Chapter 1

One of the great disappointments comes when you hit 30 and still haven't become (a) a Captain of Industry, (b) a Bestselling Author or (c) a Beloved Icon of Your Country (pick one) and found True Love.

Most of us deal with that realization. In fact, so many of us face it that it's no wonder those who have achieved (a), (b) or (c) get so much publicity/money/gratuitous sex.

And that's the rub: "deal" with it. All but a select few face it by then; most of us deal with it. Some keep hoping, scheming, dreaming and never come any closer in the next year... or decade.

When 40 comes and goes without hitting the jackpot, all but a very few throw in the clichéd towel and get on with bulking up the ol' IRA plan.

And then there are those of us who, at 45 or so, still nurture those grandiose (self-) delusions until something comes along to put a million-candlepower spotlight on the calendar and burn the results of some basic arithmetic (subtract birth date from current date) into your brain.

For me, that something's name was Fran, though not originally.

"Excuse me. Where can I find the, uh, 'index?'"

The voice was clear, crisp, decidedly feminine but somehow undemanding and apologetic, but it was not a tone that could be ignored...

I liked it. I looked up from my terminal.

(Background: The agency that had contracted for my services did not ordinarily do political stuff; the brochures for the man running for a New York City Council seat had been taken on as a favor to a member of the agency's board of directors. Once the order got passed down through the ranks, the agency discovered it needed someone with experience in such stuff. My political experience was 20 years into history, but I still had the instincts and the knack... and the need for the money. But the agency's art department didn't have a clue about selling an agenda. Designer clothing, perfume, an automobile dealership - no problem; ideas - big problem. And eventually, it became necessary for me to do the actual layout of the brochures as well as the copywriting. Which was why I was in their office: last-minute adjustments.

(Setting: A bullpen covering a third of a city block in Midtown Manhattan. None of the workstations' cubicles was more than seven feet on a side, and none of the cubicles' "privacy screens' was more than five feet high. Fluorescent lights.

(Impression: She was stunning and far too young for me to care, no more than 23 or 24.)

"I don't know. I'm a freelancer."

Her eyes were dark, dark brown, almond-shaped, as intense as lasers and as unthreatening and challenging as the eyes of a child. She was intent.

"But I'll help you find out." I did a quick "save" on my work and stood, still meeting her gaze. I watched her eyes widen as I stood. She was about 5-foot-5, at most, almost a head shorter than me.

"I don't want to take you away from your work -"

Her voice was wonderful.

"I wish someone would." I smiled, to show it was a joke, but she was already smiling. "Index of - ?"

"Ad campaigns. My name is... Fran." She held out her hand as I stepped out of the cubicle. I took her hand gently in mine and shook, all the while giving "Fran" a once-over. She was wearing a russet, wool dress that draped to mid-calf, and she had an ochre scarf draped loosely about her shoulders. She was petite in her frame but not waifish. I had no idea where she got a bust like that. She had jet-black hair mostly pinned up in a bun, with large numbers of escaped strands that reached half-way down her neck to her slender shoulders.

"You made it sound like you weren't sure."

Her smile broadened. I liked it - a lot. I reminded myself that she was far too young, but I decided I would exert myself to see that smile again, as often as possible.

"I'm not used to New York City corporate life yet, but I figured 'Fran' would be simpler than explaining my real name."

"Which is?"

"Actually, it's my nickname, but I've used it so long - "

"Which is?"

"Phi." She spelled it.

"It's new to me." I extended my paw. "I'm Mike."

She took my hand in hers and shook it. I liked it. A lot. We went off in search of the index.

This was in September of 1996.

It was very early November of 1996. Sleet was pelting Midtown, When I'd agreed to take on the project of promoting the Earnest Young Candidate, I'd successfully negotiated all but one of my points: an office where I could smoke as I worked. Which meant that periodically, I'd take a break to wander down to the West 45th Street entrance of the building and light up a sinful nicotine fix. The gorgeous old granite entrance was arched and imposing and basically useless for shelter from the sleet, but there were, at any given moment, about a half-dozen nicoaddicts sucking on cigarettes.

I was more than mildly surprised - and, oddly, glad - to see Fran standing near the revolving doors, a cigarette in her shivering hand.

"Hello, again," I called, rambling toward her. "Mike, the freelancer who found the index with you," I added, by way of reminder.

