The Bridge

by Cynthia Hatch

The bridge and the basement of Levine's Hardware Emporium werejumbled in her mind. One moment she was standing in the greenishfluorescent light of the cellar, watching the wall balloon inward,the aluminum ladder detaching itself, flying towards her; the nextshe was braced on a rocky floor, teetering on ground that wascrumbling from beneath her feet, reaching out to Vincent.

With what expression did he return her frantic look? It made herhead hurt to remember. She would sink into unconsciousness, only torise again, the same two scenes flicking interspersed behind hereyelids.

The periods of blackness became fewer. She fought hard to focus onthe part of the film that kept replaying itself in fits and flashes,entwined with another whose import she couldn't grasp. The memoriesslowed. She thought she knew the beginning: she and Vincent walkingin a wide tunnel of umber rock. Her hand was in his. They weretalking - about what?

Small things, exchanges about what they had done since they lastmet, about the people close to them in their respective worlds. Therewas a chasm, no more than twelve feet across, spanned by a bridge ofstone. The thought of crossing it had not frightened her; she waswith him.

The bridge was not wide enough for them to walk side by side, asthey had been doing. He stepped out on it first, holding tight to herhand, looking at her with encouragement, and she had smiled, lettinghim see that his hand, his eyes were security enough for her. She hadstepped out behind him, and the shaking began. Had there been asound? She thought there had, but when she tried to call it back, shesaw again the cold light of the cellar, the ladder coming towards herand heard a muffled boom.

She willed her aching head back to that other vision of herselfleaping back onto firmer ground. How? How could that be? She saw thebridge crumbling into the abyss and Vincent on the other side. Butsomething was wrong; the pain must be playing tricks with the memory,distorting images, but it was so clear.

He had let go of her hand. Purposely let go. And she - why hadn'tshe clung to him? Why hadn't he pulled her with him in the two longstrides it took him to reach the other side? Had he known she'd besafer there, if he let her jump back onto the rocky path where theyhad been strolling? But it wasn't safe: no sooner had she landedthere, than the earth beneath her was falling away. And theexpression in his eyes - what did it mean?

The pain grew sharper, as she felt hysteria rising within her. Shehad called to him frantically, terrified for herself, for him; inthat brief instant wanting to be with him, whatever the horror thatwas shaking the tunnel, raising yellow clouds, as the stonedisintegrated.

The walls shuddered; pieces of rock descended around them, thehideous dust almost obscuring him from her sight. There was deathhere, pulsating all around them, and she wanted only to be with himwhen it came. He had taught her how to face life with its inevitablepain, and she knew that he could give her the strength she needed toface death as well. If she could be with him, in his arms, even itspower would be secondary. The truth of their bond flowed through herand through him, and she never doubted that their oneness wouldsurvive beyond this life. Perhaps only outside the limits of theseworlds they lived in now could they ever truly be joined.

He was only a few feet away from her, but the chasm yawned betweenthem. She reached out desperately, threatening her precariousbalance, and he just stood there, hood thrown back, looking at herwith that expression she could not understand. There was love in hiseyes, oh yes - the clear, blue brilliance of them seemed made oflove, but there was no fear in them, no sadness.

She fought hard to name the emotion she saw there and realized itwas pride. He was proud of her; she could feel it, but for what? Itmade no sense. As she watched, other faces appeared in the tunnelbehind him: Father, Mary, Mouse, so many others, all standing smilingslightly, watching her. Her panic increased, and a scream ripped fromher throat, "Vincent!"

She heard it as only a strangled sound. Her eyes snapped open tobe assaulted by intense light. She blinked and took in the smoothbeige walls, the crisp white sheet that covered her, the metal railon the bed. A balding man in a doctor's coat stood, holding herwrist.

"How do you feel?" he asked, when she looked at him.

She was surprised that her voice sounded almost normal. "My headhurts."

"I'm sure it does. Can you tell me your name?"

"Catherine - Catherine Chandler."

"Uh-huh. I'm Dr. Golding, Miss Chandler. Do you know what day thisis?" He had taken a penlight from his pocket and was shining it intoher eyes.

"I guess it's still Thursday, May 18th."

"Good. Know what year that might be?"

"'89," she said with some exasperation.

"And who's president of the United States?"

"Bush."

"Who's the RBI leader in the American League?"

"I have no idea."

"That's okay, I don't either." He smiled and put the flashlightback in his pocket. "You'll be alright, Miss Chandler. There's nofracture, only a mild concussion, but I'd like to keep you hereovernight, just for observation. Is there a relative we cancall?"

"No, no one. I have a horrible headache."

"We'll be able to give you something for that soon. You shouldfeel much better by morning. The man who brought you in - he'swaiting outside. Would you like to see him before we get you settledfor the night?"

"Yes, please."

Vincent! But no, it couldn't be. He had brought her safely to ahospital before when she'd been badly hurt, but, of course, hecouldn't come inside. She felt confused, watching Dr. Golding'sretreating back, watching the doorway that opened onto the highlypolished linoleum, the clean dull stretch of corridor wall.

Why did hospitals always look so depressing despite their brightlights and pristine atmosphere?

Footsteps approached. Illogically, she hoped they were made bybooted feet, would give anything if that powerful figure would cometo fill the doorway, but the face that peered at her, concern in thewarm, brown eyes, was Joe's.

"You scared me this time, kiddo," he said, approaching the bed."How are you feeling?"

"Like I've got a bad hangover."

He sat down on the plastic chair near the bed and leaned hiselbows on his knees. "Don't worry, Cath. The doc says you'll be fine.It could have been a whole lot worse."

"I - I don't remember. What happened, Joe? How did I get here?"

"The doctor said you might not remember - it's nothing to worryabout. A gas main exploded down on Canal. You and me and Greg Hughs -we were down in that crummy basement, looking for the .38 that Suttersaid he hid there. The thing blew, and a ladder hit you. We made itout of there before the whole damned wall fell in, and got you anambulance.

"Were many people hurt, Joe? There must have been a fire."

"I don't know. The city was on top of it before the ambulance evengot there - fire department, the maintenance guys, ConEd. The placewas a circus, but apparently the explosion was down deep. They mayhave contained it before it did much more than shake up those lousyfiretraps."

The tunnels? The explosion had been in the tunnels, and she'd beenthere too and Vincent.

No, that couldn't be. Joe said she'd been with him, and she couldpicture it now - the junk filled cellar, the three of them pokingthrough boxes and behind filthy piles of rubbish and tools. There hadbeen bugs and cobwebs, and she remembered she'd been fearful that shemight encounter a rat. The other must have been, had to have been, adream brought on by fear and her injury. But if, in fact, theexplosion had ripped into the tunnels, had it reached those sheloved? The center of their world was far away from the lower eastside, but what about the city crews that would go down there? Wouldthey see something - someone - they shouldn't? Her head began topound harder, and the pain must have been reflected on her face, asJoe leaned forward and took her hand.

"Hey, you look like you could use some rest. I better get out ofhere. Is there anything you need, anything I can bring you?"

"No, thanks Joe. I can go home in the morning."

"Yeah, I know. I'll come get you, Cath."

"You don't have to do that."

"Look, tomorrow's a working day. I'm the boss, and your assignmentis to let me take you home. I'm giving you the day off, Radcliffe,you'd better appreciate it. It probably won't happen again."

"Okay, Joe. Thanks," she smiled. He got up to leave, and as hereached the door, she called, "The gun, Joe - did we find thegun?"

He grinned. "Blew right out of the air duct - almost knocked Hughsover on the way out. We're a great team, Cathy. What did youexpect?"

He left, and she tried again to make sense of the vision that hadseemed so clear, yet inexplicable. It had to be only that - anightmare vision. Even now it seemed to be fading, taking on theelusive quality of a dream, but still she worried. Damage to thetunnels, the possibility of discovery.

She glanced at the window, wondering what floor she was on,knowing it wouldn't really matter; if he could come to her he would,and she needed to be with him, to see his face, and erase that othervision of him, letting her go, watching her struggle in her isolationand looking at her with admiration.

If he came to her in the night, she didn't know it. She sleptdeeply, scarcely aware of the brief examinations she was subjected tothroughout the night, When she woke to the smell of breakfast, sherealized she was hungry. Her headache was gone, and she felt quitenormal. Joe arrived soon afterwards, and Dr. Golding releasedher.

On the ride uptown Joe filled her in on the aftermath of theexplosion. There'd been several injuries, but no fatalities, the firecontained, and the damage restricted to a single block. She tried tothink of some way to quiz him further on what had happenedunderground, but he probably wouldn't know anyway.

At her apartment he fixed them both a cup of coffee, and theyargued briefly over whether she should be left alone.

"Joe, if you knew how well I actually feel, you'd drag me into theoffice, so just stop fussing. Go to work. I'll call if there are anyproblems."

She shoved him out the door and glanced at the terrace. It wassunny. So many hours till he could come to her. She tried to read, towatch television. She'd been told to rest, but she felt wide awake,and she needed to know that everything below was well. Finally, sheput on her sweat clothes and boots, grabbed a flashlight and left theapartment.

The subbasement was deserted, and she moved with practiced ease tothe hidden entrance, pulling back the boxes that obscured it. Herfingers froze. The wall they revealed was solid; someone had brickedit up.

She ran her hands over it, unwilling to believe what she saw. Thebricks had been painted to match the rest of the wall, but the paintdidn't seem fresh. It looked dingy; dust came off on her fingers. Howmany days since she'd used this entrance - five or six? It didn'tseem possible. She rocked back on her heels and stared at the blankexpanse, trying to make sense of it.

Finally, she stood, not bothering to scoot the cartons back intoplace, and ran up to the lobby. Out on the street she was forced towait for the stream of cars to slow, her heart pounding. She threadedher way between them, crossing into the park where she broke into arun. Near the drainage tunnel, she forced herself to slow down. Acouple lay on the slope, necking. Farther up the green hill thatrounded gently over the pipe, three teenagers were playing frisbee.You can't go in there, she told herself. You can't jeopardize thesecret.

She took a gulp of air and sank down on the grass, her mind racingwith her heart. The vision - that panic she'd experienced was eatingits way into the waking world. It was only a dream she'd had, broughton by the bump on her head. She mustn't let it influence her. But thewall that blocked her access to the tunnels - that had been veryreal.

Confusion gripped her like a drug. The people around the ditchstill showed no signs of leaving. There were thoughts, frightfulthoughts, nudging at her consciousness, bizarre notions no doubtbrought on by the trauma, that she was determined to ignore. She hadto think clearly, to make sure that she concentrated on the issue athand, the assurance that all was well below.

The tunnel was just in front of her, so close, but she dared notgo in, not with the number of people who might see her. After awhile, she pushed herself up and started back the way she'd come.She'd just have to wait, get a hold on herself, till he could come toher. Vincent would have an explanation. He would soothe her.Everything would be alright.

The running had caused her head to ache again, and she entered thelobby, sweating, breathing hard.

"This is the wrong time of day for jogging, Miss Chandler," thedoorman greeted her. "It's too hot out there."

"Yeah, Roger, I found that out." She hoped her tone didn't betraythe cold anxiety that was creeping in at every pore.

She entered the elevator, and the door closed. The trip back upseemed endless. There was something she had to get, had to hold inher hand. She let herself into the apartment and rushed to thebedroom, pulling the bedspread back, reaching under her pillow. Itwasn't there. Frantically, she tossed both pillows on the floor andripped the sheets from the mattress. Nothing.

Strong with adrenaline, she shoved the heavy bed out into theroom, crawling on her hands and knees behind it, feeling every inchof the carpet. She stood up and searched through the night table,then ran to the closet. She pulled clothes from their hangers, goingthrough the pockets, snatched purses from the shelf and turned themupside down, discarding them on the bedroom floor. Her knees wereshaking, and she let them carry her to the carpet. The crystal wasgone.

She'd known it couldn't be anywhere but under her pillow, theplace she always kept it when it wasn't around her neck. When Vincenthad first put it on her, she had sworn to herself that she wouldnever take it off; that sweet moment would always be remembered aslong as it lay over her heart. But later the very pricelessness of ithad given her caution. If she wore it always, someone might notice,might guess that it held for her some deep significance that wouldmake them curious, so she had resisted the longing and protected itssecret by wearing it only occasionally.

She couldn't have lost it. She would have felt its absence themoment it slipped from the slender chain. She was always conscious ofit, resting against her skin, reminding her of him. Could someonehave broken in - found it under her pillow? She looked around. Herart objects still gleamed in their glass case. The television and VCR- all the mundane things that might appeal to a burglar were stolidlyin place. The only havoc in the apartment was what she'd wreakedherself.

As her eyes swept the familiar surroundings, she felt a suddenrush of nausea in the pit of her stomach. Why? What had triggered it- something she'd noticed? No, her mind offered no explanation; itmust be a residual effect of the concussion and her agitated state.She tried to calm down, reminding herself that head injuries couldproduce all sorts of irrational thoughts, but the next moment she wasleaping up to run into the living room.

The book of sonnets he'd given her - she always kept it out, sothat she could pick it up and read a verse at anytime. It wasn't onthe coffee table. She reached underneath and ran her hand under thecouch. Maybe she'd slipped it unthinking into the bookcase. She wentto it, touching each book, willing it to be one of them. She couldn'tfind it. Her panic was palpable now, smothering her so that it washard to breathe. It seemed she might collapse under its weight. Thensuddenly something else caught her eye, not what she'd been lookingfor, but just as dear, just as powerful in its ability to calm her,to allow her to take a cleansing breath again. The afternoon sunpicked out the gilt design on its spine, the words GreatExpectations. She snatched it from the shelf, hugging it to herbreast, saying a prayer of thanks for its reality that dispelled herunnamed fear.

The terrace welcomed her, and she sat down still clutching thebook to her. Darkness would come, and he would come with it. Shedidn't go back inside, didn't eat or clean up the mess she'd made inthe bedroom. She wanted to be here the second he arrived, did notwant to miss one instant of his presence. The afternoon wore on. Shedozed, but her sleep was haunted by that same old reel of cinemanoir: she and Vincent walking hand in hand, the cataclysm thatfollowed, the enigmatic look he gave her as she floundered.

The phone rang, and reluctantly she went inside to answer it. Ifshe didn't, whoever was calling might worry about her and come over,and she wanted nobody here, nobody but him. It was Joe, asking if sheneeded anything, wondering if she'd like to have company. She beggedoff, telling him she was going to bed. When she looked at the clock,she gasped. It was after nine, and he still hadn't come. It must havebeen dark for an hour or more by now. She ran back outside. Theshadows were cool and empty. Why? Why hadn't he come to her? Surely,he felt the turmoil that had consumed her since yesterday. What couldpossibly keep him from her?

The dream - the horrible destruction in the tunnel. Could it havebeen something real that he was experiencing? Had their connectionbrought that picture to her, and had it been true? Had he reallystood in a shower of stone at the edge of the abyss? She threw downthe book she was still carrying. Stopping only for a flashlight, sheran out of the apartment. streaking by the doorman and across thedarkened street, running desperately through the night shadows of thepark.

She barely glanced around as she entered the drainage tunnel andstumbled for the gate. It was, of course, closed. As her flashlightplayed over it, the bars appeared to be more firmly in place than sheremembered. It looked rusted, fused to the walls, nor did the sharptug she gave it produce the slightest movement, the faintest creak toindicate it could be budged. The lever that would allow the door tobe opened from this side winked mockingly in the flashlight's beam,safe behind the metal gridwork that also refused to yield.

She whirled and knelt, fumbling for the rock that was alwaysthere, so she could tap out a message on the pipes. It was gone;someone must have absentmindedly carried it away. She pulled off ashoe and tried to use the heel as hammer, but the sound was muffled;it wouldn't carry far below.

She darted back out of the tunnel, scrambling over the hillsideuntil she found a good-sized stone, running back inside to bang outan SOS, again and again. She stopped, listening. Was the messagereaching its destination? There was no reply. Impossible that thepipe chamber would be unmanned. Impossible that someone down therehadn't heard her frantic signal, wasn't responding to tell her theywere coming.

