to do it. So, what about you, Joe? Any plans for Halloween?"

"Yeah--trick-or-treating, as usual."

"Aren't you a little old for that?"

He mugged at her. "I take my nieces and nephews out every year. Stacy--that's the little one--says it makes her feel safe because uncle Joe is 'almost like a policeman.' To tell you the truth, Radcliffe, it makes me feel a lot safer too. I'd hate to see them miss out on the fun, but there's some real sick people out there."

She nodded, subdued. "It's nice of you to do that."

"Well, I don't know about you, but when I was a kid it was different. In the old neighborhood everybody invited us in--for cider and doughnuts . . . popcorn balls, candy apples. The old ladies all made their special cookies. Nobody ever worried about biting into a razor blade."

"That's the worst part about the craziness today," she said sadly, "when it touches innocent children." But there is a place, she comforted herself silently, right here in the city where the cider will flow and fresh-baked doughnuts will attract the little ones in their homemade costumes. No one will have anything to fear, and there will be lots-and lots-of toasted pumpkin seeds. '"I imagine there are still places in the world, Joe, where the only scary things are ghosts and witches."

"Right--places where they haven't heard it's the 20th century, but that reminds me," he said brightening, "Do you remember the Greenwald case--a few months back? Clear indications of child abuse, only the mother changed her mind and refused to file charges?"

"I remember." How could she forget, when it was one of those instances that struck deepest with its sense of futility and frustration? What she was best at--gaining the trust of frightened people, helping them see the necessity of taking a stand--she had failed at it, and the mother had claimed up entirely, refusing to repeat a word of what she'd supposedly told an orderly in the emergency room. The husband. He had been very smooth, very convincing in his assertion that he knew nothing about the incident, but she knew he was a phony, knew it with a sixth sense honed by years of dealing with people on both sides of the law. "Come on, Joe ... don't tell me something's happened to that little girl."

"No--this is good news. The father was sent up last week for extortion. We may not have nailed him on the abuse charge, but at least he'll be out of the picture for a long time to come. Thought that would make you feel better."

"It does, Joe--thanks," she nodded with a grim smile. "It's just too bad that, as far as the law's concerned, he got away with a worse crime."

Joe shrugged. "You've seen the statues of justice--wearing a blindfold?"

"I think I have."

"Well, what can you expect? Sometimes she's bound to take a flyer, but once in a while she stumbles in the right direction--you know, by accident."

"That's pretty philosophical, Joe."

"Hey, I'm a philosophical guy," he said with a mischievous smile. I figure this costume is so racy you can't even take it out of the box in polite company--fine. I accept that, but when the guys in vice pick you up, just do me a favor and say you work for the P.D."

"If this is your idea of being polite, Joe, I just may take a job with the P.D.--and leave you with the Murdock case."

"Ouch," he responded, the twinkle in his eyes as irrepressible as ever. "I give, Radcliffe. I'll let you get back to work."

"Thanks so much," she smiled, already pulling the phone toward her. For days she had doggedly followed every avenue of information open to her. It had all led to this one phone call that had to be made, but she had to admit, she'd been putting it off. Joe's reminder of the Greenwald case had brought it home again.

Gina Watts. Her mother had never been married. No one had any idea who her father might be, and her mother's parents were deceased. All of this had been established through a painstaking trail that wound through agencies in three states. With every step she had breathed a little easier, confident that she was doing the right thing, hoping her search would lead to an answer she could live with. And it had all come down to a single phone number--an aunt in Missouri.

"Mrs. Grady? My name is Catherine Chandler. I'm calling from New York City. It's about your sister Sheila."

"You gotta be kidding," came the ambiguous reply.

"I'm afraid I have bad news."

Expecting the silence of dread or a frantic inquiry, she was treated instead to a sound that could only be described as a snort.

"What else? Sheila never brought nothin' but bad news to anybody. Are you tryin' to tell me she's alive?"

"Well . . . no." she faltered, "as a matter of fact that's the reason for my call. I'm sorry, but your sister . . . has died."

This time the reply was preceded by an unmistakable, if chilling, laugh. "Well, that's just real nice of you to tell me, but we all thought she'd been dead for years. She was only fourteen when she run off, and I can tell you there wasn't nobody bothered to look for her."

"I thought you should know," Catherine pushed on, noting that the fingers gripping the telephone had gone white with tension, "that she had a child--a little girl."

"Oh, I get it. And you people are lookin' for somebody to take her off your hands. Well, let me tell you, lady, I done enough cleanin' up for Sheila's mistakes when we was kids. You're not stickin' me with this one, and don't be callin' here again. You got it?"

The sound of the receiver slamming down still rang in her cars, as she hung up and expelled a full breath. "Don't worry," she muttered to herself. "I won't be calling again."

Resolutely, she tore the paper with the number on it into tiny bits and watched them flutter into the wastebasket, reminding herself that however distasteful the end of the search, it allowed her to give good news to Vincent. Gina would never know how lucky she was--to have been guided to that place of sanctuary. Now she would experience the kind of nurturing that every child deserved, and it could be given to her with a clear conscience. That realization wiped the bitter aftertaste of the conversation from her mind. There would be one more reason for happiness when next she saw Vincent again--as if they needed one.

The magic of the Samhain had already begun.