The third-floor physicians' conference room of Hillsdale Central Hospital had been turned over to the members of the press, who were standing by for the first report on Dr. Arnold Freeberg's condition since he had been rushed into surgery after the Zecca shooting.
Having circulated among his new colleagues briefly, Chet Hunter decided to leave the press watch and return to the visitors' waiting room at the far end of the hall. He had been there earlier, and Suzy and Gayle had introduced him around. Now, feeling he had some business among Dr. Freeberg's closest associates, he was going back to the waiting room.
Approaching the surgery, with a sign reading NO ENTRY on the door, he saw that three persons were seated in folding chairs across the way. Two of them Hunter recognized as Dr. Freeberg's wife Miriam and son Jonny. The third, a well-attired middle-aged man, Hunter guessed to be Dr. Freeberg's onetime college roommate and present attorney, Roger Kile. Passing along, Hunter was tempted to interrupt them to learn if there was any news yet. Kile was speaking to Mrs. Freeberg in an undertone, and from Mrs. Freeberg's intent and fretful expression, Hunter thought that this was no time to approach them. They would get the first news, and those in the waiting room would get it immediately afterward.
Reaching the entrance to the spacious visitors' waiting room, Hunter stood in the doorway briefly to survey it. Every cushioned wicker chair and the two sofas were occupied, and the television set in the corner was still. Unnoticed, Hunter took in the various occupants. Seated in chairs at one side of a sofa were a man and a woman he knew to be Adam Demski and Nan Whitcomb, and they were deep in conversation. Right next to them on the sofa were Paul Brandon, Gayle, and Hunter's own Suzy Edwards. Briefly, Hunter gave his attention to Brandon and Gayle, once more. Brandon, Hunter remembered, was also a surrogate like Gayle. According to Suzy, they were a close number. How odd, Hunter thought, two surrogates going steady. How could two professional surrogates make it together? Did they go through all those caressing and touching exercises first? Probably. Then again, probably not. Anyway, Hunter thought, they might make a fascinating follow-up feature story for the Chronicle one day.
His eyes continued to scan the room. There were the other female surrogates he had met earlier, and with his excellent recall, he remembered their names: Beth Brant, Lila Van Patten, Elaine Oakes, and Janet Schneider. Everyone in this grouping seemed anguished, doubtless concerned about the fate of Dr. Freeberg.
Hunter decided to check in with Suzy.
Entering the waiting room, he crossed it until he came to Suzy. He leaned over to kiss her, then gave her a questioning look. "Anything yet?"
"Not a peep," said Suzy. "I overheard a nurse say it may be another half hour. It depends on where the bullet is embedded."
"Fingers crossed," said Hunter quietly.
"They'll save him, Chet. God won't let a man like that die," said Suzy.
"Your word in God's ear," Hunter said. "I think I'll hang around a little while. I want to have a private talk with Gayle, if it's okay by you."
"You know it's okay."
Hunter took two steps along the sofa until he was confronting Gayle Miller, who had just stopped saying something to Brandon.
"Mind if I cut in?" asked Hunter. He addressed Brandon. "Do you mind if I take Gayle away from you for a few minutes? I'd like to have a personal word with her."
"Remember, she's only on loan-out," replied Brandon good-naturedly.
Hunter extended his hand and helped Gayle up from the sofa. "Just something between us," Hunter whispered. "There's an empty laboratory next door. It seems like a safe place to talk."
"Sure," said Gayle.
Hunter led Gayle into the hallway, then opened the door to the deserted laboratory and gestured for her to precede him.
At the nearest formica counter, he drew two high stools from under it, helped Gayle onto one, and seated himself on the other opposite her.
"I wanted a few words with you, Gayle, before whatever happens . . . happens."
"What is it, Chet?"
"You know now that Suzy is my girl, the one who sent me to Dr. Freeberg."
"That was a real surprise," said Gayle. "You're a lucky man. We all adore her."
