Chapter 5

I sent flowers to Leah's apartment and to her office at the university, romantic long-stem red roses to her home and a mixed arrangement for her office. Then I made reservations at Bobby's, a Mancuso Restaurant in Scottsdale that offered jazz, cuisine, and wine. The wine was for me. While living in San Diego, I'd acquired a taste for fine wines while dining, and the wine cellar in my home would make a sommelier envious. The jazz was for Leah; she'd mentioned she enjoyed light jazz. Hopefully, we'd both enjoy the cuisine, which was Continental with an Italian and Mediterranean flair.

I had not dined at Bobby's and hadn't spoken with anyone who had. I found the restaurant on the internet. It looked glitzy and sleek, and the prices on the menu were outlandish, so the food and service should be reasonably good. Also, the tables weren't jammed together, not according to the virtual tour of the establishment I viewed on my computer. Perhaps Leah and I would have a modicum of privacy to talk, to get to know each other over a good meal, as she'd suggested.

It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't dined in many up-scale restaurants in the Phoenix area. I could count them on one hand and not use all four fingers and thumb. Oh, I'd had lunch when I'd been out and about the city, sometimes in expensive eateries, but ... well, Friday evening would be my first "date" as Clint Wilson.

As Vince Smith, I'd dated a lot, especially the first five years using that alias. Frankly, I went a little feral in Houston, became something of a lothario, a man about town, a bon vivant. I used my wealth, my rugged good looks, and my experience beyond my apparent years to attract beautiful women. And attract them I did – in droves. To be blunt, I got laid a lot, but in the end, I wasn't satisfied. I needed more than sex with a beautiful woman. I needed companionship. I needed to love and be loved, but love didn't happen for me, not as Vince Smith. I'd held back. I didn't find love because I didn't let love happen. I had some secrets I wouldn't divulge, and the women I dated sensed my reticence to open myself completely to their scrutiny. So they used me; and I used them.

Then one day, I realized I was dating "party" girls, women who used men for expensive gifts and lavish good times, not prostitutes, but close. I didn't exit the party-girl circuit completely; instead, I slipped back in when I wanted unencumbered sex, and then slipped back out until the next time my physical urges demanded attention.

As time went by, my party-girl times became few and far between. I became more introspective, spent more time making money than being the bon vivant.

I tried dating, too, normal women, not party girls. But after the glitter of the party-girl scene, the dates felt flat. What I didn't do was court a woman, create the glitter, so to speak. Well, I'd court Leah, and together we'd make our dates sparkle. I had some ideas that would knock her socks off. Hopefully, other items of clothing, as well.

I didn't find love as Vince Smith. Would I find love as Clint Wilson?

Looking back, what I found as Vince Smith was charity.

Not that I hadn't been charitable. I'd attended benefits, and I'd written checks for so-called good causes. When I say I found charity, I'm talking about one on one, helping one person separately, not a group, what I refer to as a charitable good deed. I got a kick out of helping one person that I didn't get out of writing big checks at benefits.

That's why, as Clint Wilson, I'd hired my cook out of a shelter for battered women, and my groundskeeper out of a shelter for the homeless. I hadn't hesitated at all hiring a wounded soldier to head up my security, and for the same reason, I'd encouraged Greg to hire handicapped ex-soldiers to man the security room. Oh, I'd still write checks at benefits, if I was ever invited to a benefit, that is, but I'd concentrate my charitable efforts performing one-on-one charitable good deeds.

The question popped up in my mind again. Would I find love as Clint Wilson? If I did, I had resolved to divulge my secrets, to expose myself, warts and all, my warts being my apparent long life and ability to experience the thoughts of anyone close by.

Leah knew I was a telepath. She'd been exposed to and accepted one of my warts. Would she cut and run if I told her I couldn't grow old with her? And her attitude about my non-aging wouldn't be my only problem. She'd tell her parents. I'd had to threaten her to stop her from telling her parents I was a telepath. How would I handle the exposure of my potential long life at the constant age of thirty? I wasn't ready to stage another premature death. I had fond hopes to live as Clint Wilson for twenty or twenty-five more years before being forced to create a new identity.

I sighed. I was getting ahead of myself. Love had to happen before I'd even consider telling Leah that I'd stopped aging in 1959.

Leah read the note that came with the beautiful flower arrangement delivered to her office. Although she taught no classes during the summer, she maintained an office at the university, using it to write a book. The book's working title was History of the First Americans. She'd been laboring on the tome for two years with the hope that it would become the definitive book available on its subject.

The note with the flowers read: My "thoughts" are about you. With affection, Clint.

She smiled when she picked up on the double meaning behind his oblique reference to thoughts. A telepath! The good-looking galoot was a telepath. Her smile widened to a grin, and she shook her head with amazement.

While bent over sniffing the heady fragrance of a yellow rose among a variety of other flowers in the arrangement, most of which weren't fragrant, her office door opened and Dr. Paul Moore walked in.