"I remembered." She smiled. She was in a dark brown jacket and skirtwaist with a rose-colored blouse. She put her cigarette to her lips and -

I had noted her lips on the first encounter, then immediately blocked them. She had great lips. In fact, she had a great face. The bone structure was tapered from high cheekbones to a narrow jaw and framed a marvelously lush mouth: Classically Chinese descent. She had great lips. Too bad for me that she was far too young, no more than 22 or 23 - 24, tops.

- took a drag. She glanced at my own covetously cupped cigarette. "I'm surprised you smoke. I figured you were an athlete."

I was taken aback. "Athlete?"

"Big guy like you, move the way you do, I figured you were in football or something like that when you were in college." She took another drag. Every time she took a deep breath, I had to fight the urge to stare.

"Sorry to let you down; bad knees." I took a toke. "Besides, college was a long time ago, and my college didn't have much in the way of athletics."

"I thought they all - "

I was shaking my head. "City College of New York. Only one I could afford. I'm surprised you smoke. I didn't think anyone under 30 took to the American stinkweed anymore."

She turned to the building owner's condescension to smokers - an outdoor ashtray-wastebasket combo - and stubbed out her cigarette, then tilted her face back up to me, an impish smile seducing me. "I'm full of surprises. Going back up?"

Early February of 1997. My guy had won, and I had become a semi-regular part of the scenery at the agency - to the extent that I had a regular cubicle with a name tag affixed to the outside. My new project was a series of customer "newsletters" from a local CATV-alternative. I put in maybe 30 hours a week, a third of it in my home office, and pulled in enough to meet my living expenses, which left me free to indulge my then-wheezing career as a novelist.

The buildings of Midtown were almost luminescent with the unique glow of mid-winter midday sunshine. I was in no particular hurry, so I took a slightly different route to the office, detouring along Park Avenue to enjoy the sun shining on the gargoyles and griffons guarding the wonderful old buildings. I finally cut west to Madison and strolled uptown.

About 30 feet ahead of me was Fran, walking hand-in-hand with a young man in a peacoat. He was about six feet tall and had a dirty blonde ponytail. From their body language, one thing was abundantly clear: They were very, very much in love with each other. When they reached the entrance to the building that held the agency, they hesitated - and I held back, voyeur. They faced each other for a long moment, just staring into each other's eyes, and then they parted. I got a good look at him in profile for the first time. He was about her age, and he was quite a good-looking young man despite the uncertain goatee he was cultivating.

I wandered into the lobby a few minutes later and found that the notoriously twitchy elevators had stranded a small crowd in post-lunch hour frustration. Fran was there, chewing her lower lip. She looked drawn and tired.

"Hi. You OK?"

She blinked at me, as if returning her mind from another place, then gave me a thin smile. "Just tired." A ping sent a small herd of would-be passengers scurrying the length of the lobby for the elevator. I put my hand on Fran's down-coat-clad arm and restrained her. She gave me a quizzical look.

"This one's next," I said, indicating the elevator doors closest to us. "Noisy apartment?"

She shook her head slightly. "Crowded apartment. My boyfriend and I are sharing a studio with three other people, and it's... difficult."

Three other people? A studio? I knew that for all of the love evident between the two of them, that kind of stress was going to tear them apart.

Our elevator arrived. We had it to ourselves. "After you." I followed her inside, pressed 32, let the doors close. "Can't find an apartment for yourselves?"

Fran was shrugging out of her coat. She was in a burgundy bodystocking with a madras wrapped skirt that went from her narrow hips almost to her ankles. "Nothing we can afford. Between the brokers and landlords and the supers..."

"How much can you afford?"

"Between the two of us, we could probably manage $900."

"Mmmm. Not much in that range in prime locations. Have you looked in Queens or Brooklyn?"

"We just don't know the city." Translation: Anything outside of Manhattan was frightening to them.

"I understand." The elevator slowed and the doors opened on our floor. As we stepped out, I said, "I'll ask around."

She turned to me and put her hand on mine. The contact was electrifying. "That's so sweet, but I don't want you to go to any trouble - "

"I won't. Hang in there, kid."

She smiled, I smiled back and turned to walk away. My hand still tingled.

Late February. a Friday night and a driving drizzle, which did nothing to help me in my bout with the latest mutation of the flu. It couldn't be helped, though. I slogged along Third Avenue to the greengrocer, where I was going to restock my depleted larder - especially the orange-juice shelf. I was also seriously considering stopping at the Starbucks near 30th Street, rather than walking the longer distance to Oren's, for my badly needed resupply of coffee. My considering Starbuck's over Oren's is a good indicator of how uncertain I was feeling about my stamina. I was waiting for the crossing light to change, staring pensively at Starbuck's, when I spotted Fran across Third Avenue. I called her name, twice, but the rush of traffic was obscuring my hail. I hustled across the street and called to her again.