"So do I, but that's not what I want to talk to you about. If not for her, I'd be the mess I always was. Anyway, she loved me as much as I loved her, and she is the one who encouraged me to go into therapy with Dr. Freeberg. When she told me about the clinic and what was going on there, about you, and the other sex surrogates, that's when I forgot her real purpose in confiding in me. That's when I went haywire."
"Chet, what's on your mind?"
He gulped. "You know, I'm responsible for your arrest as well as Dr. Freeberg's."
"I know, Chet. The district attorney showed me your journal."
Hunter shook his head. "I'm sorry, Gayle, I really am. I meant neither you nor Dr. Freeberg any harm. I just wasn't thinking ahead. I couldn't see what my machinations might lead to. I could think only of myself and my immediate future. I was totally the victim of an all-consuming ambition. All I could see was the chance to get the inside story on the clinic and its operation, on Dr. Freeberg and one of his sex surrogates, because I knew the exposé would land me a job as a writer on the staff of the Hillsdale Chronicle." He paused. "I simply got too involved with getting someplace."
Gayle nodded. "We all do sometimes."
"After Suzy read the report, she got mad and pounded some sense into my thick skull. Luckily, she found a few brain cells containing decency and morality. She made me see you for what you really are—and I wanted to tell you . . . and beg your forgiveness."
"All's long since been forgiven." Gayle smiled at Hunter. "You saw me for what I really am—what am I, Chet?"
"A guardian angel."
"Oh, come now." Gayle eased herself off the stool. "You know what I really am?" She pulled open the laboratory door. "I'm someone who knows how to use the squeeze method."
Hunter laughed. "The angel of squeeze."
"Exactly," said Gayle, and she left the laboratory.
Paul Brandon was slouched on the sofa, his cold pipe in hand, wishing he could smoke, when he saw Gayle come back into the waiting room. Observing her cross the room, he once more admired her feline grace, and he desired her again.
He jumped to his feet when she reached him, then settled down on the sofa with her.
"Any news yet?" Gayle inquired.
"Not a thing."
"Oh, God, let him be all right."
Brandon nodded toward the hallway. "You and Chet Hunter, what was that all about?"
"Confession. Expiation. Cleansing the soul. Chet just wanted me to know he was sorry. And grateful to me for you know what." She eyed Brandon. "What have you been doing while I was next door? Ogling the other surrogate ladies to find someone prettier?"
"How did you know? As a matter of fact, yes. Look at that Lila's legs. But to be honest, I have a preference for women with fat legs, like yours."
"Beast."
Brandon had become serious. "To tell you the truth, I've been eavesdropping." He was seated with his back to Nan and Demski, who were sitting in chairs to one side of the sofa, and he indicated them with a movement of his head, lowering his voice. "I wondered if they would be too shy to make contact after they were introduced."
Gayle glanced past Brandon. "Clearly, they're not too shy."
"Did you see how the first half hour they sat alongside each other like two wooden Indians? I was nearby when Nan became aggressive. She mentioned something about the weather."
Gayle continued to watch them. "They're talking a blue streak now. I wonder what they're talking about?"
"Maybe about us."
"Maybe about themselves," Gayle guessed. "I wish we could hear."
Nan Whitcomb had moved her wicker chair a few inches closer to Adam Demski, so that she could address him without being overheard.
"No," she was saying in an undertone, "I don't mind telling you how I got to Dr. Freeberg. I had some trouble and an M.D. recommended him. I had what they call vaginismus.
Demski, puzzled, mouthed the strange word. "What's that?"
"Muscular spasms in the vaginal area that make sexual intercourse difficult and painful."
Demski blushed. "I—I guess I never heard of it. Uh, how —how did it happen?"
"It can have many causes, according to Dr. Freeberg," explained Nan. "One cause can be some bad experiences with men. In my case it came from a terrible experience with a man named Tony Zecca."