Her ears strained for a hint of sound beyond the door: footsteps,the click of the mechanism hidden there, but there was only the soundof her own labored breathing. The nameless fear welled up in heragain, threatening to expose itself in all its awful finality.

She turned the flashlight on the tunnel wall and reached out withthe other hand, scraping at the dirt. It should have been right here- that inscription carved long ago by two boys, the names Vincent andDevin, but she couldn't find it. She scratched harder at the surface,tearing her nails, her fingertips raw and bleeding. It enveloped hernow - the panic, the unnamed dread that was whispering in her ear,pushing, wanting to tell her its name. She clutched at the iron bars,shaking them, sobbing, her forehead against the cold, unyieldingmetal.

"Hey! What are you doing in there?"

Glare from a flashlight much more powerful than her own assailedher eyes. It moved, and she could see the silhouette of a man in themoonlight, looking into the mouth of the tunnel. The moon shone onthe badge he wore. She'd done it - jeopardized the secret with hercarelessness. Dimly, she felt the shame of it, but her shaking bodywas overcome by a greater emotion. She turned back, pulling madly atthe gate. An animal cry echoed shrilly off the walls.

"Vincent!"

She screamed for him again and again, even as the patrolmangrabbed her, pulling her away from the gate. She fought him, kickingand scratching, mindless of the more effective techniques Isaac hadtaught her, caught up totally in the madness that enshrouded her. Itwas as if doors were swinging open in her mind, revealing hideousthoughts, crazy images. Behind one of them she saw quite clearly thething that had so upset her in the apartment, the thing that hadn'tregistered because it couldn't be there - her mother's porcelainrose, gleaming whitely in the glass case. She was still fighting,still screaming his name, when the doors slammed shut, and she sankinto oblivion.

The ducklings had grown, lost their childish wobbliness and nowswam gracefully after their mother on the tranquil pond. The sun waswarm, yet even in August, there was a crispness in the air, a hint ofautumn.

Her wrist on the wrought iron table was thin and pale. She lookedat the dandelion that her fingers explored listlessly; you're pretty,she thought, You may be a weed, and people think you don't belong,but it doesn't change the fact that you're pretty.

The wide stretch of manicured lawn was dotted with patientssitting at little tables, some in wheelchairs. Many were talking tovisitors. She had had her share of those over the last three months.It had warmed her to find how deeply her friends cared for her. Jennyand Joe driving all the way up from the city to spend the afternoon.Several people she'd almost lost touch with had materialized,expressing their friendship and concern. It had surprised her; asmuch as she had cut herself off from old friends over the last twoyears, they hadn't forgotten her, wanted to show that they stillcared.

And Nancy - Nancy had come most often. The sanitarium was inWestchester, not far from the Connecticut border, so even with herown busy schedule Nancy had managed to set aside time to spend inconversation. How she had welcomed her visits - not at first, notwhen the wound was so raw that every word brought her to tears, butlater, as she grew stronger, she had been glad that it was Nancy whocame most frequently. Only Nancy of all her friends had already heardher speak of Vincent, knew the depth of her feelings for him, and itwas only to Nancy that she spun long tales of the life theyshared.

At last she could tell the secret, and she did so wanting someoneelse to understand, to see that wonderful hidden world as clearly asshe did in her mind's eye. She described every physical detail shecould recall of the people who lived there, every object in Vincent'schamber, in Mouse's, the jumbled richness of Father's study. Therewere things she left out, things too dear, too personal to be exposedto light without tapping that seemingly bottomless reservoir ofgrief. They were things difficult to put into words, and so shedidn't try, hugging them safe in her heart, the last vestige of adream.

At first visitors had approached her warily, afraid to questionher, to say the wrong thing, but they had come back faithfully, awarethat their friendship was bolstering her. After those first tortuousweeks with the doctors when she had raved, tearing pieces of thestory out of herself for their perusal, she had gradually calmed,reached some level of acceptance. She was able to have normalconversations with her visitors. No longer brittle and fragmented,she would tell them a little, very little, of her thoughts, and theywould relax and relate to her incidents in their own lives, gossip,and news, and she would be able to smile and return theirempathy.

It no longer shocked her when one of these people spoke of someevent in her life, something that had happened in the past two years,describing it in a way that she would not have recognized weeks ago.Jenny had spoken of Steven Bass, still locked away in a psychiatrichospital, far less in touch with reality than she was now. Catherinehad asked about his physical injuries, and Jenny hadn'tunderstood.

"You mean what you did to him, Cathy, when he tried to attack you?I'm sure his groin has recovered by now, which is too bad. I don'tcare how crazy he is, you were lucky to get away from him."

No, not lucky. It had been the skills Isaac taught her, theability to use her own fear and anger to attack him. She rememberedthat now - remembered Steven rolling on the ground, incapacitatedwith pain, and her own mad dash to the nearest neighbor, banging onthe door, being taken inside while the police were called. So manythings, so many incidents which now had a new explanation in hermind, but she wouldn't forget the other, wouldn't even try.

Some conversations had been harder than others. Two weeks ago shehad sat in the parlor with Joe, and he'd been praising her for thegood work she'd done since joining the DA's office, assuring her thather job was still waiting whenever she was well enough to return.

She had been unable to meet his eyes, when she said, haltingly,"But the bodies, Joe, so many bodies - the blood."

He had given her that nervous look they all did when they fearedher illness was talking. "The bodies, Cath? You mean the guys thathave died - the cases you were working on?"

She managed a nod.

"I know, it's tough to deal with that - the shootings, the guythat fell out the window - all of 'em. It's hard for anybody to beinvolved in that crap as much as you've been. I blame myself. Ishould have run more interference between you and Moreno. He wantedto throw you into the thick of things, and I went along with it. Ishould have known that somebody from your background couldn't beexposed to all that so fast and not take it pretty hard. You were sotough, kiddo, bouncing back like a trouper from every rottenincident. It was stupid of me not to realize it was tearing you upinside."

"Oh, no, Joe," she said tearfully, grabbing his hand. "I didn'tmean that. I'm grateful for the part you let me play bringing so manyawful people down. It made me feel that I could really help make adifference. Please don't think you did anything wrong. I'm justfeeling - fragile right now."

"Well, don't think we're putting you back out there on the streetsright away. I'm chaining you to your chair, and I'm gonna weigh youdown with so much paperwork, you'll need bifocals before you'refinished with it."

"It sounds boring." She smiled at him through her tears and wastouched by the way his eyes lit up in response. God, she was lucky tohave people like Joe. It couldn't be easy for him, coming here. Hisblunt nature must be hard pressed to negotiate the dangerous shoalsof dealing with an unstable person, someone he respected and caredfor, but he forced himself to do it, to run the risk of saying thewrong thing, causing her bruised emotions to overflow in a way thatwould leave him feeling clumsy and helpless. They all did it, all ofthose who cared about her, and she loved them for it. It had takensuch a long time to recognize how much good there really was inpeople. It had been Vincent's doing, always Vincent.

At first she had been subjected to sessions with several differentpsychiatrists. They had seemed to find her case unusually intriguing.She had the sense that they discussed it continually amongthemselves, like astronomers who'd discovered a new star. Maybe thatwas paranoia. Dr. Grafton had told her that if she had therationality to question that assessment - to wonder if she was beingparanoid, then she probably wasn't. He'd even gone so far as to quotethe old cliche: just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean somebodyisn't out to get you. He had gotten her to smile that day, one of thefirst times, and he'd told her that yes, her experience wouldundoubtedly find its way into medical journals - that the fact shewas still so in touch with it, could describe it articulately wasunusual, that such a diagram for the delusional process would beinvaluable to future cases.

She had winced at the word "delusional" and knew she was anythingbut articulate in their first sessions. She had spent what seemedlike many hours over a period of time, refusing to divulge herthoughts, refusing to compromise the secret, but she knew, even then,that the secret lay only with her; the world she protected and him -they lived only in her heart, her mind.

She was immeasurably grateful when Dr. Grafton took over her casecompletely. He would drive all the way up to Westchester for theirsessions. Had he guessed a year ago when she first went to him,ostensibly to discuss her mother's death, that the other informationshe'd given him was not precisely what it seemed? His quietencouragement had allowed her to speak of Vincent. He had prodded hergently, needing to know more about this elusive figure who dominatedher thoughts. When she'd refused to elaborate, had he surmised thatit was a mental block he was confronting and not just her refusal tobreak a promise? He never said, and she had no wish to ask,preferring to keep that chapter in her life untainted by the scrutinyof rational examination.

She was released from the sanitarium in late August, restrictedonly by orders to take two more weeks rest before she returned to theoffice, and by her twice weekly visits to Dr. Grafton. She had hatedthose first confrontations with the doctors in Westchester, hated theway they tried to make her speak of things heavily guarded in herheart, hated herself for every meager glimpse she let them have ofthe world she'd promised to protect. The hysteria that had grippedher in the park that night had given way under her exhaustion and thesedatives they'd used to control her. She had little memory of abrief stay in Bellevue before she was whisked away to the gentlerclimes of Lakeside. There she had been calmer but still rebelliousagainst the cold truth she could no longer deny.

It was only later, as the summer wore on, that she realized shewas looking forward to her talks with Dr. Grafton, though theyinevitably brought some pain; it was a pain that he helped her putinto perspective. Others spoke of her "breakdown"; Dr. Grafton calledit a "breakthrough". What some saw as an affliction, he celebrated asa triumph - proof that the human mind, her mind, was a wonderful andpowerful thing, capable of sustaining life by whatever meansnecessary, until it could be lived fully again.

More importantly, he never suggested she put her memories ofVincent and that other world aside. He saw them as an importantelement of her character to be cherished and enjoyed in their ownlight. She could never have done it, would never have tried, whateverthe consequences, but his acceptance of that made her feel open tohim, grateful.

Now she sat in the familiar leather chair in his Manhattan office,a late summer sun warming the room. They were going over territorythey had covered before. At first this tendency in therapists hadannoyed her, but slowly she'd realized the wisdom of it. It was notenough to examine the problems, to understand their origins, todiscover ways to cope with their implications. It was far too easy tomouth the words, claim an understanding that she didn't truly feel.He would coax her to find her own truth in them, to recognize it astrue, and to believe in herself again - in her feelings.

Initially, it had seemed she did all the talking, that hiscarefully crafted silences were designed to make her uncomfortable soshe would fill the void with her own voice, revealing her innermostthoughts. The method had served its purpose, but of late he was moreforthcoming, more willing to answer her questions instead of turningthem back on her. As she'd regained a healthy perspective, theirsessions had taken on more the feeling of conversations, the exchangeof ideas between friends who trusted each other. She was no longerattempting to hide anything, and he rewarded her with a certaincandor.

"People still keep talking like I've had a nervous breakdown.They're sympathetic and kind, but it bothers me that they have it allturned around, that they think what happened this May was thebeginning of my illness instead of the beginning of my recovery."

"Nervous collapse is something most people know about. They'recomfortable with the idea, knowing patients recover."

"I know. It's picky of me, I guess. It's just that I know they'retrying to figure out what caused it, and that bump on the head I gotat Levine's wasn't sufficient cause. I feel like they're wondering ifI'm too fragile for my job, if the pressures of work didn't bring iton."

"What did bring it on?"

"The accident - two years ago - the attack."

"People who know you well will think back and make thatconnection."

"I suppose so, but they know so little of what actually went on inmy mind. It would be a pretty tenuous connection."

"Few people appreciate the resiliency, the infinite capacity foradaptation that a healthy mind has. Would you like some coffee?" Shenodded, and he went to a table behind his desk to fill two cups.

"I have trouble thinking of myself as particularly healthy backthen - mentally, I mean."

"Why?" He handed her a cup and returned to his chair beside thedesk.

"Before the attack I didn't think much about anything important -my next date, where I was going on vacation. I wasn't very sensitiveto other people.'

"You weren't utilizing all your resources, but you were capableof it, Cathy. Your psyche was just waiting for something to tap itspotential."

"Would that have happened, do you think, if it hadn't been for theattack?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know. It's common, I suppose, for people who've beenthrough a crisis, something life-threatening, to reevaluate theirlives. You discover that your time's too precious to waste on trivialthings, but I'm not sure I could have done it, if it wasn't for--"

"If it wasn't for Vincent?"

"Yes."

"And what are you really saying when you tell me that, Cathy?"

"That it was his image in me that showed me the way." Her voicehad lowered as it always seemed to do when she was forced to speakwords that denied his reality.

"And who created that image?"

"I did."

"You can be proud of that, Cathy. Sometimes in the wake of aterrible trauma such as you suffered, the mind escapes entirely,often never to be fully functional again. It may cope by fragmenting- schizophrenia or even multiple personalities."

"Any old mental illness in a storm, I guess," she said with only ahint of bitterness.

"However incapacitating those illnesses may be, they are, in fact,attempts to survive, to cope, to regain a healthy balance."

"But they don't work."

"Sadly, that's often true, but there's a big difference betweenthose conditions and yours. Have you figured out what it is?"

"Not really. They all can be cured sometimes, can't they?"

"Sometimes. But while they last, the victim operates at only afraction of his usual capabilities, if at all. What have youaccomplished since the night you were assaulted?"

She was tempted to say, "very little". Her job seemed sofrustrating at times - two drug dealers popping up for every one theytook down, people guilty of heinous crimes against whom there wasn'tenough concrete evidence to act, the endless stream of abuse casesthat crossed her desk, the criminals, guilty as sin, who walked on atechnicality. But she had to be honest. What progress had been madeby the DA's office had often involved her own hard work, herwillingness to risk her life in a just cause. "More than I everaccomplished in the thirty years before that," she said finally.

"I'm glad you see that, Cathy. You were not just functional - yousurpassed your former self in every way. I don't want you to think ofthis delusional pattern you constructed for yourself as anythingshameful or negative."

"I never could."

"Good. You found a way to bear up under the horror. You reacheddown inside yourself and brought up compassion, courage, sensitivity- a kind of nobility."

"You're describing Vincent."

He nodded. "Vincent is a part of you."

"He used to tell me that," she said, trembling at the memory. "Hesaid the beauty I saw in him was in myself. He told me we'd always bea part of each other, that we were one." A tear escaped her, and Dr.Grafton handed her a tissue.

"The mind isn't devious, Cathy. It's a pretty straightforwardmachine. It was telling you - through Vincent's words - the simpletruth. You just weren't ready to hear it yet."

She wiped her cheek and whispered, "I needed him. I needed a safeplace to go when life got too scary, even if it was only in myhead."

"And how beautifully your mind accommodated that need. It gaveyou, not only Vincent, but a whole world that was loving and safe andaccepting - everything that I'm afraid good old NYC is not."

He allowed her to sit quietly, following the trail of her ownthoughts. "Father," she said at last. "Father was so wise andprotective of us all."

"Was there any of your own father in him, Cathy?"

"Some - in his unconditional love for Vincent. I always felt thatfrom my own dad, but Father was far more intellectual than Daddy -more scholarly."

"Did you ever wish those qualities for your own father?"

She laughed. "I don't think so. Daddy was just Daddy. I adoredhim. I don't ever remember wanting him to change - just perhaps totake more time to be with me."

"Like Father did with the people in the tunnels?"

"Yes. Father always had time for everyone - especially Vincent,even when he was grown. They'd have long talks together, share books,play chess. They had enormous respect for each other." She wasrelaxed now, thankful that he let her go on this way, describing thepeople she loved as if they were real.

"Did you share the same mutual respect with your own father?"

"Yes." She hesitated. "No, not really - love, yes, and towards theend I think he learned to respect my decisions, but it was a longhaul. Daddy tended to see me as an extension of himself. It wasn'ttill after the accident that I had the courage to contradict his ideaof what I should be, but I always respected him. I thought he wasperfect."

"Nobody's perfect, are they, Cathy?"

"No - nobody real." She managed a wan smile. Dr. Grafton satsilently, obviously expecting her to go on. She squirmed slightly,and the leather chair creaked. "I guess maybe part of me didn'trespect the life he'd chosen, the fact that his work took precedenceover his personal relationships, but what could I say - I was just asself-centered myself, so I couldn't have been thinking anything ascritical as all that."