"Hi."

"Mike? Are you OK?" Her concern was clear and clearly genuine.

"No. Flu. Stay upwind of me." Pedestrians brushed past us. A cabbie was madly honking at traffic as if the horn would make it disappear or motivate drivers who otherwise would prefer to sit still, and somewhere north of us, an emergency vehicle of some flavor was sounding its siren in a vain attempt to get through the traffic. "I got a lead on an apartment, a small one bedroom in the Village. Legal sublet for just under $800. It was in a Usenet Newsgroup."

Her wonderful eyes widened slightly. "What's a Usenet Newsgroup?"

"I'll tell you another time." I was feeling weaker.

"OK. Can you call me and give me the - "

I urged her into a doorway. "No need. Write this down." She pulled a bulging Daytimer planning billfold from a voluminous tote bag, opened it and extracted a pen. I recited the information, including the phone number. She scribbled. "That's all I know about it. No guarantees."

She looked at her notes and read, "One bedroom, legal sublet, Bank Street, $790, wood-burning fireplace, no fees, call 212-xxx-xxxx." She closed the notebook and looked up at me, the sleet unable to obscure her tired, wan beauty. "How did you remember that?"

"When I read something, I remember it. Listen, I gotta go. I really don't feel well."

"Please take care of yourself."

"I'll be fine," I said with more conviction than I possessed. "At heart, I'm a little kid - and the bug that bites a little kid is doomed to a horrible death." I made my face smile. "See you in the office, kid." I turned and wobbled north. Fuck the coffee, I decided. I really needed to lay down.

By Monday, I felt better - downright hearty, in fact. The fever had broken early Saturday morning, and my appetite had returned (with a vengeance) by Saturday night. I thought I recalled meeting and talking with Fran, but I wasn't sure that hadn't been some feverish delusion.

Whatever. I had some things to catch up with in the office. When I got to the lobby, I spotted Fran just pulling the down coat off her arms. She was in another body-stocking and wrap-skirt outfit, this one scarlet. And where did she get that bust?

"Hi, kid. How's it going?"

She turned and gave me the most glorious smile. "Oh, Mike..." She slowly walked to me and put her arms around my waist and hugged me. I felt myself blush and awkwardly - and gently - hugged her in return. I had envied her boyfriend before, in an intellectual, distanced sort of way; feeling her arms around me and feeling her against me, I felt serious envy.

And I reminded myself that given the difference in our ages, such impulses were idiotic.

When she peeled herself away from me, she said, "We're signing the lease tonight, and we're moving Wednesday. I don't know how to thank you - "

"You just did."

She shook her head rapidly, tightly. "No - really."

I thought with unaccustomed speed. "Two things. Once you two get settled, have me over for dinner. I want to meet this guy, and I want to get to know the two of you a little bit."

"And the other thing?"

"Remember this and pay forward,"

She was clearly bewildered.

"Pay forward," I repeated. "About a hundred years ago, when I was your age - "

She giggled. I liked her giggle. When she giggled, she jiggled... slightly. "Mike, you're not that old."

"When I was your age," I repeated, "some people helped me. There was no way I could ever pay them back, and one of them told me there was a way I could express thanks - by paying forward. It goes like this: When you can help someone, do it - and ask them to pass it on. That's the obligation I lay upon you: Someday, you will meet someone who needs just a little help that you can supply. Supply it. In this way, you will thank me. But be sure that person understands the principle."

She stared at me with her amazing eyes, which seemed a bit more moist than I had seen them before. "That's beautiful." At that moment, I wished the idea of "pay forward" had originated with me.

"And so are you." I left the area before I said anything even more stupid.

I guessed they wouldn't have much in the way of a home-furnishing budget, so I scrounged and asked my friends for what they could contribute. Alana was the real hero, raiding her late stepmother's country home in Buck's County for a sofa, a table and some lamps. The rest of us came up with towels, sheets and miscellaneous tableware. Within a week of their tenancy, the apartment was adequately (if eclectically) furnished. Then I had to do some traveling out to the Left Coast for a week; my step-sister's kid was making her First Communion, which coincided nicely with some more business-oriented matters.