Demski looked blank for a second and then seemed to recall the name. "You mean the fellow who shot Dr. Freeberg? I'm sorry about his being killed."
"I'm not," said Nan. "He was an animal—and dangerous."
"Why did he do such a terrible thing?"
Nan was silent, and then she spoke. "I can tell you why. Maybe I shouldn't, but—"
"You can tell me."
"I lived with Tony briefly. It was horrible. He gave me such great physical pain that I went to see an M.D., and that's how I was referred to Dr. Freeberg. I finally saw there are decent men in the world, so I walked out on Tony. Just left him. I guess he figured I'd run off with another lover. Somehow he traced me to Dr. Freeberg. He must have thought Freeberg was my lover—or at least that he was responsible for my walking out. Tony wasn't used to that. He was terribly possessive. I don't know what happened next, but I guess Tony decided to get even by killing Dr. Freeberg." Nan emitted a sigh. "I feel responsible for what happened to poor Dr. Freeberg."
Spontaneously, Demski patted Nan's forearm, then quickly withdrew his hand. "It wasn't your fault," Demski reassured Nan. "If he could, Dr. Freeberg would be the first to tell you that."
Nan sighed again. "Maybe you're right. Dr. Freeberg's a wonderful man." She gazed directly at Demski. "What brought you to him? Or shouldn't I be asking?"
"You've been frank with me. I don't mind saying." Demski's Adam's apple moved. "I—I'm from Chicago—an accountant . . . And I am—was—"
Nan touched his hand. "You don't have to—"
"Impotent," Demski blurted, hastily adding, "but I'm cured now. Thanks to my surrogate."
"How wonderful. Who was your surrogate?"
In an almost hidden gesture, Demski pointed to Gayle on the sofa.
"Gayle Miller?" Nan whispered, her eyes holding on the attractive brunette. "No wonder you're cured. I'd give anything to look like that."
"You do," Demski said, gulping. "Even—even better."
"You do know how to flatter a girl."
"I mean it," said Demski. "Who—who was your surrogate?"
Nan put a finger to her lips and with her thumb indicated Brandon on the sofa.
Demski took in Brandon and whispered, "He sort of looks like a movie star."
"Oh, he's nice. But I find an accountant easier to talk to than any movie star type." This time she blushed, then glanced off toward the doorway. "I wonder when we'll hear about Dr. Freeberg?"
Five minutes later a nurse poked her head into the waiting room. "The surgeon is on his way here."
She disappeared.
An immediate hush fell over the waiting room, all eyes converging on the entrance.
Seconds later, a tall, lean, bespectacled physician, still garbed in his green cap and green gown, materialized in the doorway, kneading his fingers together.
He took a few steps into the waiting room.
"I'm Dr. Conerly, the chief surgeon at Central, and I'm sorry to have kept you this long, but the news I have for you was worth waiting for. Dr. Freeberg is fine—couldn't be better, considering his ordeal."
It was as if a single exhalation of relief permeated the waiting room.
Dr. Gonerly went on. "We've just rolled Dr. Freeberg out of surgery and will place him in the intensive-care ward briefly, just to be certain his recovery is complete. Without going into clinical detail, I can tell you that Dr. Freeberg's wound was not life-threatening. It was his good fortune that the bullet that lodged under his left clavicle missed his heart and lungs—in fact did no damage to any vital organs. In surgery, we removed the bullet. No permanent damage, not even serious damage aside from his trauma. We were able to patch him up nicely. We'll want him here several days, just to keep an eye on him. If everything goes as we expect, he will probably be able to be back at his desk—on a much shorter work schedule for a while—in ten days. You can all relax now and go home."
The visitors were beginning to rise when Dr. Conerly called out, "Oh, yes . . . Are Miss Miller and Mr. Brandon here?"
When Gayle and Brandon stood up and moved toward him, Dr. Conerly said, "I want to speak to you for a minute before you leave."