"But you did - eventually."

"Yes, I guess I did. It hurt him when I left the firm, but Iwanted to do more - to help somebody besides myself."

"And a part of you, deep down, must have always been capable ofthat."

"I guess so," she conceded. After a moment, she said, "It was mymother who was really the intellectual. As young as I was when shedied, I knew how much she read, how she loved plays and lectures. Shedidn't have a very happy childhood. I think she must have takensolace in books."

"Like who?"

"Like Vincent."

He nodded. "All the people that you admire, real and imagined -you knew which qualities were important to you. You found comfort inthose. Have you thought anymore about Vincent - what he representedto you?"

Had she thought of little else? The fact that Dr. Grafton hadn'tguessed how much Vincent still consumed her thoughts made her feelsuddenly shaky, as if the safety net they had constructed togetherwas not totally secure. But he'd told her it was alright to remember.He was even discussing Vincent on the same factual basis that they'ddiscussed her father. She took a deep breath. "He gave meeverything."

"Like what?"

"Love, protection, friendship, understanding, respect, safety,knowledge, insight, an appreciation for literature - everything."

"Is that quite everything, Cathy?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Okay. Would you like some more coffee?" She shook her head. "Whatabout men, Cathy? What kind of relationships have you had with mensince the attack?"

"Good ones - nothing unusual."

"The men who assaulted you - they must have made you feelhelpless, as well as terrified. You must have hated them."

"I did, but they're dead now. The police shot them." It feltstrange to say that, but she'd asked Joe for the police report, andhe'd given it to her. It clearly stated that she'd been in imminentdanger and that two patrolmen had entered the brownstone and shot herassailants. There had been a minor brouhaha over the use ofunnecessary force, but they'd been exonerated. Still, she rememberedthe guilt she'd suffered, the shame for having been the catalyst forso much destruction.

"Cathy?"

"What?" She came back to an awareness of Dr. Grafton patientlywaiting.

"Did your attitude towards men change as a result of theassault?"

"If you mean did I decide to take my anger out on all of them, Ididn't. Some of my dearest friends are men that I met during thatperiod."

"I wasn't talking about friendship. Did you have any intimaterelationships in the past two years?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know; I just didn't meet anyone I felt that stronglyabout."

"Is that surprising, do you think? You're an attractive youngwoman, out and about in the city. There must have been men who wereinterested in you."

"Some, but I didn't feel that way about them."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Why does anyone feel attracted to some people andnot to others?"

"That's a good question. Why don't you tell me the answer?"

She threw him one of her old defiant looks, but he appeared atease, ready to wait her out. She twisted the Kleenex she still heldin her hand, not liking the direction the conversation was taking."Because," she said finally, "they weren't Vincent. Nobody matteredbut Vincent."

He nodded. "And did you ever imagine that you and Vincent had anintimate relationship - physically?"

She bridled, but whether at the question or his use of the word"imagined", she wasn't sure herself. Yes, in the dream she hadimagined, burned with the longing for it, but it had never been actedupon. "No," she said tersely, "we didn't."

"Why not?"

She shrugged.

"The feelings you've described to me were of a very deep, mutuallove, yet you never attempted to consummate those feelings."

"No." She refused to say more.

"It would be understandable, Cathy, if your attack left youfeeling vulnerable, fearful of getting too close to a man."

"I suppose."

"Did you ever admit that to yourself when you came across someonewho appealed to you?"

"I told you. I wasn't attracted to anyone else - justVincent."

"But you also told me you never became intimate with himeither."

She lapsed into silence,

"Has it occurred to you, Cathy, that as long as you were going tothe trouble of concocting a perfect world in your mind, you couldhave made Vincent perfect also?"

"He was perfect," she said, rising to the bait.

"Physically perfect?"

"Yes - no. I've told you - he was different."

"Why do you suppose you needed him to be different?"

She bit her lip. "Maybe because when I first met - when I firstdreamed of him, I was disfigured. I didn't know if I'd ever looknormal again, and I guess I needed someone who could relate to that,who could teach me how to cope with it."

"Is that the only reason?"

"It's the only one I can think of."

"Is it possible that you used that difference to avoid a physicalrelationship - even in your imaginary world?"

She looked at him, startled, but after a few minutes of carefulconsideration, she admitted that there might be some truth in theidea. "Maybe at first I did. I suppose the prospect of a man touchingme was a little intimidating, but after a while I started havingthose feelings again - for Vincent. They were growing strongertowards the end."

"As you were getting stronger and healthier."

She stared at him, then shifted her attention out the window.

"But still this relationship remained platonic."

She nodded.

"Did you let him know about these feelings you weredeveloping?"

"No."

"Why not - didn't he find you attractive?"

She smiled, but it was only partly with amusement. "He thought Iwas beautiful. If you expect me to say he was turned off by me - bymy unworthiness, that I'd concocted him out of some deep need topunish myself, you'd be giving me - and my imagination - far too muchcredit."

"You think you've been unworthy?"

"In terms of being shallow and self-absorbed, yes. I think I'vegot the shallow part beat, but these sessions aren't exactly designedto discourage me from thinking about myself."

"No, they're not," he smiled. "Why didn't you sleep withVincent?"

He'd taken her off guard. "He was afraid."

"Afraid of what - of you?"

"Of himself."

"Why?"

She sighed. "Because that other part of him - the non-human partthat killed - he was afraid that violence would take over - that hemight hurt me."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Not in so many words, but I knew."

"You knew that a man might get carried away, if he got too closeto you; he might hurt you in some way."

"I didn't believe that - Vincent did." Dr. Grafton only looked ather, until she had listened to her own words, let their meaning sinkin. "It's the same thing, isn't it?" she said finally. "I wasapprehensive about men, afraid that I'd be hurt." She turned the ideaover in her mind for a few moments.

"Do you think that could be true?"

She swallowed. "I think it's possible, yes."

"It's very natural, Cathy. It would have been far more unusual ifyour feelings toward men hadn't changed after an assault of such apersonal nature. Maybe, now that you've accepted that, you'll findthose fears dissipating."

She waved the idea away. Right now she couldn't imagine ever beinginterested in a man. Even if he was only a figment of herimagination, Vincent still represented an ideal that would not beeasily approached.

"You created a lover," Dr. Grafton went on, "who asked nothingfrom you, relieved you of any guilt you might feel about refusing hisadvances, and at the same time gave you an excuse not to becomeinvolved with the real men in your life. Think about how completelyyour mind covered all the bases - gave you everything you neededuntil you were strong enough to recognize all of it as a part ofyourself."

"I've never thought of myself as a particularly creativeperson."

"Maybe you should. Have you considered writing down all yourmemories of Vincent and his world, while they're still fresh in yourmind? It might be a good release to deal with every detail now. Oryou could keep a journal and add things to it as they come back toyou."

"Better to have it down on paper, than cluttering up my brainwhere I might start believing it again?"

"Are you afraid that might happen?"

"I've only been afraid it might not," she admitted. "But I'm pastthat now. I understand - it won't happen, Dr. Grafton. You know," sheadded, "I've never really written that kind of thing, but Vincentdid; he always kept a journal."

"If he could do it, you can do it." He smiled at her.

"That's exactly the way he made me feel - about everything."

"You should listen to him, Cathy, to your vision of him. He'stelling you the truth. You made Vincent the protector of all youraspirations, your ideals." They sat in silence for a few minutes."Did you inherit your mother's love for books?"

"Well, it's funny. I loved reading as a child, but as I got olderI always seemed too busy to do it - until Vincent."

"He reminded you of a pleasure you'd lost sight of, something thatwould enrich your life."

"Yes. I've read a lot over the last two years. I went back andtried some of the classics that seemed too challenging to wadethrough in school. I've really gotten a lot out of them that I missedthe first time." She gave a sheepish laugh. "I remember I had a litcourse in college, and I did a whole term paper with nothing butCliff Notes. I never cracked the book, and I got a B+. It - " shestopped. "Oh, my God," she said softly, and something in her facemade Dr. Grafton lean forward with a look of concern.

"What is it, Cathy?"

"I just remembered - the book I cheated on - it was GreatExpectations, the first book Vincent ever gave to me. When thingsstarted falling apart, when I began to fear that the tunnel worldwasn't real, I started looking for something, anything, that wouldprove I was wrong, and I found this volume of GreatExpectations on my bookshelf. It was exactly like the one I'dpictured him giving to me."

She sat deep in thought a moment. "I remember now where it camefrom. Before the attack - just a couple of days before, I think - Iwas down in the Village on some errand for my father. It startedraining like crazy, and I didn't have my umbrella, so I ducked intoan old bookstore. I only intended to stand there until the worst ofthe rain let up, but it was a comfortable feeling place, and Istarted to browse around. I know I found one book - poetry, I think,but I can't remember what it was, and then I saw it - a beautiful oldedition of Great Expectations. You'd think I'd have felt tooguilty, after that fiasco at Radcliffe, to ever have anything to dowith Dickens again, but I remember holding that book and having thewarmest feeling. I bought them both - that one and the poems."

"So even before Vincent, you were reminding yourself to tryreading again."

"I suppose so. I wonder why I remember that now."

"Don't be surprised, Cathy, if a lot of the things that played apart in your delusional construct, don't start cropping up inreality. The brain doesn't create matter anymore than any other powerdoes; it constructs things out of useful bits and pieces it finds.Like dreams. We can usually get to the bottom of some seeminglyirrelevant dream symbol, if we're persistent enough. Symbols areeither universal or quite specific, having a particular significanceto the dreamer that he may not remember."

"I've wondered about things like that - like why the tunnel peopledressed as they did, whether all those candles symbolized anything,why Vincent looked the way he looked."

"That's alright. Finding sources for those things can be aninteresting and enjoyable discovery."

"Plus, it will ground those things in reality?" she askedshrewdly.

"It might, but don't jump to any conclusions. Some things may havevery complex origins, others may be ridiculously simple. Now yourmemory of buying the book - that's very concrete. We could theorizethat perhaps that particular novel stirred some guilt feelings in youthat account for the significance you placed on it, but it'sperfectly valid to assume it simply showed up in your dream becauseit happened to be your most recent purchase and was fresh in yourmind. If you're tempted to torture some symbol into significance,come to me, and we'll see if it's worth it."

"When you say universal symbols, do you mean that to me Vincentmay have resembled a lion, because the lion's the king of beasts,fierce and strong, and I needed that kind of protector? Do you thinkthat's why I saw him that way?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"Maybe. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

"It could - to some people. The important question is does it makesense to you. Remember, you're not talking about a subtlety here.This is Vincent's face - the first thing to be noticed about him. Isthat quality of fierceness the primary feeling he evoked in you?"

"No. First it was feelings of gentleness, comfort, safety."

"Are there any references to that in your own life?"

"In connection with a lion?" She laughed. "I don't think so; it'skind of a contradiction in terms, isn't it - a lion and gentleness,comfort?" She shook her head. "I remember my dad used to - oh!"

"What is it? What did your dad used to do, Cathy?"

Her voice had fallen to a whisper. "I had a stuffed toy that Islept with when I was little. I loved it. I'd hug it to me, as I fellasleep and the darkness wouldn't seem so scary, but my dad used tograb it and tickle my tummy with it, and say, 'he's going to eat you- he's going to eat you all up', and I'd giggle and squirm, and mymom would yell at him to stop getting me all wound up atbedtime."

"The stuffed toy - it was a lion?"

She nodded. "I'd forgotten all about that - at least I thought Ihad."

"Those were happy times, safe times, when you had two lovingparents to watch over you." He handed her another tissue.

"Yes. I never knew that kind of love and security again, untilVincent. Why? Why did it have to end so soon?"

"Your life with your parents or your dream of Vincent?"

"Both, I guess. I've worked through the grief about my mom anddad, some of it anyway, but this - sometimes this still feels sofresh."

"It is fresh, Cathy. It takes time for pain to fade, but there'san important difference between the loss of your parents and the lossof Vincent. Your parents died of illness. The best medical carecouldn't help them. Neither could you."

"Are you saying I could have prevented losing Vincent?"

"You could have, if the time wasn't right. In fact, I suspect youhave done so in the past. When you came to me last year, forinstance, you were obviously torn. A part of you was ready to get onwith a normal life. It was ready to jettison this delusion, thiscrutch you'd needed since the attack, but part of you wasn't ready -I suspect the wiser part - and the dream continued. This year all ofyou sensed that it was time."

"You make me feel like I killed him," she said harshly, wiping hereyes.

"Did you?"

"No! I never could have done that. I didn't do that."

" Do you remember how you described that vision to me at Lakeside?The vision of you and Vincent at the bridge. Think back, Cathy."

"I don't like to think about it. It still hurts."

"You were on the bridge. Who let go, Cathy?"

"He did."

"Describe for me the way you said he looked at you then. Was itcoldly?"

"No, it was loving, but he didn't look worried. He wasn't afraidfor me - for the danger I was in."

"What danger?"

"The tunnel collapsing and rocks falling everywhere."

"Was that a real danger, Cathy?"

"No. I mean, I know it didn't really happen, but it did in thecontext of his world. He should have been afraid for me."

"But the tunnel world was disintegrating. Has it occurred to youthat he was moving into another context?"

"You mean that I was finally recognizing that all this was in myimagination?"

He nodded. "You said, he looked as if he were proud of you."

"He did. He knew - that part of me that was him - knew that I wasready, that I could stand on my own, that I could keep him only as adream." Her voice was soft but steady, calm.

"You didn't kill him, Cathy. He let you go. He gave you back anormal life. You gave it back to yourself."

"But if the accident at Levine's was simply a catalyst, if I wastruly ready to let go, why has it hurt so much?"

"Doesn't it always hurt to let go of an ideal? Do you rememberfinding out there was no Santa Claus?"

She nodded. "I kept wanting to believe he was real, but as I gotolder there were just too many things indicating he wasn't. It mademe sad."

"What if you'd been five years old, a true believer, and someonetold you Santa had died. Do you think you would have felt the sameway?"

"No. That would have been worse - much worse."

"Well, the sadness you feel now about Vincent not being real -compare that to how you would have felt if you still believed he was,and something had happened to him - he was killed. Would that havebeen worse?"

"I think I would have died."

He accepted the statement without question. "You figured this oneout for yourself - just as you faced the fact that Santa was only asymbol. Your subconscious knew when you were ready, knew how muchsadness you could handle, and you have done it beautifully, Cathy.You've come a long way in just three months. The moment you letyourself acknowledge that Vincent and his world were fantasies, theylost their power to destroy you."

"And to protect me."

"Do you need protection?"

"I guess we'd all like to feel protected, have someone who wouldwatch over us, keep us safe."

Dr. Grafton nodded. "We miss the security of childhood."

She managed a brave smile. "But sooner or later we have to grow upand look out for ourselves, right?"

"If we're lucky, and if we can find our own strengths. What you'vebeen through has given you that. You've acquired a self-knowledgethat many people search for all their lives. It will serve you well,and it doesn't matter how you got it - from experience or your ownimagination. When you were strong enough, you were able to separatethe dream from reality."

"I see that, but there's a part of it that was so real, more realthan the crystal, the tunnels, anything. I can't let that part go. Ifeel it inside me all the time. It fills me up."

"What is it, Cathy?"

"Love - an incredible sense of having been deeply loved and ofgiving it back freely and completely."

"You're right, Cathy. Don't try to give that up. Use that memoryto help you love someone else."

She looked at him and burst into tears.

The next two weeks brought fewer tears. Even her visits with Dr.Grafton seemed to have passed some critical point. She no longerlooked for Vincent in the shadows of the terrace. When she'd firstbeen in the hospital, first faced the truth, she had thought shewould have to give up the apartment, that the memories connected withit would be too intense, but now she was glad she hadn't. Dr. Graftonhad helped her to see that she couldn't really lose what she'd neverhad and that what she'd gained from the experience would always bewith her.

The hardest place for her to come to terms with reality was on thebalcony. She had discussed the fact of Vincent's reluctance to enterthe apartment, the fact that he'd never done so unless it wasabsolutely crucial. She thought he'd been uncomfortable in her world.They toyed with the idea of the balcony as a romantic symbol, butlately she wondered if the restriction hadn't been a hedge againstthe day she came back to reality, so that there'd be few memories ofhis presence in the rooms to bother her.