Dr. Conerly waited for Gayle and Brandon at the door. "I have a message for you from Dr. Freeberg. He wanted me to tell you he'd made a table reservation for tonight at eight thirty at Mario's Gardens. Since he can't be the host, he asked if you two would invite the other guests and sit in as hosts for him. Do you understand?"
"We do, and we will," said Gayle.
"Oh, yes, Dr. Freeberg asked me to tell you—'have yourselves a great Tom Jones dinner.' Well, good luck."
After the surgeon had left, Brandon looked down at Gayle, puzzled. "What was that about a great Tom Jones dinner?"
Gayle winked, slipped her arm through Brandon's, and said, "You'll find out."
After supervising the removal of the last piece of padded furniture, the Reverend Josh Scrafield watched from the doorway as the shippers loaded it into the van to put it in storage until they heard from him in St. Louis.
Scanning the street without success for the return of Darlene Young, Scrafield wheeled back into his empty quarters and began to gather together some of his smaller personal effects.
After about ten minutes, Scrafield heard the front door open, and he hurried into the living room to make sure that it was Darlene who had returned. She was carrying a small paper bag and frowned at him as she handed him the bag.
"Here's the pickup you wanted," she said, "from Hanover Hardware Store. Mr. Hanover wasn't there, but he left this with one of his clerks, a young guy named Charles. As it turned out, Charles gave me more than this bag."
"What are you talking about?"
Darlene moved closer to Scrafield. "He gave me some information I didn't know. Said a couple of policemen are his customers, and they passed along a tidbit of gossip. That you were arrested last night for trying to rape one of Freeberg's sex surrogates named Gayle Miller."
"What kind of bullshit is that?" snapped Scrafield. "Rape her? Hell, I'd like to kill her for coming on to me the way she did. A really cheap whore. She tried to blame me, and I was arrested by mistake. But you see me here now, quite unarrested."
"Then why are we going to St. Louis tonight?"
"Better offer. Just came up. Don't worry, you'll even get a raise. Are you all packed, ready to go with me?"
"A job's a job," she shrugged.
"Just remember that," Scrafield said sourly. He busied himself removing a small bottle with yellowish liquid from inside the bag. He began to loosen the cap that had been screwed on.
"Hey, you better be careful with what you're doing," Darlene said. "That's sulfuric acid. If it gets on your skin, the hardware clerk told me, it can disfigure you for life." Darlene hesitated. "What do you need sulfuric acid for?"
"It's the best-known drain cleaner around. I want to see that our new place is clean. Now, enough of this crapping around. Let's get going. You drive." He paused. "By the way, one brief stop before we head out of town. You know a restaurant called Mario's Gardens?"
"Everyone does."
"Okay, stop in front of the place for a minute and wait for me. I have to see someone inside, and then we'll be on our way."
"Whatever you say."
"That's what I say," growled Scrafield as he headed for the front door.
They went out to Scrafield's Buick, and Darlene settled behind the wheel, waiting for her preacher to get comfortable beside her.
Then she drove off.
Their round table at Mario's Gardens was near the dance floor.
As host and hostess, Brandon and Gayle dominated the group. To one side of them sat Nan and Demski, at the other sat Hunter and Suzy, and the seventh chair meant for Dr. Freeberg was removed.
They'd been finishing their drinks, as well as their chopped Italian salads, when a busboy took their plates, and two waiters appeared and served them their hot pasta main courses.
Observing Gayle twisting her spaghetti around her fork, Brandon said, "You still haven't told me something."
"Told you what?"
"The meaning of a Tom Jones dinner."
"This is it, right now," said Gayle. "Remember that old movie Tom Jones? There was a terrific eating scene in it. The hero and heroine were eating together, eating food out of each other's plates and staring at each other. It was the sexiest scene in the whole movie. Somehow, the therapy surrogates, from the very onset of their treatment, adopted this eating scene as their graduation ritual."
"Why?" asked Brandon.