The balcony posed the biggest problem. She fought the images thatcrowded there, but when she finally forced herself to spend time onit, to look out over the park with only a tinge of melancholy, shefound she had no physical sense of him at all. His words were in herheart. And his eyes - they didn't haunt her; they were far toobeautiful, too gentle for haunting, but the image of them stayed withher, and she found comfort there. How had she ever dreamed thoseeyes?

She had taken Dr. Grafton's advice and begun to keep a journal,writing constantly in it, fearful of missing any nuance, anydescription that might soon fade from her mind. She hated the thoughtof that fading, though she knew it meant she was adjusting to aviewpoint free of delusion. She wished she could describe his voice,but no words seemed adequate, and already the music of it wasreceding from her memory.

She ate well, thanks to a stream of friends and colleagues whoinsisted on stopping by with unexpected surplus food. She tried atfirst to tell them that she was perfectly capable of cooking her ownmeals, but then she remembered Father's words about accepting helpfrom those who offer it, and she knew it made them feel better tobelieve they were contributing to her recovery, which of course theywere. Their concern gave her strength and confidence.

Nancy had come down for a weekend, and Jenny stayed over now andthen, not because she couldn't be left alone, but she hoped, becauseshe was becoming better company again.

She spent the still warm days reading on the terrace, and hercolor returned. Her convalescence had interrupted her joggingroutine, but she began to get back in shape by taking long walks,finally venturing into the park. The day she crossed the bridge abovethe drainage tunnel and didn't slow her pace, she felt certain thatthe worst was over.

On the Saturday before she was due back at work, she woke upfeeling strong and restless. The day was gorgeous. Who knew how manylike it still remained before the city settled down to a slushysleep? Where to go - not a museum or gallery, not shopping; the daybegged for a walk in the sunshine.

On an impulse she hailed a taxi and had it drop her off inGreenwich Village. She strolled the sunny streets, peering into shopwindows, stopping in an antique store to ask about the origin of acarved chest she saw there. She recognized in herself a curiosity, azest for life that had only just returned. There were old men playingcheckers in Washington Square, while all around them youngergenerations found their own amusements: kids on skateboards,teenagers with jam boxes, couples walking hand in hand. She boughtpopcorn and fed the pigeons. All around her real life was pulsing,and she felt a part of it again.

She started down a block that looked vaguely familiar. Shecouldn't be sure, but it might be the one where she'd find thebookstore in which she'd bought Great Expectations and thatother book whose identity still eluded her. She had wondered aboutit, after mentioning it to Dr. Grafton. Shouldn't it have been avolume of sonnets? But a search of her book collection had turned upno Shakespearean verse, and no other volume had leapt out at her inexplanation of the missing one. Whatever it was, she must have boughtit as a gift.

The shops began to look increasingly familiar. Funny, since shewas sure she hadn't been here in two years. Dr. Grafton had pointedout that her job during that period had required intenseconcentration, her total attention, sometimes just forself-preservation, and when she'd retreated to her apartment, shewould quiet her fears, regain her strength by escaping to that otherworld, weaving comforting and complex scenarios around it, alteringthe events of the day to fit a version she could live with. He hadpointed out that, far from being crippled, her mind had workedovertime to accommodate two versions of most of her life. It waslittle wonder then that some of the things that had happened in thosetwo years were hard to bring into focus, covered as they were with agauze of romantic fabrication. Events prior to the accident mightseem clearer in her mind.

She felt that now, as she passed a junk shop, a tiny art gallery,a store brimming with lamps of every style and vintage, and came tothe bookstore. A gilded wooden sign swung above the door, proclaimingit to be "The Study". She went inside and began to browse among thewooden shelves that towered to the ceiling. The shop had a soothingatmosphere with its clutter and faint aroma of old leather. Therewere books on every subject imaginable. They filled the shelves andpoured over into stacks around the walls; many of them appeared oldand valuable, others took their worth only from the wealth of wordsinside them. It had felt cozy here that day in the rain; sheremembered feeling peaceful, safe from the chill, grey streets andthe wet wind. Today the sunlight streaming in the windows gave apatina of warmth to the many colored spines that nestled closetogether in a design that was both chaotic and pleasing to the eye.Maybe she'd try to find a book of the sonnets; she certainly didn'tseem to own one.

"Is there anything in particular I could help you find?"

She whirled at the sound of his voice. He was standing at the endof the narrow aisle, wearing a baggy brown sweater and khaki slacks.His spectacles were balanced on his nose, his hands on a cane.

"Father?" she whispered, and the room started to tilt. Sheclutched at the nearest shelf to keep from tumbling down the oddlyshifting floor.

"Here now, what is it? Are you faint?"

She managed to nod, and he moved to her side, putting an armaround her waist. "Come with me. We'll sit you down in the office."He helped her along the aisle and through a faded blue curtain into atiny room, where he pushed her gently into a captain's chair. "Putyour head down low as you can. That should help."

She did as she was told, wanting desperately to remain conscious,to prove to herself that what she'd just seen was real. When thefloor had settled, she sat up slowly to meet a familiar frown.

"Is that better?"

"Yes, thank you. Are you a doctor?"

He chuckled. "No. I'm afraid a medical man would have had some

thing far more sensible to suggest. Would you like me to fetch adoctor for you?"

"No, please. I'm fine now. I haven't eaten much today, and I justgot a little lightheaded."

"I see. Well, sit there, please, as long as you like. I'll get youa cup of tea."

She watched him with wonder as he moved to a hot plate in thecorner. The rest of the room was lined with still more stacks ofbooks. The only other furniture was a second chair, a battered desk,and the small table in front of her, where he now set a steamingceramic mug. She picked it up finding the strong aroma bracing,liking the delicate taste. It did make her feel more centered. Shelooked up to see him studying her face intently.

"I'm sorry to be so much trouble. I've just recently recoveredfrom a long illness, and I guess I'm not as strong as I thought."

He sat down opposite her, resting the cane between his knees."It's quite alright. One of the purposes of owning a bookstore is theprospect of meeting interesting people."

"You call me interesting?" To her own surprise she wassmiling.

"Oh, very. The art of swooning has all but been forgotten. Youlooked quite poetically pale just then, and it gave me theopportunity to feel a bit chivalrous."

Catherine felt her smile widening into a grin. "I don't think thefair damsels of yesteryear wound up with their heads between theirlegs and their hair sweeping the floor."

"No," he conceded. "I believe to be absolutely correct one mustsway fetchingly, perhaps with one arm flung languidly across thebrow."

"I'll try to remember that next time."

"Well, let's hope there will be no need. To tell you the truth, Iassumed at first you were intoxicated or on drugs. That's not unheardof in this neighborhood, unfortunately. You were far too well dressedto be a starving street person. Therefore, I must assume that yourown diagnosis is correct."

"You took in a lot of information in just a few seconds."

"Yes, well, I deal in information - for the mind, for the heart,for the soul. You see it here all around you.'

"I like it here," she said simply.

"Be that as it may, it has been a very long time since your lastvisit."

Her cup halted midway to her mouth, and she set it back down."Once. I've only been here once before - over two years ago."

"Oh," he shook his head, as if at some private joke, "you don'thave to tell me that."

"Why? Why do you remember me?"

He passed his hand over his brow in a gesture so familiar that itached in her heart. Then he waved it, dismissing the subject. "Itdoesn't matter - something happened that day that fixed it in mymemory. It was raining, as I recall."

"Pouring," she confirmed. "I came in to get out of it and stayedto buy a couple of books."

"I hope you didn't feel that was a necessary price to pay for aroof over your head."

"No," she smiled. "I wanted to. I suppose you rang them up for me.You wouldn't happen to remember what they were, would you? I know oneof them was Great Expectations, but I can't seem to recall theother."

"I fear, I've given you a rather deceptive impression of my powersof recollection. I really have no idea. Is it important to you?"

"No, not really. I was just curious."

"Would you like some more tea?"

"Yes, thank you. It's very good. Are you sure I'm not keeping youfrom something important?"

He refilled the mug, and this time brought one for himself aswell. "There is nothing more important than relations with one'scustomers. You are a potential customer, are you not? You don't justmake purchases when it's raining?"

"No," she laughed. "I'm a serious shopper. I promise."

"Well, in any case, it's imperative that I get your name thistime."

"I have it right here," She reached in her purse and pulled out abusiness card, handing it to him.

"District Attorney's office." His eyebrows rose. "CatherineChandler. Chandler - the candle maker."

"Yes," she said. She hadn't thought about that in years - themeaning of her name. Could that be the simple explanation for all thecandles in her fantasy? "Please - call me Cathy."

"Well, Cathy, I'm most happy to meet you officially. You have noidea how happy. I'm Jacob - Jacob Wells." He had taken her hand toformalize the introduction and must have felt it go instantly coldand damp, for he frowned at her with concern.

"I - I didn't know," she stammered, nonsensically.

"I'm sorry to hear that in view of the small fortune I spent tohave it painted in gold on the window, but it's no matter. I want youto stay right where you are. I'll be back in a few minutes."

The request was every bit as much a command as Father would havemade it. "Please," she called after him, "I don't need a doctor."

"I know what you need. Stay there."

She heard the shop door close behind him and blew out a puff ofair, grateful for a moment alone. It was like having her dream cometo life, but no, she recognized quite well that it was just theopposite. She had read his name on the window two years ago, if nottoday; he had waited on her then, and something in his manner, hisscholarly demeanor, had lodged in her subconscious. The brain, Dr.Grafton had said, uses bits and pieces that it finds useful. Yes, itmade sense. There was no madness in it.

She hoped it wasn't unwise to exploit this connection with herfantasy world, but it felt so good to sit here, chatting with him.She couldn't help that it warmed her to be near him, that she felt afamiliarity and a friendship. The love, Dr. Grafton had confirmed,don't let go of the love. It was part of what she was feeling here.The only strange thing about the encounter really was that he hadwelcomed her so fully. What do you expect, she asked herself, whenyou threaten to keel over among the Irish playwrights?

He was open to people, as she must have sensed that first day. Amind curious enough to surround itself with books of everyconceivable kind, might also have an intrinsic interest in humanbeings. She suspected this little office was the site of many aconversation between Jacob and the diverse personalities who foundtheir way to his door. Had there been anyone else here that day? Shecouldn't remember. Apparently, the details of that incident hadchosen to take up residence in her very active subconscious, leavingno detail behind in her memory to examine.

No, she was sure there was nothing unhealthy in this situation.After her initial shock, their conversation had been easy, easier sherealized than a typical exchange with Father, who, although he lovedher, felt always a hesitation, a painful awareness that it was shewho jeopardized, more than any person of evil intent, the two thingsdearest to him - his son and the world he'd created. There was noneof that between her and Jacob Wells, bookstore owner. In face, sherealized that her brain in its foraging for interesting pieces to putinto its elaborate puzzle, had missed almost entirely the humor, thegood-natured teasing that belonged to Jacob. Perhaps, she'd seen noflash of it in their first brief meeting, and so Father had beencondemned to remain solemn in her dream, as befitted a patriarch.

She heard the door open again, and he reappeared, carrying a flatcardboard box and a paper bag. He set them down, and the familiararoma of pizza filled the room.

"This is not what I'd term proper food, but it will fill you upand make you feel stronger." He brought out a soft drink can andhanded it to her. "There's nothing like a jolt of caffeine to wardoff a fit of the vapors."

"Who recommended that?" she asked, popping the aluminum top. "Oneof the Bronte's?"

"Actually, I believe it was the Coca-Cola company, but no matter.Eat up."

"Only if you join me. You're really awfully kind."

"Not at all," he assured her, helping himself to a slice of pizza."It's far more pleasant than dining alone. So, Miss Chandler, whydon't you tell me about your most interesting career?"

"It's Cathy, remember?"

"Ah, yes, Cathy, and I am Jacob. What was it you called me in theshop - father? Did I remind you then of your own father?"

She shook her head, unwilling to explain. "My father died justthis past winter." She found herself telling him about CharlesChandler and about her work. She couldn't help the feeling of trustshe had in him, and she spoke freely, while he regarded her as ifeverything she said was fascinating. At last she dared to confess themost delicate issue. "The illness I suffered - it was emotional. I'vebeen in a sanitarium."

The news didn't seem to shock him or add awkwardness to hismanner. He nodded. "The loss of a loved one can be devastating, Iknow. My wife died several years ago, and before that - there was ason." It was obvious that the memories still pained him. "He died ininfancy."

"No other children?"

He shook his head. "Still, there are so many people who come intoone's life and one's heart. If you let them, Cathy, they can fillmany a void."

She thought of Father and his loving acceptance of so manyoutcasts. "I know. When I was sick, I found out how kind friends canbe, how important if you let them share your pain, as well as yourjoys."

He nodded. They had finished their lunch, and she stood now tohelp him clean up the mess. "I'm afraid I've taken up too much ofyour time. I should be going. Do you have a copy of Shakespeare'ssonnets?"

"Oh, assuredly. Let's go have a look, shall we?"

They searched together in an aisle devoted entirely to the Bard.At last they found a slim, red volume that she announced was perfect,but when she opened her purse to pay for it, he stayed her hand.

"This one is a gift," he said.

"I couldn't. You bought me lunch, listened to the story of mylife. You must let me pay you for it."

He took her hand in both of his. "Cathy, your openness today, youracceptance of my friendship, was a most gratifying thing. I'veenjoyed your company immensely. Besides, it's not a particularlyvaluable edition, I assure you."

"Oh, yes. Yes, it is," she said, feeling tears behind hereyelids.

He walked her to the door and stood with her, while she hailed ataxi. "You will come back and visit soon, won't you?" he asked, asshe slid into the cab.

"I'd love to."

He nodded, and as they pulled away from the curb, she could stillsee him standing, looking thoughtfully after her, leaning on hiscane.

On Monday she went back to work. She had dreaded this moment, notbecause she wasn't ready, even eager to return to the job, butbecause she feared the solicitous attentions of her co-workers,dreaded a change in the easy rapport they had shared.

There were flowers waiting on her desk and a box of candy, a noteasking her to lunch. Throughout the morning people stopped by towelcome her back, and if at first they looked at her with someuncertainty, her aura of health and friendly enthusiasm soon allayedtheir fears.

"What did I tell you, Radcliffe? Think you'll ever make it throughthis mess before you're collecting social security?"

She smiled at him over a mound of papers. "I love it, Joe. I'meven enjoying trying to decipher Hanson's chicken scratches."

"Boy, you're sicker than I thought --" He stopped himself, and thewave of embarrassment that crossed his features was endearing toher.

"It's okay, Joe. I don't want you watching your words, afraidyou're going to hit a sore spot. Stay as charming as always, and yes,I'm sure by the end of the day you'll have driven me nuts, but I'vegotten used to that over the years."

He smiled sheepishly, hands in his pockets. "You're alright, Cath.It's good to have you back."

"It's great to be back," She threw him her sunniest smile toreassure him. "Now, I need to concentrate on this, or the SimonLegree I work for won't unchain me for lunch."

The week passed quickly, but she recognized that the unaccustomedpace had left her tired. She stayed in all weekend, reading, writingin her journal. A quote she couldn't place was running through herhead. She'd have to ask Jacob if he could pin it down for her.

As she'd hoped, Dr. Grafton had seen nothing inadvisable in herfascination with Jacob Wells. "This was obviously a person for whomyou felt a certain empathy on short acquaintance. You drew on that inyour delusion, but it's perfectly real. He sounds like someone whocould encourage your interest in literature."

He had asked her once, if at anytime during their meeting, she hadbecome confused, thought she was speaking with Father, instead of theflesh and blood Jacob Wells.

Her response had been a laugh. "If you knew how incongruous it wasto think of Father eating pepperoni pizza, you wouldn't have to askthat."

On Wednesday of the following week, Joe released her to take adeposition in the Village. She arranged her schedule, so that shecould spend her lunch hour there and returned to "The Study". Theweather had turned quite cold, and she welcomed the warmth of theshop as it enveloped her. When she entered, she could see Jacobsitting at the little table in his office. Another man occupied thechair she'd sat in. They were deep in conversation, but Jacob waskeeping an eye out for customers, and when he saw her, he rose andcame out to the front.

"Cathy, I'm so pleased you came back."

"I was in the neighborhood and wanted to say 'hello', but you'rebusy. Don't let me interrupt your conversation."

"Oh, Raul?" He turned to see the other man, a slight figure,wearing thick glasses, emerge from the office. "He was just leaving.I've refused to continue our discussion, until he rereads a chapterof Schopenhauer whose gist has obviously escaped him."

Raul grinned and shook his head in exasperation. "Later, Jacob,"he said and left the store.

"You're looking quite robust, Cathy. Much more color in yourcheeks now."

"I feel great. I've gone back to work. It gives me a sense ofpurpose."

"Yes, we all need that, but come - surely you can sit with me fora few minutes. We'll have some tea. You have eaten, haven't you?"

"Scout's honor," she told him. "Lox and bagels, not ten minutesago."

"Good." He led her to the back and prepared the tea. "Are youenjoying the sonnets?"

"Very much. There was something I wanted to ask you, though. Doyou know a quote by Wilde, I think, about a blue bird, and thingsthat never happen, but should be?"

He reflected for a moment. "Yes, I know the lines you're referringto, but I'm almost certain they don't appear in any of his poems. Astory, perhaps?"

"I don't know."

"I haven't an anthology of Wilde in stock just now, but I'll lookthrough his poetry in case I'm mistaken. Better yet, I have a friend,a former colleague, who's a professor of English literature atColumbia. He visits me frequently; I'll ask him next time."

"You were a teacher?"

"Oh, yes. What you see here is an indulgence of my retirement.I've taught philosophy, history, literature. I even worked on anewspaper in my younger days."

"In what capacity?"

"A bit of everything - reporter, editor, columnist. I think Ienjoyed the latter most of all. For several years I wrote a weeklycolumn."

"On what?"

"Sports."

"Sports?" She couldn't hide her amazement. It was so unlike herimage of Father.

"You find that surprising? My dear, there are few art forms morepure in the American culture than a good game of baseball."

"I never thought of it that way," she laughed, sipping her tea."I've always had to write as part of my job, but I'm keeping ajournal now; it gives me a chance to express my more - fancifulthoughts."

"An excellent practice that, not just having a journal, butstaying in touch with your dreams, the romance in life."

"Yes," she said quietly.

"Tell me, Cathy. Is there a young man in your life, someonespecial to you?"

She shook her head. "No one." She expected him to tell her what ashame that was, that an attractive young woman should have no troublefinding a man who interested her. She heard such comments more oftenthan she liked, but he said nothing, seemingly lost in thought.

Finally, he looked up. "I almost forgot. I was sorting throughsome old ledgers the other day - I'm afraid I'm loath to toss awayanything resembling a book - and I came across one dated two yearsago. If you like, we can look through it, and perhaps find out whatthat mysterious purchase was that you can't quite recall."

"That would be interesting, yes."

He rose and went to a stack about three feet high, sorting throughthe dusty volumes. "I know it's here somewhere. Bear with me."

She suddenly became aware of a sound that had been there eversince she entered the shop. It hadn't registered, simply because itwas so familiar - the clanging of the pipes. "What's that noise?" sheasked.

"Noise? Oh, that. I'm afraid it's such a fixture on cold days herethat I scarcely pay it much notice. It's the radiator acting up -steam building up in the pipes. Annoying, isn't it?"

"Not really." Another dream element fell into place.

"Ah, here we are - 1987." He drew his bifocals from the pocket ofhis heavy cardigan and put them on, as he brought the ledger to thetable.

"I'm afraid these don't include customers' names, an omission Iwas never made to regret more than on the day in question, believeme. Now when did you say it was?"

"I think it must have been between the ninth and eleventh ofApril."

He flipped some pages and ran a finger down the entries. "Ah, yes,here we are on April tenth, indeed. The sale of two books, one Mr.Dickens' Great Expectations and the other a collection ofpoetry by Millay."

"Millay."

"Yes - 'the world stands out on either side no wider than theheart is wide; above the world is stretched the sky, no higher thanthe soul is high'."

"Millay," she whispered again. "Edna St. Vincent Millay."

"Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, one I never thought to ask."

"Jen, have you got my book of poetry by Millay? I'm almost sure Ilent it to you right after I bought it."

"That's yours? I'd about decided it actually belonged to me. Youdidn't put your name in it, Cathy."

"Well, I hope you didn't put yours in it. I want it back,Aronson."

"Okay, I'll tell you what. I'll give it back to you, if youpromise to come to the party we're having to celebrate the fallbooks. It's at the Plaza - cocktails, dancing, the works, andthere'll be lots of eligible men there."

"Jenny," she groaned.

"I mean it, Cath. It's time you got out there and at least startedtalking to some of them."

"What do you mean? I talk to men all day long."

"Well, I don't mean the ones wearing handcuffs or sitting in thewitness box. We're talking real men for you to dance with, flirtwith, have some fun. You've got to do this, Cath, or the Millay getsit."

"Okay, I promise."

She resolved to make a real effort to join in, to open herself tothe possibilities. It was not as hard as she'd thought it would be.Always, she realized, when she'd gone to these functions over thelast two years, she'd only been half there. Part of her was eager toget away, to go back to the balcony and to Vincent. Now that was nolonger an option, and she found herself having a good time. It was aneclectic mix of people, but by and large an educated crowd, capableof talking more than office politics.

She danced with several different men, tried to give them her fullattention in the time she spent with each. She was flattered byseveral of them, men she recognized as appealing and interesting. Sheenjoyed their conversation, but retained a reticence. When theyfinally moved away from her, she felt no regret, no sense of anopportunity lost.

"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you, Cath?" Jenny corneredher.

"Yes, I am."

"I knew it. I saw Paul Kendall talking to you. He looked totallysmitten. He's gorgeous, single, and I'll bet he's dying to drive youhome."

"He already asked."

Jenny's excitement began to fade at her placid expression. "Don'ttell me you refused."

"I didn't want to give him the wrong impression."

"What wrong impression? You could spend a little time with theguy. You've got to at least get to know some of these men a littlebetter. I worry about you."

"There's no need, Jen. I'm just fine. It's a terrific party."

She wondered though, as Jenny dissolved back into the crowd, ifwhat she'd told her was true. She'd honestly felt she'd given it herbest shot, been open to whatever feelings might arise dancing in thearms of a handsome and charming man, but there'd been nothing - nophysical response, no desire to get to know any of them any better.Dr. Grafton had said her fears of physical contact would diminish nowthat she'd acknowledged them, and in truth she could feel no fear inher responses, only indifference.

Had she truly buried her capacity for desire? She didn't want to;she wanted a full life again, maybe marriage and children. Could awoman be frigid and still feel what she felt when she allowed herselfto remember the dream? It was harder now to picture Vincent, to hearhis voice, but the love that still flowed through her when shethought of him, brought with it every natural response she could hopeto feel with a real lover. Surely, that proved she wasn't incapableof sensual feelings.

She asked Dr. Grafton about that at her next visit.

"You say it's the love you feel that evokes the response, not somuch a physical image?"

"That's right."

"Maybe you're telling yourself that you don't want to settle forsex alone - that you want a complete relationship."

"I never slept with anyone just for sex," she said, defensively."I always felt at the time it was something more."

"'Something more' is a far cry from the all-encompassing passionyou shared with Vincent."

"I know, but isn't that unrealistic? What are the chances offinding some

one that you instantly feel connected to, who can return thatintensity - always? How few people ever find that?"

Dr. Grafton shrugged. "I'm not a betting man, Cathy, but you mustrealize that in a relationship like you describe, one of those rare,intuitive combinations, it's necessary that both parties have a greatcapacity for love and empathy. You have that, Cathy, so I'd say yourchances far exceed those of most women. There are men out there withthe same potential."

She eyed him doubtfully, grateful that he hadn't admonished herfor dreaming still of Vincent.

She approached the subject less clinically with Jacob when theynext met. "I'm afraid I'm holding out for something that'simpossible, a relationship that feels right from the beginning -that's fated somehow. Does that sound anachronistic?"

"A transcendent love? No, not anachronistic. Such an affinity isnot limited to an era or a culture, but it is quite rare. The conceptof romance may go in and out of style, but the capacity to feel it -that's inborn in certain fortunate individuals."

"You don't think it's impossible?"

"I know it is not." He was silent then, but his statement had heldsuch conviction; she waited for him to go on. "I met my wife on thecampus of a university in Boston, Cathy. I saw her, and something inme knew. Oh, I realize that sounds like the most untrustworthy ofemotions - infatuation, love at first sight, a simple physicalattraction, and often I'm sure that's the case, but when I finallysucceeded in getting someone to introduce us, there was so much more.We were very different, yet we understood each other perfectly; ourdreams were the same, our values. We could almost finish oneanother's sentences at first acquaintance. It never seemed like abeginning. It was as if a book had been opened in the middle, a storyof love and discovery and hardships, and we found ourselves livingit, gladly - both the joy and the sorrow."

"I'm afraid I was a rather wild young man, tending to fly off inall directions, eager to grab everything that life had to offer.Eleanor helped me to use that enthusiasm in constructive ways. Shehad suffered a rather tragic childhood; it had left her unaware ofher own worth, her many talents. I helped her to see that, gave herconfidence. Together we were so much more than either of us couldhave been alone. We had a love strong enough to sustain us throughthe greatest tragedy - the loss of our only child. We had a full lifetogether, and when she died, the grief was terrible, but in somesense that sort of bond can never be broken. I feel her presenceoften. I have no doubt that whatever lies beyond death - take yourpick of theories -" Here he waved his hand, indicating all the booksin which great thinkers had tackled that thorny issue. "Whateverbefalls us after this life, that love will endure."

She felt tears stinging her eyes at his heartfelt words. "It musthave been wonderful. I'm glad you had that."

"Yes, well perhaps you shall have it too someday; who's to say?There's no denying, when one is in the grip of such a passion, thatthere's such a thing as fate, and fate alone chooses who will be itsvictims. Still, I would say you are an excellent candidate."

"Why? Because I'm the most incurable romantic you've ever met?"she smiled.

"No, no. I certainly couldn't say that. There are those far morehopeless in that regard than you, I assure you, but that remindsme..." He seemed restless suddenly, standing up to take his cane andlimp back to the tea kettle. "I've found our elusive quote from Mr.Wilde. That is, someone found it for me. I called my young friend atColumbia and asked if he could search his own material. No sooner hadI told him the gist of it, than he was quoting me chapter and verse."He turned back to the table with the ubiquitous tea, and an irritablefrown she didn't recall seeing on him since they'd met, but it wasall too familiar on Father's face. "It drives me to distraction whenhe does that - makes me feel I've never opened a book. Well, nevermind." He sat down. "It's from an essay called 'The Decay of Lying'.He's promised to bring me a copy."

"That's nice," she said, "of both of you."

"Do you play chess, Cathy?"

The question was so unexpected that she almost choked on the tea."No, not really. Do you?"

"Mmm." He seemed distracted now. Of course, there was a chess setsitting on the desk. It had always been there, probably even on thatlong ago April day. She had failed to take note of it before, because- like the recalcitrant radiator with its banging pipes - it hadseemed an intrinsic part of her image of him. "Your visits, Cathy -they are usually quite unexpected. I feel sometimes, unlike today, wedon't get the chance to sit and talk as much as I would like."

It was true. She'd popped in unannounced whenever the opportunityarose, often to find him deep in conversation with someone else. Hisvisitors ranged in age from the elderly to the very young. She hadbeen touched one day to see him crouching to talk with a boy of fiveor six; she thought it must have hurt his hip to remain in such aposition, if in fact, it was a hip injury that caused his limp. Whenshe found him occupied, she simply looked through the books, contentto bask in the vast expanse of beautiful and thought-provoking wordswhose depths she'd only started to plumb. Now she wondered if she'dbeen unfair, if her spontaneous appearances hadn't prompted him toslight his other friends. "Would it be better if I called first, ormade an appointment?"

"Oh, lord, no - nothing so formal as all that. I was merelywondering when you might be stopping in again."

"How about Saturday?" she asked. "Around two?"

"Yes, that should be perfectly convenient."

When she arrived home, there was a message on her answeringmachine from her friend, Rebecca, a warning that her brother Buddywould be in New York for a few days and intended to give her acall.

It was sweet of Rebecca to sound the alert, giving her a chance toplan her response. Whether she agreed to see him or not, she knewRebecca would understand. What would she do? She sat on the loveseatand pulled her knees up to her chin, considering.

It was an intriguing possibility. She'd always liked Buddy, foundhim attractive. When she'd seen him a year ago, her mind had been toofull of thoughts of Vincent to act on that attraction, but now itcould be just what she needed. She knew he wouldn't push her,wouldn't expect things from her that a new man in her life mightdemand. She realized that the two of them had a shared history. Maybethey had simply drifted in and out of each other's lives over theyears, because the time hadn't been right.

A thrill of anticipation began to thread its way through her. OnWednesday night he called, and they talked for nearly an hour,arranging finally that he would pick her up for the opera on Fridaynight. Catherine hung up the phone with a smile. He'd been easy totalk to, despite the time that had elapsed since she saw him last. Ofcourse, he knew of her illness, and she was glad their talk wouldmake it possible to meet with none of the initial tentativeness shefelt from people who weren't sure if her affliction had changedher.

"Do you think I'm making too big a deal of this date?" she askedDr. Grafton in their Thursday session.

"Do you?"

She shrugged. "I can't tell. It's just the first time that I'll beseeing someone I'm already drawn to, someone I like. It's kind ofexciting."

"And that feels good?"

"Yeah, it's fun."

"Then enjoy the feeling, Cathy. However the date turns out, thefeeling's good for you."

She'd planned her outfit carefully and had her hair done on herFriday lunch hour.

"Getting ready to knock 'em dead again, Radcliffe?"

"Maybe."

"Where you going?"

"The opera - 'La Boheme'," she told him. He shook his head. "Why -what's the matter with that?"

"I just don't understand why you can't do something fun once in awhile - you know, loosen up."

"The last time I loosened up, Joe, I ended up in the funny farm."She could say things like that now without his flinching.

"I'm not talking that loose. Before I forget it, I got a favor toask. Any chance you could drop down to the Village on your way homeand see that guy Spitzer again? There's a few things in hisdeposition I'd like double checked, and somebody should take anotherlook at those photographs in light of what L.A. told us."

"No, Joe - no chance, none. It's already almost six, and tonight'simportant to me."

"I wouldn't ask, Cath, but there's nobody else. The guy's leavingtown tomorrow night; he's got a right."

"Whatever happened to chaining me to my desk? Look, I'm planningto be down there tomorrow anyway. I'll be happy to do it then, butI'm not doing it now."

"Yeah, okay. I'll give him a ring and see if that'll work."

Buddy arrived precisely on time. He did, she thought, look veryhandsome in his tux. She was ready to go and didn't ask him in. Hisexpression told her that she looked good, but he told her again inthe taxi.

"You're more beautiful than ever, Cath. I mean that."

"Thank you. I feel pretty good."

"I'm sorry I never got a chance to see you when you were atLakeside. I've been all over the country in the last few months."

"That's okay. I wasn't always good company, but Rebecca came. Sheeven brought me her special homemade fudge."

Buddy laughed. "That's better than I could have done. Did you havea lot of visitors, Cath? Any of the old gang?"

"Practically everyone." She proceeded to tell him all the newsabout mutual friends, until they arrived at Lincoln Center.

There was always an air of excitement about attending the opera.The grandiose scale of the entertainment seemed to generate a largerthan life party atmosphere in the audience. They whispered togetherover their programs. During the last act, he reached for her hand,and she gave it to him, enjoying the warmth of affection that hadsettled easily between them.

After the performance, they stood by the fountain, readjusting tothe real world of the city at night, which in its own way was everybit as dramatic and magical as the production they'd just seen.

"What would you like to do now? How about a carriage ride throughthe park?"