"Because there's a pretty close link between food and sexuality," said Gayle. "What we're doing here this evening is merely symbolic of an actual Tom Jones dinner. The real Tom Jones, if it's scheduled to take place, occurs in the last exercise between surrogate and patient. Each brings finger food, and you don't talk but sit side by side and feed each other and maybe have some wine. It's not a sex session, but it is lusty. A way of being intimate and saying good-bye. Eventually, there is talk, of course. The surrogate and partner review their close relationship, what went well in it, what went poorly, what was funny, what was sad, and what they could do to make things better in the future. They recollect their original fright and nervousness, and the high points of the days behind them. Talking, we know we may never lay eyes on each other again as long as we live, but what we experienced together can never be taken away from us as long as we live. We talk about how we're closing our relationship with each other and setting out to form new relationships, always retaining a fresh view of the sweetness and richness of life. We pleasure each other by exchanging food and remembrances. And symbolically, that was what Dr. Freeberg wanted us to enjoy together tonight. So let's enjoy our Tom Jones dinner."
Gayle held her forkful of spaghetti up to Brandon's mouth, and he nipped and sucked at it, eating and swallowing, and then speared a fork of fettuccine and fed it to Gayle.
Chewing, she looked around the table.
"All of you, get into it. Chet, you feed Suzy, then let her feed you. And Nan and Adam, you do the same. You'll see what fun it can be."
They busied themselves with the ritual, and halfway through their main courses, they started to engage in conversations, recollecting the best and the worst of times of their therapy and all agreeing that on this night they all felt happy and exulted.
Eventually, the music from the five-piece orchestra resumed, and Gayle and Brandon could see that Suzy and Hunter were already in each other's arms on the dance floor, and that Nan and Demski were leaving their chairs, holding hands and dreamily beginning to dance together.
For a while, Gayle and Brandon, their fingers entwined, silently watched the two couples swaying and moving about the partially darkened room.
"Want to join them?" Brandon asked quietly.
Gayle shook her head. "I just want to join you, as soon as we can leave here."
Brandon nodded. "I'll see that it's very soon."
Darlene and Scrafield drew up before the ivy-covered exterior trellises of Mario's Gardens.
"Here we are," said Darlene. "What next?"
"You stay behind the wheel, double park, keep the engine idling. I'll be out in a minute."
Inside, in the foyer of the restaurant, Scrafield accosted the short, slick-haired maitre d'.
"I'm looking for someone who is dining here tonight," said Scrafield. "Miss Gayle Miller. She's at Dr. Freeberg's table."
"Oh, yes . . ." As the maitre d' started away, he paused. "Who should I tell her is asking for her?"
"Tell her Mr. Lewis. She'll know. Tell her I have something I want to give her."
Observing the maitre d' leave, Scrafield smiled to himself. He was getting adept at using other people's names and voices. When he had hit upon his scheme, he had called Dr. Freeberg's secretary and told her that he was Otto Ferguson and he wanted to know where he could talk to Gayle Miller. The secretary had told him that Dr. Freeberg had reserved a table at Mario's Gardens for this evening, and that Gayle Miller would be among the guests.
That had been easy. So was this, using Hoyt Lewis as bait.
Scrafield fingered the bottle of sulfuric acid in his pocket. When he gave Gayle what he intended to give her—what she deserved—she would look like the Phantom of the Opera—even worse. No man would ever again be enticed by the little whore.
That instant, he saw the maitre d' returning, and a step behind him—one last look at that beautiful face, those wiggling hips—was Gayle Miller.
The maitre d' gestured toward Scrafield, then turned away to his reservations.
Puzzled, Gayle approached Scrafield. "It's you! The man said Mr. Lewis was here. What do you want?"
Scrafield took a step closer to her. "I wanted to leave you something to remember me by."
"What do you mean?"
Scrafield dug into his pocket for the sulfuric acid, unscrewing the top as he tugged it free.