"No." She wasn't sure why she felt so emphatic about that. "I'drather not, but I am hungry."

"Fine - the Four Seasons alright with you?"

"It will do in a pinch," she laughed.

They lingered over the meal, talking about old times, thingsthey'd done in college. When they arrived back at her apartment, sheturned to him.

"I've had a really great time tonight, Buddy." She knew she shouldask him in for a drink or a cup of coffee, but she hadn't wanted toinvite men in for a long time now. Sadly, she discovered thisoccasion was no different.

"Cath, it's been very important to me. I don't know when I'll getback to town, but I'm going to treasure the memory of this eveningtill I do." He pulled her towards him, and she went willingly,accepting his kiss. A part of her responded to it, to its tenderness,to the sensual touch of an attractive man she was fond of. She gavehim one last smile and then slipped into the apartment, locking thedoor behind her.

"Damn," she said, throwing her purse on the couch. "What in theworld do I want?" She sought the comfort of the balcony, sat down onthe bench there to sort out her feelings. She decided finally thatthere just weren't that many to sort. She cared for Buddy, hadenjoyed his kiss, but it wasn't enough. She hadn't lost allsensitivity to the opposite sex; that should have been a relief, butthere was something more she needed to respond completely, or wasthat just an excuse, a barrier she'd built to avoid intimacy? For amoment she considered calling Dr. Grafton, but it was the middle ofthe night. What could she say to him? And what would he tell her,except to search her feelings, which she could very well do on herown.

Once in bed, she tried to go over the night's events, identifywhat was missing that left her so dissatisfied. She had thought shewanted someone who knew who she was, her past as well as her present.Buddy did, but maybe that was part of the problem. Most of theirconversation had revolved around the past, and things were differentnow. She was different. The girl Buddy had admired from afar was notsomeone she admired very much herself. She fell asleep, still seekingan answer. That night she dreamed of Vincent, and he came to her moreclearly than he had in months.

She was still asleep when the phone rang at eight the nextmorning.

"Cath, Joe. Listen, I'm at the airport."

"The airport," she repeated groggily.

"Yeah, remember, I'm going to Boston? Wake up, Cathy. This isimportant. There's a report coming in from L.A. at noon their time.That's three o'clock here."

"I know that," she said irritably.

"You're gonna have to take it. I gave them your number."

"I'm going to be downtown, Joe. Remember? Can't they just leavethe message on my machine?"

"No. Look, it's Saturday; we're lucky these California types willeven get back to us on the weekend. I need you there - with the addedinformation from Spitzer, so you can coordinate the details betweenyou. I'm sorry to do this to you, kiddo, but I'll bring you some clamchowder."

"Thanks so much. Bye."

She felt uncommonly depressed, as she fixed her coffee. It was,she supposed, the inevitable flip side of the excitement with whichshe'd awaited her date with Buddy.

After two cups of coffee and a shower, she felt better, but therewas a layer of disappointment, almost of hopelessness under all shedid. She cleaned the apartment and called Spitzer to tell him she'dbe there at noon.

A half hour into the interview she realized that Joe might bedemanding, but he was no dummy. There were many new points ofsignificance that she hadn't appreciated until their contact inCalifornia had put a new slant on the case. She went over everythingthoroughly, studied the photographs, took copious notes. By the timeshe was satisfied and went out onto the street again it was oneforty-five.

The one bright spot for today had been her proposed visit withJacob, and there really wasn't time for that now. Considering thewhimsies of Manhattan traffic, she'd have to allow plenty of room forunforeseen disasters in order to make sure she got uptown in time forthe call. At least she was in the neighborhood. She could stop andexplain.

The shop was the busiest she'd ever seen it. There were people inalmost every aisle, and Jacob was busy with a customer, so she movedoff to the other side of the room, and took down a volume ofArthurian legends. The illustrations were stunning, and she spentseveral minutes admiring them, but when she looked up, Jacob wasstill talking to the same man. She began to wonder if he was, infact, a customer. They were standing on either side of the counter,bathed in the bright light from the window, their heads bowed closetogether over a book that lay next to the cash register. The otherman was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing sunglasses and a dark sportscoat over jeans. He was leaning on his elbows, one knee bent, theother long leg stretched out behind him.

She checked her watch again. It was two, the time she'd said she'dcome by, so perhaps he'd forgive her for yet another interruption.She crossed the shop, and Jacob looked up at her approach, breakinginto a smile.

"Cathy, you are as good as your word. We were just having a lookat the very quotation you asked about. It is such a romantic thoughttaken out of context, isn't it? However, I think you will find thatif you read the entire passage, much less the essay itself, you willfind it has a decidedly cynical intent. Not surprising in Wilde, ofcourse." She eyed him curiously. What was he so nervous about?"Still, that is the purpose of cynicism, is it not- to protect ourmore delicate yearnings, our most vulnerable sensibilities. You willfind that --"

"Jacob." The other man had spoken softly, but his voice had a deepresonance that brought Jacob's strange soliloquy to a halt.

"Oh, yes. Forgive me. Cathy Chandler, I'd like you to meet PhillipPaxton, Professor Paxton, that is. He's the young man I told youabout from Columbia."

"Professor Paxton, I'm happy to meet you," she smiled, as hestraightened up to take her hand. He was big with a strong jaw and amass of dark, sandy curls. "I appreciate your going to the trouble tofind this for me."

"Trouble!" Jacob scoffed. "He recited the whole paragraph byheart."

"Now, now," Professor Paxton soothed him. "It happens to be afavorite of mine."

"Yes, well, you see, Cathy, Phillip used to be one of my pupils,quite a brilliant one I must admit. He's supposed to be concernedprimarily with the Elizabethan era, but he persists in showing me upin other areas as well."

"Don't listen to him, Miss Chandler. He can destroy me withSchopenhauer and Ty Cobb, and he knows it."

Catherine smiled. She had the feeling this affectionate banteringhad gone on between them for a long time.

"Why don't you two go on back to the office," the older mansuggested, "and I'll join you as soon as I've assisted our onecustomer over there."

"There are fifteen people in here, Jacob."

"I know that, Phillip. I also know there is only one of them whoever puts her money where her mind is. Go on now."

"Jacob, I'm sorry, but I can't stay," Catherine interjected, andwondered at the quick look he threw his friend. "I thought I'd beable to, but I'm expecting an important phone call at three. It'scrucial to a case we've been working on. I'm really sorry."

"I see. Well, why don't you let Phillip here drive youuptown?"

"Oh, no. That's alright. I can grab a cab."

"It's no trouble, Miss Chandler. I was headed that wayeventually."

"Don't worry," Jacob said. "You can trust him."

"I'm sure I can," she smiled. "Well, if you're certain it's not animposition."

"Not at all." He reached across the counter and squeezed the olderman's shoulder. "Jacob."

"Come back anytime, Cathy."

"I will - soon." When they left the shop, the woman Jacob hadindicated had come to the cash register with an armload of books.

Outside they had walked only a few yards, when Professor Paxtonunlocked the door of a late model sedan and helped her in.

"How did you manage that?" she asked, as he got in the driver'sside.

"What?"

"A parking place right in front of the shop?"

He smiled. "Jacob says I have a gift - that I pull cars out ofparking places simply by arriving. It's just an excuse, so he won'thave to drive when we go anywhere together."

"Jacob Wells drives a car?"

"Does that surprise you? He has a jeep."

For some reason that struck her as deliciously funny, and shelaughed. "You two must be very close."

"You felt that? We've known each other for fifteen years. He wasthe teacher - that one every student should have - who made it allcome alive for me. From the moment I took my first class from him mydirection was set. He was sharp enough to see that and to nurture it.I owe everything to him."

"He's obviously very proud of you."

Professor Paxton didn't answer. He was negotiating a stretch ofcity block made nearly impassible by double-parkers. He was such apowerfully built man, and his hands seemed too large for the steeringwheel, but he used them gracefully, swinging with ease around theillegally parked cars and trucks.

"You'll have to tell me where you live, Miss Chandler."

"I'm sorry. I forgot you didn't know." She gave him the addressand added, "It's Cathy, please."

"And I'm Phillip. Jacob tells me you took your law degree atColumbia."

"That's right." She wondered if he'd been at the university thenbut decided he hadn't. "I'm with the District Attorney's officenow."

"I know. You must have a high tolerance for frustration."

"I suppose that's true. Most people ask about the danger orsensational cases or the political implications, but it's really allabout taking one step forward and two steps back. If you can't put upwith that, you don't last very long."

"And it's worth it?"

"Yes. Yes, it is. This week, for example, we put a man away who'dbeen abusing his wife for years."

"She testified against him?"

"Finally. Even the most intimidated person reaches a point wherethey'll fight back."

"Especially if there's someone there who cares."

"It can drain you emotionally, if you care too much about everyvictim you meet."

"But you do."

"What makes you say that?"

"Jacob's become very fond of you in a short time. Only awarmhearted person could win his loyalty that quickly."

"I think he must have lots of friends."

"He does, but he seems to have reserved a soft spot for you."

"And for you."

"What has he told you about me?" He was still looking ahead, andshe wasn't sure what it was about him that gave her the impression hehad tensed slightly.

"Nothing, except who you are - your position. I'm assuming that ifhe likes me as much as you say, he wouldn't send me out in thisinsane traffic with just anybody."

He smiled. "Deductive reasoning. You must be tough in thecourt

room."

"I think it's probably a less treacherous place than theclassroom. I remember some of us didn't make it very easy for ourprofessors to teach us anything."

"It's up to the teacher to bring out the magic in his subject, tomake it so intriguing that the students want to learn."

"Did Jacob teach you that?"

"Among other things."

Traffic was hopelessly snarled, their progress ominously slow. At34th they sat through two red lights without moving so much as acar's length. Catherine stole a look at her watch..

"We will make it," he said. He hadn't looked at her and seemed tofeel none of her sense of urgency, his elbow resting on the windowslot, one hand draped loosely over the wheel, and despite all theevidence to the contrary she believed him.

At 41rst they broke away from a line of cars and didn't slow againtill he pulled up in front of her building. He came around to openher door, and she said, "Wait - would you like to come up for a cupof coffee?"

He hesitated and nodded. "You go on. I'll park the car."

"It's 21E." She turned and ran into the lobby. It was still onlyten minutes to three, but who knew how laid back their L.A. contactmight be regarding time. Inside the apartment she hung up her coatand laid the file beside the phone. Then she rushed to the kitchenand had the coffee perking when his knock came at the door.

She opened it. "There is no parking on this block, " she greetedhim with a throaty laugh.

He smiled, showing strong, white teeth. "I walk fast."

"You must."

The phone rang. "This is it - it may take a few minutes. Please,make yourself comfortable. I'm sorry." He shook his head. "Hello,yes, this is Catherine Chandler. Lt. Gebhart, we appreciate this.Yes, I've got it right here." She rested the receiver on her shoulderand pulled the phone and the file to the couch. "Yes, go ahead."

Phillip was still standing by the door, looking dark among thepastel furnishings. He pointed at the terrace with a questioninglook, and she nodded. As she started to write, he opened the diningroom doors and stepped outside. The phone call took nearly twentyminutes, but it was time well spent. Joe would be happy with whatthey had. She hung up, smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, andhurried to the terrace.

He had his back to her, arms extended, leaning on the terracewall, looking out over the city. She felt a lurch, the rustling ofsome half-forgotten memory, and then she joined him.

"I appreciate your patience." And, she realized - his discretionin not wanting to sit in on her phone call.

"No problem. The view is spectacular."

"Yes, it is, isn't it? Would you like to have our coffee outhere?"

He nodded, and she went to get it. "I forgot to ask how you takeit," she said when she returned. "It's been a while since Ientertained."

"Black." He accepted the cup, which immediately became tiny in hishand, and took a drink. "Thank you. It's a welcome change ofpace."

"From what?"

"Jacob's tea. Surely you've noticed he has an unendingsupply."

"I know," she laughed. "But it suits him somehow. He has anold-worldliness about him, if there is such a word, but he isn'tstuffy."

"No, I think he'd save that adjective for me."

"Why? Do you think you're stuffy?" Great, I'm starting to soundlike Dr. Grafton, she thought.

"I don't, no. But Jacob claims I've lived too long among theElizabethans and the romantics. He accuses me of trying to imposetheir values on a modern world."

"What does he think you should do?"

"Settle down." He placed the cup on the terrace table and turnedto her. "Catherine --"

Her own cup hit the balcony and shattered. She bent down,trembling and started to pick up the pieces, but he grabbed her hand."Don't, please. You'll cut yourself."

"Right." She straightened up, pushing her hair behind her ears,still feeling disoriented. "I - I'll get something to clean it up."She hurried into the kitchen and walked more slowly back, takingdeep, calming breaths. Phillip took the dust pan from her and heldit, while she knelt and swept up the broken china. By the time she'ddumped it in the trash and returned she was in control again.

"Excuse me. You must think I'm an awful klutz." She felt a suddenneed to be honest. "It was the way you said my name - it reminded meof some

thing, and I was startled."

"I'm sorry. Blame it on too many hours of WutheringHeights. You prefer to be called Cathy?"

"No, actually, Catherine's fine." She sat down on the bench,looking up at him. "So, you're not married then?"

He shook his head. "Jacob claims I'm too idealistic for my owngood. He'd like to see me marry the next grad student or teacher orwriter --"

"Or butcher or baker..." she went on.

"You get the idea. He's anxious to be a grandfather, and he seesme as a necessary link in that process."

"You've taken the place of the son he lost."

"Yes."

"Well, I'm sorry if his suggesting you drive me home was some sortof matchmaking ploy on his part. I didn't recognize it, but I knowhow awkward it is to be put in that position. It's happened to meoften enough."

"Catherine, it wasn't like that. I --" He seemed to think betterof what he was going to say and lapsed into silence. He picked up hiscup again, head bowed, as if the dark liquid there absorbed all histhoughts.

This time she let the word wash over her. It wasn't the same atall, not really. His voice was different, but there was a quality toit, to the way - No, she mustn't think about that. What was it he'dsaid a moment ago? "You must be the other one he was talkingabout."

"Other what?"

"Well, I asked him once if I was the most incurable romantic he'dever known, and he said no - there was somebody even worse. He musthave meant you."

"Undoubtedly."

"But he told me to hold out - not to settle for just any kind ofrelationship."

"You've only known him a few weeks. Try holding out for fifteenyears, and he'll change his tune."

She laughed. "I feel very close to him already - like I've knownhim for a long time."

"Sometimes that happens."

They stood for long minutes in silence, looking out over the park,but she didn't feel self-conscious, wasn't tempted to fill the voidas she so often did in Dr. Grafton's office.

"I should go," he said finally, setting the cup down again. Heturned to leave but stopped at the French doors. "There's a concertin the park tomorrow at three. I don't want you to feel obligated -to think that because you're fond of Jacob, you have to put up withhis friends."

"I'd love to go," she said quickly. "Why don't I meet you in thepark at two-thirty?"

"Do you know the carousel?" She nodded. "I'll come for youthere."

She walked him to the door, locked it after him, and sat down onthe couch. There was something unreal about the whole day. Itreminded her of those many events over the past two years to whichshe'd given two explanations - the real ones she now recognized andthe fanciful interpretations she'd woven over them. Today seemedsomehow like the reverse. The facts were obvious: she had let someonewith whom she shared a mutual friend drive her home. She'd invitedhim in, and they'd had a pleasant conversation. The situation was cutand dried. She felt no compulsion to embellish it, only a faintbuzzing sensation, as if somewhere out of her reach some other scenehad been playing.

What had possessed her to ask him in, when poor Buddy - long timefriend that he was - never made it over the threshold? It must havebeen the very casualness of their acquaintance that had made it seemsafe to do so. Safety? Was that really the issue? Was part of herstill harboring an irrational fear of men and what they might do ifshe let them too close? She searched her feelings but could find noanxiety in her reluctance to invite

Buddy in or even Paul Kendall. No, she was sure it had been morean unwillingness to impose new images on her own space, the placewhere she'd dreamed such beautiful, life-giving dreams. There wasn'troom here yet for other memories, other passions.