Holding the uncapped bottle in his hand, he swiftly raised his right arm, pointing the mouth of the bottle at Gayle's face, about to fling its contents at her.
As his arm came back slightly to spew the contents over her, another arm suddenly came from behind Scrafield, under his throwing arm, smashing up hard beneath his arm, lifting it and the opened bottle toward his own face.
The jarring upward blow sent the sulfuric acid splashing out across Scrafield's startled countenance and into his mouth, which was agape. The acid had the searing effect of a flamethrower. Scrafield scratched at his forehead, cheeks, mouth, and shrieked.
At the same moment, Gayle screamed for Paul.
As the maitre d' went down on his knees before Scrafield, now writhing and moaning on the floor, Gayle stared into the face of Darlene Young.
"I'm Miss Young, his assistant," Darlene said quietly, watching as Brandon arrived to take Gayle into his arms. "I had an idea he wanted to get even with you, Miss Miller. Now he's the one who'll be disfigured."
"Better beat it before the police come," Brandon urged her.
Darlene shook her head. "No. I want to tell the police what happened." She smiled wryly. "Sorry to have spoiled your dinner." She paused. "But maybe I didn't after all."
Three hours and three cognacs later Brandon was slowly driving Gayle to her home.
As they turned the corner and approached the house, he glanced down at her as she moved closer to him. Placing an arm around her, he asked, "How do you feel?"
"Recovered, Paul. Never better."
"It could have been horrendous."
"But it wasn't. I hardly remember that it happened. In fact, I remember just one thing. You forgot to offer me dessert."
"I didn't forget it at all. I thought this was a Tom Jones dessert. Something we should share together at your house. Do you approve?"
She tightened her hand over his. "What are we waiting for?"
Gayle was fitting her key into her front door when Brandon started removing her black sequined sweater and then unzipping her long skirt.
In the dimly lighted living room, they embraced and clutched each other, then silently came apart and began to undress each other.
His arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist, they padded barefoot into the bedroom illuminated by a single lamp.
Arm in arm, they moved to the side of the bed. Then Brandon lifted her up and lovingly placed her on her back on the bed and lowered himself beside her, very closely, until they were flesh to flesh, bodies contacting each other.
His fingers ran over her forehead and mouth, and her hand moved across his abdomen.
"Paul . . ."
"Yes?"
"I—I hope you don't mind, but since Dr. Freeberg's not looking over our shoulder . . . can we go short on the touching and caressing?"
"You want me to break the rules?"
"No rules tonight, please. No patients tonight. Just you and me, on our own time. And in love. So let's—" Her legs had opened wide and he was over her. "Paul, I'm ready. Very. And you're—"
"Very."
"It's going to be fun," she said breathlessly.
He went into her slowly, slowly, deeper and deeper, to the very hilt. It was moist, her vagina, and soft as down, and it engulfed him like a frantic hug. He began moving inside her, back and forth, still slowly.
"Ahhh," she moaned, "I love it."
"I love you," he gasped.
They were going steadily when her hands gripped his ribs, slowing him even more.
"Paul . . ."
"Yes?"
"Do you talk when you make love?"
"Sometimes. Maybe. I don't know."
"I do, Paul. I talk."
"That's fine."
"Because usually I don't talk doing it with patients. We're not supposed to."
"I know."
"But this is just you and me alone, and I like to vent my feelings. Also, maybe—"
"What, darling?"
"—because I'm enjoying myself so much with you that it keeps me from being embarrassed. Besides . . ."
"Besides?"
"I—I hope you don't mind if I'm noisy. I like to let go."
"Let go. I will, too."
"Ahhh, good, good. Faster, Paul, faster. Not so slow. Faster."
He quickened his movements. Downward, upward. He accelerated their coupling faster and faster.
"Paul . . ."
He could hardly hear her, with her head going from side to side on the pillow, and her pelvis rocking to and fro. "Paul . . ."
"Yes?" he gasped.
"You know a woman takes maybe fifteen minutes longer to come than a man does?"