Once again, she thought of phoning Dr. Grafton, but what was thereto say? She wasn't frightened or worried; she felt no temptation tofantasize. The sense of something having changed could simply stemfrom the fact that she was behaving normally again, observing a fewof the social niceties.

She was a little annoyed by her own introspection. Theself-examination engendered by therapy could only continue for solong, before she became just as egocentric as she used to be. Theantidote lay in not remaining alone, maybe in doing something forsomeone else. She wondered if Jenny was available for dinner. Shecould invite her over and fix the Spaghetti Carbonara she liked somuch.

She dialed her number, and as she did so, came up with a line thatwould guarantee her friend's quick arrival. "Hi, Jen. It's Cathy.I've met a man."

"I know who he is," Jenny was saying between bites. "I've nevermet him, but he's been quoted often enough in some of the literarycriticism we've published. I'm pretty sure he's written some bookshimself for another publishing house. Why don't you bat your biggreen eyes at him, and tell him you've got a wonderful friend in thebusiness who'd simply love to put him on the best-seller list?"

"I hardly know the man," Catherine smiled.

"So what's he like? Is he good-looking?"

"I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully. "Not in the way PaulKendall is, nothing so obvious as that, but he's attractive. He has akind of presence, a magnetism... I don't know."

"The forceful type, huh?"

"No, he's really very quiet, contained; but there's somethingabout him - just a feeling, I guess."

"I don't believe this," Jenny grinned. "You're talking aboutfeelings - for a man. Way to go, Cath."

"Come on. Jen. Don't read too much into it. I'm not sure what kindof an impression I made on him. I - I got so nervous at one point Idropped a cup and broke it. He's probably used to more intellectualcompany."

"Well, he asked you out, didn't he?"

"Sort of. We're just going to meet for the concert in the parktomorrow. He may have suggested it out of politeness, since I askedhim up for coffee."

"No guy's willing to be stuck for a couple of hours with a womanhe doesn't like just for the sake of good manners. Chivalry's dead,Cathy."

"I'm not sure it is too him," she smiled.

"So tell me more. What color eyes does he have?"

"I have no idea," she said, realizing for the first time that thiswas true. "We were in the sun all the time. He work darkglasses."

"That's too bad," Jenny said, twirling the spaghetti around herfork. "The eyes are the mirror of the soul."

On Sunday morning Joe called from Boston. "Did you get it,Cathy?"

"Yes, I got it. I spent almost two hours with Spitzer yesterday,and you were right - there's a lot more there we can use. And I tookthe call from Gebhart. Between us I think we've got this one beat,Joe."

"That's terrific, Cath. I knew I could count on you. Look, I'msorry - I hated to put you under that much pressure. Are you okay?You getting some rest today?"

"I'm fine, Joe. As a matter of fact I'm going to a concert thisafternoon."

"More big fun, right Radcliffe?"

"Right," she laughed," but don't worry - I wrote my report hoursago. It will be on your desk in the morning."

"You're the best, Cathy. I really appreciate this. Can't wait toread that report."

"Yeah, just be careful not to spill my clam chowder on it."

The weather had turned warm again. She'd never seen an autumn soreluctant to give way to winter. Dressed in a sweater, skirt andboots, she strolled briskly across the park, enjoying the brillianceof the day. The vague buzzing had never left her, but it wasn'tunpleasant - just odd. She waited for some cyclists to go by, andabruptly thought, what if he's not there? What if he doesn't come?There was no rational justification for that fear. Hadn't Jacob saidshe could trust him?

In fact, he was waiting for her when she got to the carousel,dressed much as he had been yesterday in a dark jacket andsunglasses, slim jeans over boots. He smiled at her approach andabandoned his relaxed position against the fence.

"Hi, Phillip."

"Catherine. I was afraid you might have changed your mind."

"Why? Am I late?"

He shook his head. "No reason. You're right on time."

They walked toward the band shell. She was conscious he wasadapting his own long strides to her shorter ones.

"I forgot something yesterday, Catherine - the book I'd broughtfor you. I left it on the counter at Jacob's."

"That's not surprising, considering I broke up your visit soabruptly. I'm sorry. I'm sure Jacob was disappointed not to spendmore time with you."

"Did he strike you as disappointed?"

"No," she admitted, laughing. "He didn't. He'll keep the booksafe, I'm sure, until I see him again. He said you knew that wholepassage by heart. Could you recite it?"

He did so, as they strolled through pools of light and shadow castby the massive trees. She enjoyed the deep, mellifluous sound of hisvoice caressing the words, bringing out their meaning with a subtletythat might have been missed in the reading of it.

"Things that are not and that should be," she repeated softly.

"Things that should be, will be, Catherine," he said quietly, andshe wondered at the comfort she found in the curious statement.

They found seats in the sun and discussed Wilde, going on to otherwriters of the era. At first she was afraid he'd be dismayed at theholes in her knowledge, despite a first-rate education, but what shehad skimmed through in college, she had relished later on, and shewas able to contribute enthusiasm, if not additional facts, to hiscomments. He seemed to enjoy hearing her opinions, listening asthough she'd been a scholar who could actually enlighten him. Shefelt inordinately grateful to that part of her which had coaxed herto read in earnest.

The concert began. It was a melange of works by differentcomposers - Monteverdi, Beethoven, Schubert. When the first notes ofthe Unfinished Symphony poured through the sunlight, she felt afamiliar twinge. Phillip must have noticed her discomfort, for heleaned towards her. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she answered and found that it was so. For months she hadbeen unable to play her recording of this work. It brought back toomany memories, too sharp an image, but today she found she couldenjoy it again, that the notes spoke to her instead of the visionsthat used to claim her attention.

It was still sunny when the concert ended, but a cold wind hadblown in from the river and the ocean beyond. She shivered, as theygot up to leave.

"You're cold," he said. "Here."

Before she could stop him, he'd taken off his jacket and draped itover her shoulders. It was far too big, and she wrapped it aroundher, hugging it closed. "Aren't you cold?" she asked him.

"No," he said with a small smile. "I'm not."

They walked back towards the perimeter of the park, and for thefirst time today, she felt a touch of melancholy. Was it the park -that familiar slope over there, that tree, the bridge over thedrainage tunnel that she could just make out through the foliage?

"I'd like to take you to dinner," he said, and the sadnessvanished like a windswept cloud.

"I'd like that," she answered. "But why don't you let me fix ussomething? I've got a couple of steaks in the freezer, some wine. Ican make a salad."

"You already entertained me yesterday."

"A lousy cup of coffee?"

"It was a good cup of coffee."

"I wouldn't know. I'm afraid most of mine ended up on the floor."She instantly regretted reminding him of her peculiar behavior, buthe didn't comment.

"On one condition then," he said. "You'll let me fix thesalad."

"It's a deal." As they walked along, she noticed for the firsttime how beautiful the park had become. The autumn colors flickeredaround them - red, yellow, orange - struck by the Indian Summer sun.She wondered that she could have felt anything of sadness in thescene. "What kind of miraculous parking place did you come up withtoday?"

"None. I took the subway. It's more or less a straight shot fromthe campus to here."

"You live near the university?"

"I have a house there, yes."

She was wondering what his home would be like, as they reached herbuilding. When they entered the apartment, she gave him back his coatand put the steaks in the microwave to thaw. While she preparedpotatoes for baking, Phillip chopped vegetables for the salad, hisbig hands moving with surprising efficiency and finesse.

"You're better than a Cuisinart," she teased.

"One of the benefits of sustained bachelorhood."

She poured the Cabernet into goblets and led him back to theliving room.

"Would you mind having our drinks out on the balcony?" heasked.

"Of course not. It's lovely at this time of day." She wondered ifhe felt as incongruous in this room as he seemed to her, but no - heundoubtedly appreciated the view as much as she did. "You go on. I'llget a coat."

She pulled a suede jacket from the closet and went out to joinhim. "I enjoyed the concert very much."

"So did I."

"I hadn't been to one in a while," she continued, "but my parentsused to take me when I was little, and it's a habit I kept up for along time."

"My parents died when I was young," he told her, "but I had anaunt who started bringing me - from the Bronx - when I was verysmall. I'd just get to the point where I rebelled against practicingmy piano lessons, and we'd hear some concerto, a sonata that wouldstir me, and I'd be eager to go back to it again."

"Do you still play?" She must have sounded surprised at the idea.He gave a little self-deprecating laugh that was hardly more than asudden exhale of breath. The sound curled through her with thepoignancy of an elusive tune and was gone.

"These hands," he said, "are not always as clumsy as theylook."

"They're nice hands," she heard herself saying, "strong andgentle."

He turned back to the view without comment, and she wondered ifshe'd sounded too personal.

"You have the best of two worlds, Catherine. The buildings, thestreets of the city, all the things that are of the moment, theessence of life as it's unfolding now. And you have the park with itsbeauty and timelessness." The sun was going down now. He removed hisglasses and slipped them into his pocket.

"I know," she answered. "The view was what made me fall in lovewith the apartment. I think I could have managed with one room, aslong as I had all this to come home to."

"Catherine," he said, turning towards her. "There is something Ishould have told you."

She looked at him and for the first time into his eyes. Thetrembling started at once; it increased until she knew her knees weregiving way under her. "Oh, God," she whispered. "Oh, God, oh --"

"Catherine?" He was regarding her with alarm, starting to reachout to her, but he apparently reconsidered and hesitated until herimminent collapse prompted him to move forward. He pulled her head tohis shoulder, surrounding her with his other arm. "No, Catherine,don't." The shaking - it wouldn't stop. He held her close. Hisembrace was infinitely gentle, but he was lending her his ownstrength. She tried to blank out the irrational messages flooding hermind, to concentrate instead on the familiar comfort of his armsaround her, but no - that familiarity was yet another trick herwarped mind was playing on her, a sure sign that she was losing touchwith reality; this man was a virtual stranger. Still, the solid feelof his body soothed her own and after a few minutes, the tremblinghad subsided, but not the tumult in her mind. She took a deep breath,and willed herself to step back from him, to look once again into thedepths of his clear, blue eyes.

"I'm sorry, Phillip, but I think you'd better leave."

His concern for her was punctuated by a sharp flash of pain thatshone from those eyes, as it had done so many times before. "You'renot well, Catherine. Can I get you a doctor? A friend to stay withyou?"

"No, please. You're right; I have been sick, but I'm fine now. Ijust need to be alone - to get some sleep."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. I - I'm sorry about dinner."

He shook his head and started for the door, but turned there. "Idon't like to leave you like this."

"It's what I want. Please, just go."

She didn't move, until he'd let himself out the front door, thenshe sank to her knees on the floor of the balcony, shaking again. Allher hard-won sanity - an illusion. They'd told her she was better,that she'd put her delusions aside, but it wasn't true. Tonight shehad looked into them as clearly as if they'd been real.

How had she fooled them all? How had she fooled herself? Dr.Grafton had even felt free to leave on vacation today, confident thatshe could get through a week without his help. He'd left her the nameof a colleague to call, if she felt the need, but she had no wish totry to explain this madness to another person, not when none of themhad truly understood how deep it ran.

After a while, she forced herself to get up and go to the kitchen.She turned off the oven, pushing the half-baked potatoes down thegarbage disposal, and wrapped the other food, putting it in therefrigerator.

She changed for bed and crawled under the covers, though it wasbarely dark outside. Sleep was mercifully quick in coming, but withit came dreams, peopled with figures - mainly Vincent and PhillipPaxton, blending and fading into each other, their beautiful blueeyes giving her no comfort.

She woke feeling tired and frightened, but she had to go to work,had to concentrate on the one thing that she'd always donerationally. Her co-workers had obviously accepted the idea that shewas back to normal again, as none of them seemed to pick up on hernervousness. She tried hard to concentrate on the brief she waswriting, but found herself questioning her conclusions, even herobservations. How could she trust any of her thoughts when there wasstill something so terribly wrong?

By eleven o'clock she knew it was hopeless. She pushed back herchair and went to Joe's office.

He looked up. "Got a problem, Cathy?"

"Yes. Joe, I'm sorry. I need to go home."

"Why?" He got up and came around the desk. "Are you sick? What'sthe matter?"

"It's not what you're thinking," she lied. "I got a little chilledin the park yesterday; I think I might be coming down withsomething."

"Oh." He looked relieved. "Well, yeah, that's not surprising. Yourresistance is probably low. Don't worry about it - take all the timeyou need. You want me to have somebody drive you home?"

"It's not necessary, really. I think I just need some sleep."Sleep? She'd slept for twelve hours last night.

"Okay, but you call me now, if you need anything."

"I will, and I'll phone you tomorrow, regardless. Thanks,Joe."

"Yeah, sure. No problem."

Outside she hailed a cab, but the directions she gave the driversent them hurtling downtown, not up towards her apartment. Nothingwas certain anymore. Phillip's eyes - in reality were they muddy asclay? Did he really exist at all? Was it possible that she'd gone tothe concert alone yesterday, sat listening to the music, dreamilyreconstructing a fantasy world? If he wasn't real, how did she gethome from the Village on Saturday? Jacob had spoken of him severaltimes, but had she really met him?

By the time the taxi neared Fourteenth Street she had hit rockbottom. Was Jacob himself only an illusion? Stripped of the elaborateworld she'd created, having filed it, after hours of relentlesstherapy, into the realm of wishful thinking, had her mind goneblithely on with its little game, simply adapting the characters to anew scenario?

She flung a twenty dollar bill at the driver and ran to the shopdoor. The store was real, the name "Jacob Wells" prominent on thewindow, but a shade was drawn over the glass door. Damn! He'd warnedher that the shop was closed on Mondays. She realized that she'dnever asked where he lived - over the store, behind it, somewhereelse entirely?

She banged on the glass, shaking the knob. "Jacob!" It took herback to the moment when she'd stood at the gate of the tunnel world,fingers bleeding, mind shattered by the truth about the dream.Mustn't lose control like that again, mustn't attract attention. Shehad to know what face belonged to the name, Jacob Wells. She breatheddeeply to calm herself, and the door opened.

"Cathy! Good heavens, whatever is the matter?"

Her relief at his familiar presence quelled the worst of thehysteria that threatened her. "Who is he, Father?" she demanded, hervoice harsh and uneven. "Who is Phillip?"

Jacob took a firm grip on her shoulders and looked into her eyeswith concern and determination. "Cathy, I will answer your questions,and you may perhaps answer some of mine, but not until you get a holdon yourself."

The authoritarian tone of his voice made her realize what she'dcalled him. He was right; she needed to control her fear, keep allher faculties about her, if there was to be any hope of finding herway back to sanity.

"Come, sit with me in the office. It will be alright."

She nodded and followed him back to the familiar chair. He helpedher with her coat, and within seconds had handed her a cup of hisstandard refreshment and taken the chair opposite her. Only then didhe speak again.

"Phillip is precisely who I told you he was - no more, no less. Hephoned me last evening, very concerned about you. He felt guiltyabout leaving you alone and wanted to know if I thought it was safeto do so. Knowing about your recent problems and how well you'veconquered them, I told him that yes, you would be alright on yourown. I see now that I was wrong."

"No, you weren't wrong. I managed."

"His primary concern was for you, Cathy," Jacob went on, "but Iknow him - I know he felt terrible wondering what he'd done to upsetyou so."

"He did nothing, Jacob. He was wonderful. It's just that I lookedinto his eyes, and I saw someone else, someone that I can't go aroundseeing, if I hope to keep my claim on sanity."

"Cathy, we've never spoken of the exact nature of your emotionalproblems. Do you think it would be helpful if you told me a little ofit? Only what I need to know in order to understand what hasfrightened you."

She nodded. "It's going to sound strange to you, I know, but partof it is the reason I have your friendship now."

"And you do have that, Cathy. Regardless of what you tell me." Hereached for her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

She started with the assault and went on to describe the worldbelow and as many events connected with it as she could, butprimarily she focused on the people and what they had meant to her.What might have dimmed in her memory by now was still fullyaccessible, because of the journal she'd been keeping.