"I've heard."
"Not me, Paul."
"No?"
"Not me. I get ready much quicker—maybe as quickly as you . . . Do you mind?"
"Can't wait," he gasped.
For minutes, they were lost in each other, totally fused, all sense of time gone.
"Oh, Paul . . ."
"Yes, darling?"
"I'm almost there. All I need is—"
"Is what?"
"—for you to rub my clit a little harder . . . No, not that way . . . I didn't mean your hand. I want your body to rub my clit when you go in and out . . ."
"Like this?"
He clasped her by each cheek of her buttocks and drew her up against him. Pressing hard together, they caressed each other.
"Oh, yes, yes . . . That's—yes—just right . . ."
"Just heavenly," he gasped.
On and on, clamped tightly together, on and on, both breathing hard.
"Paul—"
"Darling?"
"—those, those books, novels, where the hero, heroine, they're making it, and near the end she screams, 'More, more, more . . . Don't stop . . . Do it harder, please harder.' You know?"
"What—what about them?" he gasped.
"They're not phony, not fantasy; they're real, they're realistic. I know."
"Know what?"
"It's true . . . I'll prove it." Silence, only heavy breathing, body writhing, and then from deep in her lungs came an outcry, "Don't stop . . . More, more, more . . . Harder, please, harder . . ."
He was blinded by perspiration, his chest heaving, his arms trembling, as he went berserk inside her.
She was holding on desperately, her heart hammering, her skin flushed, her breathing irregular, her nails raking his flesh, as her pelvic mound wrenched upward, "Paul, my God, I'm coming, I'm coming, I—"
She screamed out words unclear, and then, panting, she said, "I came."
He could not hear her. He was erupting inside her. The eruption continued and continued and then it was spent. "I came," she repeated from far away.
"I came, too, my darling," he gasped, "like never before."
Gradually disengaging, he fell back on the pillow close to her, his matted hair against her disheveled hair. After a long interval of regaining their equilibrium, she finally turned her head and looked at him. "Hey, where have you been all my life?"
Their arms went around each other, and after a little while, they were sound asleep in their embrace.
Brandon awakened first at shortly after nine o'clock in the morning, his head clear and his muscles loose and rested.
He shifted his head on the pillow to see if Gayle was asleep. Her eyes were closed, and one of her breasts, not covered by the blanket, lay in repose and slightly spread out.
Realizing the blanket covered them both, he guessed that she had briefly awakened in the night to draw it over them.
Feasting on her gentle profile, the happy memory of last night suffused him. He wondered if she, too, upon awakening, would still feel the sensual aftermath of their lovemaking.
As his gaze held on her, he saw her eyes flutter open. After an instant, they opened wide. She seemed to know where she was, and who was with her, because she searched for him at once. She found him regarding her so lovingly that her lips curled upward, and she stretched her arms out for him.
Brandon went into her arms, pressing his mouth to hers, and then working his kisses down her neck to her breast, where he circled the nipple with his tongue.
"I know what I'd like before breakfast, darling," he whispered.
She reached down beneath the blanket and put her hand between his legs, taking hold of him. "I think I know what I'd like, too," she said softly.
His hand grabbed the top edge of the blanket and stripped it away from her.
That moment their passion was interrupted by the sound of a distant thunderclap. Or what sounded as loud as a thunderclap.
It was the telephone on her bed stand, ringing insistently. "You don't have to answer," Brandon said. "This time it can't possibly be Dr. Freeberg."
"But it has to be something important. No one else ever calls at this hour. I must answer, Paul."
She snatched up the phone receiver and brought it to her ear.
She listened, then replied to someone, "Yes, this is Gayle Miller."
She listened some more, and from the intent expression on her face and her half of the conversation that he could hear, Brandon guessed it was someone important about something important, after all.
"Oh, how wonderful!" she exclaimed.
The receiver was pushed tightly against her ear, and her expression had become one of unadulterated pleasure.