Jacob sat rapt. Occasionally, he'd ask a question or encourage herto elaborate, but for the most part he listened. After about an hour,he left her and came back with a greasy bag of barbecued ribs, alongwith cole slaw and fries. She was surprised to find she was hungry,but breakfast had been only coffee, and she'd had no dinner lastnight at all.

Once she'd started her story, she found that she was eager tocontinue. It had always seemed that Jacob was an integral part of herfantasy and, therefore, had a right to know about it. She told himthings she'd never bothered to mention to Dr. Grafton, trivialdetails that he clearly found fascinating. Instead of picking thingsapart as the psychiatrist had done, and had encouraged her to do, hemerely absorbed it all, as if she were a marvelous storyteller. Shetalked while they ate and for what seemed like hours afterwards. Whenat last her voice was giving out, she felt drained, but the chaos inher mind had quieted.

"What a marvelous thing the human imagination is," Jacob saidfinally.

"Please, you sound like my therapist."

"Is that such a bad thing? He seems to have guided you safely backto health."

"I thought so too, until yesterday - until Phillip."

"What was it, Cathy. What troubled you so about his eyes?"

"They seemed to be Vincent's. I looked at him, and all mycertainties disappeared. Please, tell me that I didn't see somethingthat wasn't there."

"I'll do better than that." He went to the desk and brought out abook, which obviously had special significance for him. She took it.It was a thick volume of literary criticism, dealing with Restorationdramatists. The author was Phillip Paxton.

"Go ahead - turn it over."

She did, and there was Phillip looking back at her from aphotographic portrait. Even in black and white there was no questionthat he was regarding her with Vincent's eyes. She looked at it for along moment. "I still don't understand."

"Oh, I think the answer is quite simple really. You and yourdoctor determined that the day you were here was fresh in your mindon the night you were attacked. Your brain drew on what it had seenthat day to help sketch its characters, and I must add that I shallbe eternally grateful for the sort of man I inspired - someone farmore noble and wise than myself. I have never felt so deeplyflattered, and apparently, Phillip made a distinct impression uponyou as well."

"Phillip was here that day?"

"Oh, yes. Didn't you know?"

"No. I have no memory of it at all."

He shook his head and sighed. "Cathy, I have not been entirelycandid with you. If I had been, you would not have suffered so thesepast twenty-four hours. I am deeply sorry, but Phillip had asked menot to speak of it. I wanted to protect him."

"Protect him - from what?"

"From embarrassment, rejection. I see now, far more damage wasdone by my reticence." He got up and returned Phillip's book to thedesk drawer. "You may remember that when you first came to me inSeptember, you were amazed that I should recall your brief appearancehere so long ago."

She nodded. "You said something happened that day that caused itto stand out in your mind."

"True, but I never told you what I meant by that. You willunderstand why, when I've explained. You remember that it wasraining. There were few customers that day, and Phillip and I hadjust started another game of chess at this very table - why, I can'tthink, since he was beating me unmercifully as usual. I recall wewere discussing a Fischer-Spassky game, when the door opened, and youwalked in. The curtain was tied back so that I could keep an eye onthe shop, and we turned to see you hesitate and then begin to lookaround. You came to the poetry aisle, just there in full view of us,but you seemed quite oblivious to our presence. You were lovely, ofcourse, and the way you moved among the books, touching them almosttentatively, as if you hardly dared to probe their secrets - well, itwas a charming sight. I glanced at Phillip and saw on his face a lookthat unnerved me."

"Why? What was it?"

"I couldn't place it - that's what made it so troubling. He wasadmiring you, of course, but Phillip has an eye for all beautifulthings. Then it struck me. He was looking at you in much the same wayI must have looked at Eleanor that day in the distant past. I cameout to the counter to help you, and by then you'd moved off to theclassics."

"Phillip left the office after me, and he stood, leaning againstthe wall there at the end of the aisle. He told me that you turned,as you were selecting a book - Great Expectations, I suppose -and looked at him."

"I did," she said slowly. "I can see it now - very clearly." Shelooked up at Jacob, conscious that the dawning amazement was evidentin her eyes and in her voice. "He was standing right there. He lookedso solemn, but so nice. I smiled at him."

"Yes, well, that was his undoing, I'm afraid. When you'd left, heasked me your name, assuming you'd given me a check or credit card. Isuppose the expensive clothes you wore made that method of paymentseem logical, but unfortunately, you had paid in cash. He wentoutside to look for you, but you had already disappeared."

"He was quite impossible to deal with after that: making mepromise that should you come in again I would not fail to find outwho you were, dropping in here every week at the same time you'd beenhere, in hopes some appointment brought you to this neighborhood on aregular basis. I pointed out to him that you might not ever return,that perhaps you were a tourist on a one time visit to New York, thatyou might be married, an axe murderer, anything, but he wouldn'tlisten to reason."

"I'm surprised one of you didn't see my picture in the newspapersor on television."

"Believe me, if I'd realized you were in a prominent enoughposition to make that likely, I would have watched the infernal thingfrom dawn to midnight, just to get Phillip off my back, but no,neither of us finds much of value on the television, I'm afraid. Wetend to get our news from the Times, which as you know relies verylittle on the kind of sensationalized pictures so dear to its tabloidcompetitors. No doubt, we've both read your name from time to timewithout realizing its significance."

"I had no idea."

"No, of course, you didn't. Phillip grew quite restless in hispersonal life. He'd been living with a woman for several months, asocial worker. She was quite lovely and warm, a thoroughly suitablematch, and absolutely mad to marry him, but after that day --"

"Are you saying he dumped her - because of me?"

"Oh, nothing quite so crass as all that. Phillip's a man of greatsensitivity, but gradually the inevitable happened, and of course, itwasn't because of you, but because of his dream of you. None of therelationships he had from then on seemed to satisfy him. He'd alwaysbeen an idealist, of course, but seeing you had convinced him thathis romantic theories were valid, that somehow he'd been destined tofind you here that day. He claimed something was missing in all thewomen he met. Of course, I told him he was being perfectlyfoolish."

"How could you, when you'd felt something like that yourself - forEleanor?"

"Indeed, but you see, Eleanor was right there in my world. It wasonly a week or so before we were formally introduced, and Idiscovered for myself that what might have been simply an attractionwent far deeper. But Phillip was living in a dream of someone hemight never see again. It seemed such a waste. I warned him that youmight be a thoroughly shallow young woman. You'll forgive me forthat, I hope."

"It's not necessary. You were perfectly right," she smiled,totally captivated by what he was saying. "When did you tell himyou'd seen me again?"

"Oh, right away, of course - that first day you came here, but Iurged him not to try to contact you. There was still so much I didn'tknow about you - whether you were involved with someone else, forinstance. I felt confident that I would see you again, and indeed Idid, but you never mentioned Phillip; apparently he'd left noimpression upon you that day. I hated to watch him find you, only tobe met with indifference. I wanted to protect him from that."

"But he did leave an impression on me - the most powerful one ofall. Not just his eyes. There were so many things, most of themseemingly minor, that I noticed this weekend, and yet at the sametime, I didn't notice them. I kept feeling that something washappening, something important, just beyond my grasp. I think I wasafraid to face them head on, afraid that it meant I was deludingmyself again. I felt so good being with him, but these inexplicablefeelings kept building up, and when I finally looked at him, lookedinto his eyes, it was too overwhelming. I really thought I was losingmy mind, but I had it all turned around again - like the first time Isaw you and called you 'Father'." She thought a minute. "I didn'tfeel that Phillip was particularly anxious to be with me. In fact, Iwas afraid he was seeing me as a favor to you."

Jacob laughed. "'Oh, what a tangled web we weave', eh? I'm notsurprised that he didn't attempt to sweep you off your feet; that'snot his way. He's naturally reserved, but he's a man of greatpassions, Cathy, fierce loyalties. Never doubt that."

"Like Vincent."

"Yes," he stroked his beard, chuckling. "It would be interestingto see how he would react, if he knew what your fantasies had donewith his appearance."

"You're not going to tell him!"

"No. No, of course not. Cathy, believe me, I would never betrayyour trust. Nothing of what you've told me today shall ever leavethis room."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It's only that there's a certain irony in your description ofVincent. Phillip has never thought of himself as a particularlyattractive person, which can be a blessing in an otherwise confidentindividual, gives them a humility often lacking in those who are wellaware of their beauty. It seems to be lost on him that women followhim, as if he were the Pied Piper. To think that you translated himinto a figure so outside the norm that he was forced to live in aseparate society - well, I hope you'll forgive me, if I find acertain amusement in that."

She smiled, feeling flushed. "But I was intensely attracted toVincent."

"Yes, well, you see - that proves my point."

"Why didn't you tell me about Phillip - about his interest inme?"

"My dear, Cathy - think what you're asking. It would haveembarrassed him no end to have me running to you with tales of hisobsession. How could I tell you there was an otherwise intelligentyoung man who'd been thinking of you, holding you up as an ideal, fortwo years - all on the basis of a single look, one smile. It wouldhave frightened you, or at the very least, made you uncomfortable.I'm only telling you now, because your recovery was imperiled by yourmisinterpretations, so you can see that everything that's happenedhas a logical explanation."

"He wanted to tell me. I think he started to more than once, buthe couldn't bring himself to do it."

Jacob nodded. "He's an uncommonly honest man. It must have painedhim to be less than open with you; but no doubt he feared a greaterpain - if he told you everything, he might very well frighten youaway, just when he'd found you again."

"I would have understood," she said softly, and sat for a whilelost in thought. At last she looked up again. "It's ironic, when youthink about it. I felt very trusting of him, right from the start, asif he was someone I could really be open with in a way that peopleseldom are, and yet I couldn't tell him about my delusions. I wassure if he knew how I'd tried to escape reality for so long, he'dthink I was too weird and be gone. And he seemed so straightforwardto me, a person who could be counted on to tell you the truth, yet hewas holding something back as well - the fact that he'd been thinkingof me all that time. I'm just realizing what an awkward positionwe've put you in."

He dismissed the thought. "None of it was intentional, and it isgratifying to know that I've been able to comfort each of you in somesmall way. You are both very important to me, Cathy. That's why I wasloath to get involved in any scheme to bring you two together. It's athankless task, attempting to maneuver fate to one's own ends. Thelast thing I wanted was to see either of you hurt by the experience.Of course, I couldn't hold Phillip back forever. That's the reason Isuggested you come to see me at a prearranged time, so that he mightbe here. I had hoped the three of us could visit - that we could seeif this attraction was mutual without resorting to anything sothreatening as, what I suppose you would call, a date."

"Most dates aren't what I'd call threatening, but I'm afraidyesterday's turned out to be."

"It's understandable that Phillip's presence could make youuneasy. I see that now. There's no need to apologize for yourfeelings."

"But I didn't feel uneasy with him, until the end. In fact, I feltstrangely comfortable with him. I didn't want him to leave." Shesighed. "But that's not what I communicated to him. I started fallingapart for no reason that I could explain to him. He tried to comfortme, and I told him to get out."

"Yes, he was afraid he'd made a mistake, gone too far by - uh -embracing you."

"He told you that?"

"Yes, when he phoned last night, and I must say, I agreed withhim. What can he have been thinking, taking such liberties on briefacquaintance? I don't know what gets into the boy."

His exasperation made her smile. "Jacob," she said, leaning acrossthe table, "he's not a boy, and he didn't 'take liberties'. I wasshaking, and he held me. I liked it."

"You did?"

"Very much." She could feel her cheeks glowing.

"Be that as it may, if he can't control his impulses, he shouldkeep them uptown among all those dewy-eyed, unprincipled young womenwho fawn over him. I won't have him making improper advances toyou."

She was laughing now. "You'll wear yourself out, Jacob, trying todecide which one of us to protect. I don't need your protection, andI very much doubt that Phillip does either. We do need yourfriendship and your good advice, but we all have to make our ownmistakes and try to learn from them."

"Ah, yes," he said, rubbing his brow. "I suppose that's true. Atleast you seem to have recovered from the mood you were in when youarrived here this morning. I was certain that you'd come to revile mefor introducing you to such an objectionable young man."

"You were wrong," she told him. "I feel like you've given meeverything today - my sanity, missing pieces of my life, a trueperspective on Vincent and his world, and maybe, if I'm terriblylucky, even a chance with Phillip. How can I ever thank you forthat?"

He made a sound that very much resembled "pshaw", but she couldtell that he was pleased. She looked at her watch.

"I don't believe it. It must be dark out by now."

"Would you care to stay for a bite of supper?"

"Thanks, but I've got a couple of steaks in my refrigerator thatwon't last. Why don't you come back and have dinner with me?"

"That's very kind of you, Cathy, but I'm afraid my television setbeckons."

"I thought you didn't watch TV," she reminded him, shrugging intoher coat.

"My dear girl, it's Monday night. It's autumn. The glories of thegridiron await in living color."

"Sports - I almost forgot." She picked up her purse and bent tokiss him on the cheek. "I'll get used to it. Just give me time - Iwill get used to it."

She went out into the cold night air, feeling oddly exhilarated.The strange vibrancy that had first manifested itself on Saturday waspleasantly increasing. The whole city seemed to throb with it.Finding a cab would be easier at the corner, but she'd gone only afew yards when she heard her name and turned to see Phillip standingat the bookshop door.

"Phillip."

"You're alright now."

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Good." He put out his hand to open the door.

"Wait! Please." His deep-set eyes were in shadow, and she steppedforward until she could see him in the light of the shop window. "Ineed to tell you something."

"What is it, Catherine?"

"I - I don't know." She felt he was drawing her like a magnet, butthat he was oblivious to the pull. Any moment he might turn away,disappear into the bookstore, closing the door behind him. "SomedayI'd like to tell you why I acted the way I did last night."

"Someday?"

"Yes. It's too soon. I - I don't want to scare you away."

He tilted his head and looked at her intently. "I don't scareeasily, Catherine."

"I know that."

"I'm sorry if I offended you last night."

"You didn't. Please - it's important to me that you believe that.I don't know what I can say to you." She was afraid she soundedincoherent again. Her thoughts, her feelings were so clear to hernow, but she was unable to give them words. She only knew shecouldn't bear it, if he turned away. There seemed to be only onechoice, one thing that needed to be done. She walked up to him anddeliberately put her arms around his neck.

He stiffened, surprised, and for an instant she wondered if she'dbeen wrong to listen to her heart, but then his arms came around her,pulling her closer. "Oh, Catherine," he whispered, and tears sprangto her eyes. There was no hesitation from either of them, no doubt,no need for rational analysis; they moved swiftly and naturally intoa kiss that was anything but tentative. Every dormant feeling flaredinto life. She clung to him, wanting it to last forever, deliriouswith the proof that his passion was as great as hers. It was a kissperhaps he'd dreamed of for two years, a kiss she knew she'd waitedfor all her life. Neither of them wanted to end it. It became moreimpossibly intense with every moment, until it was clear that itcouldn't be continued even on a New York City street in the dark.When it ended, they both struggled for composure, but neither couldlet go of the other, the warm, vital confirmation of the deeper powerthat connected them. She closed her eyes again, as he tenderly kissedthe tears from her cheeks. He didn't question what had caused them;he seemed to sense that they spilled from her happiness.

"I don't have my car," he said finally, unwilling to releaseher.

"I'd rather walk," she beamed.

"All the way home?"

"Maybe. I just want to walk the city streets with you, seeeverything with you."

He didn't speak, just pulled her close to his side, and theystarted up the block. She kept her arm around his waist, reveling inthe rhythm of his body close to hers.

"I can offer you one beautiful, if slightly wilted salad, and I'vestill got a couple of steaks."

"Do I get to eat one this time?"

"I promise. Then what would you like to do?"

"Please, Catherine, don't ask me that when we still have fiftyblocks to go."

Her laugh rang out in the cold, clear night, and she tuckedherself closer under his arm. "Do you mind walking?"

He shook his head. "I love the city most at night - the mystery ofit, the lights like stars forming new constellations that no one'sever seen before, promising new things, unlimited possibilities."

She smiled. "The chance to live another life."

He looked down at her, and his eyes were filled with love andadmiration, as if she'd mastered some particularly enigmatic lesson."Yes," he said softly, "to live another life - and dream anotherdream."

The End