"That's the best news in the world I could have heard," she was saying. "How very kind of you to call me. I'm absolutely thrilled. I'll look forward to your mailing the details, and I'll be there, all right. You bet I'll be there. Thank you a thousand times, Dr. Wilberforce."
Gayle dropped the receiver on its hook and spun about on the bed, her arms upraised as she gave a great whoop, her face totally wreathed in a smile.
"Listen to this, Paul, listen. That was the head of the Admissions Committee for the Graduate Program in Psychology at UCLA. They're sending a letter telling me that of the more than five hundred applicants to the Psychology Department this year, I'm one of the sixty students to be accepted. And also, I've been given a Chancellor's Fellowship—a full one-year's scholarship. They were kind enough to call and let me know without my having to wait for their admissions letter. Isn't that fantastic!"
Her arms came down and encircled Brandon, hugging him to her.
He kissed Gayle. "Congratulations, darling. It is fantastic, absolutely."
"Now I'm going to quit surrogating, much as I hate to, and go full steam ahead. I'll be another Freeberg, sooner or later—you watch and see."
"I know you will. I'm sure you will."
Brandon reached for her again, but she held him off briefly and, cocking her head at him, considered him with special seriousness.
"And you, Paul, you should be, too. You should also get a graduate degree in psychology, and then we can both be on campus and afterward have our own clinic and work together. We can work together and love together. What on earth could be better? You must do this, Paul. You must try it. If—"
Brandon grinned at her. "I already have."
"You have?"
"From the moment I met you, Gayle, I knew you'd get into graduate school, and I wanted to get in, too. So I applied, went through the whole routine, and prayed."
"And then what?"
"My prayers were answered. I received my preliminary notification of acceptance last week."
"You bastard, not telling me! With me worrying about your future?"
"I couldn't tell you, Gayle. I had to be sure you'd be accepted. Because if you hadn't been, I might have withdrawn from the whole thing and gone on to do something else with you. Thank God, I don't need a scholarship. I've saved enough along the way to manage."
She took his face in her hands. "Congratulations to you, too, Paul!" She smothered his face with kisses. "Now I'm really on cloud nine."
He cupped his hands under her breasts. "Ever think of trying for cloud ten?"
"I'm beginning to think of it seriously this second." They both heard the front doorbell ringing.
"Who can that be?" Gayle wondered.
"I'll take this one," Brandon said. He leapt from the bed and tramped out of the room. In the living room, he picked his trousers up off the floor, pulled them on, and fastening them, marched to the front door and flung it open.
A delivery boy stood on the porch with a bouquet of yellow roses in his grip.
He handed the bouquet over to Brandon, who signed for it.
Closing the door, carrying the roses, Brandon tramped back through the living room to the bedroom.
Gayle was on her knees on the bed, curious.
"Flowers. Who can they be from?"
"I don't know," said Brandon.
"There's a little envelope attached to one of the stems. I can see it. Come closer."
He did, and she tore off the envelope. "It's addressed to Miss Miller and Mr. Brandon. Let's see who sent them." She slit the envelope and pulled out a card. She read it aloud: "'We spent last night together and we did it. It was divine. We want to thank you both for making this possible. We don't know what's ahead for us, but last night—wow!'"
Gayle squinted down at the bottom of the card and gulped. She raised her head. "It's signed, 'Nan and Adam.'"
Brandon had put down the bouquet of flowers. "Gayle, fun and games may be all right for them," he said, "but not for me. I want to marry you."
"When?"
"Don't rush me, lady. First, a little premarital love, my last fling at being sinful. After that, some eggs and bacon. Then back to bed until dinner. After that, some nocturnal love. We'll be ready to sleep, and when we wake up we can get married. Or do you have anything else on your mind for today . . . and for the rest of your life?"
"Only you, Paul. Forever."
He climbed on the bed and rolled over next to her. He took her in his arms to begin the first day of Forever.