He took a stutter step when he noted the flowers. She felt sudden guilt, like getting her hand caught in a cookie jar, and she surreptitiously and quickly dropped Clint's note into the center desk drawer.

"Hi, Paul," she said, trying and failing to project an innocent look.

"It appears you have an admirer," he said.

"The flowers are from my father's new boss," she said. "More as a way of saying thank you than as an expression of admiration."

Why did I lie to him? she asked herself.

"Why is he thanking you?" Paul asked, his brow knitted with a frown.

"I'm not sure, maybe for encouraging my father to accept the job," she said.

As often happens with a lie, mine just got bigger, she added silently.

He shrugged and abruptly smiled. "I'm glad I caught you. Dean Givens is hosting a cocktail party tomorrow evening. I'll pick you up about six-thirty. Dress is casual."

Oh, oh. Dean Givens chaired the Psychology Department. He was Paul's boss. The invitation was a command, not a request.

"I'm sorry, Paul, but I have another obligation Friday evening. If you'd let me know earlier..."

"What obligation?" he said, interrupting her. His scowling frown had returned and intensified.

Time to fish or cut bait, as Daddy would say. "I'm having dinner with Clint Wilson, my father's new boss."

"Can you cancel? The cocktail party is important, Leah. You know how Givens is."

"I know, Paul, and I'm sorry, but..."

"Those flowers are not just a thank you, are they?" he said, his tone of voice a little belligerent.

His antagonism irritated her. "How long have you known about the cocktail party?" she said, ignoring his question.

"That's not relevant. Flowers, a dinner date..."

"You've known about the cocktail party at least one week, probably two, so time is relevant," she said, interrupting him. "If you'd informed me earlier about the cocktail party, I would not have accepted Clint's invitation for dinner. You've been taking me for granted, Paul, and I don't appreciate it."

"Fine!" he said, not a shout but close. "I'll ask someone else to be my guest for the cocktail party."

"Do whatever you feel is right," she said calmly.

He spun on his the balls of his feet and stomped from the room, leaving the door open behind his angry exit.

She found it curious that his threat didn't upset her. She'd known for some time that Dr. Paul Moore wasn't the man for her, but they'd enjoyed a comfortable relationship, so comfortable that she hadn't expended the effort required to end it. She also knew ending the relationship would hurt Paul.

Humph! Comfort isn't what an intimate relationship is supposed to be about, she thought. But, am I ready for the emotional roller-coaster ride that I suspect a relationship with Clint Wilson will demand? Besides, there's something to be said for comfort. My parents are comfortable with each other.

Wait. Had her parents always been comfortable with each other, or had their relationship contained some excitement, at least initially? She'd ask her mother. Comfort could be good, but sometimes it wasn't, she reasoned. The contradiction bothered her.

She reflected back to youthful times. She'd had her flings with bad boys, one in high school and one in college. They'd both been exciting ... at first. She shivered and hugged herself with the memories. Some of the memories were exciting, especially when the relationships were new. Later, she'd realized how weak the bad boys had been, how self-centered with little consideration of others, including her.

She sighed. Face it, she told herself. Your biggest problem with Paul is his sex drive, or lack thereof. What you need is a bad boy who isn't too bad, a bad boy with love in his heart and a head on his shoulders, a head that's capable of thinking, capable of avoiding the trials and tribulations being bad or too self-centered seem to engender.

And a sex drive that matches mine. She chuckled. Or comes close.

Was that too much to ask?

And grandbabies. Don't forget grandbabies.

Leah's phone rang as she was arranging long-stemmed roses in a crystal vase in her apartment. Roses! Another surprise from Clint. She couldn't believe how much the roses pleased her. She'd decided she liked being courted.

"Hi, Leah," Paul said when she answered the phone. "I called to apologize for my behavior earlier. It was unconscionable."

Unconscionable? Leah thought. Hardly. Out of line, yes, unconscionable, no. Should I forgive him?

"You were right," he continued. "I have been taking you for granted. It's just that I considered us as ... well, a couple. Exclusive."

"We've made no commitments to each other, Paul," Leah said.

"Not overtly, perhaps, but neither of us has dated others for ... what, eight months now?"

"Thereabouts," Leah said.

"There you go. The flowers, your dinner engagement, they surprised me, and I reacted like ... Dammit, Leah, I was jealous, and I reacted accordingly."

Curious, she asked, "Did you invite someone to accompany you to the Givens cocktail party?"

"I did not. That was an empty threat. I'll go alone." He paused. "Unless you change your mind. I wish you'd reconsider, Leah."

Ah-hah! Now she knew the real reason for his phone call.

He said, "Perhaps if you explained, Mr ... ah, I forget his name. Doesn't matter. Perhaps he'd express his thanks and appreciation for your assistance another night."

"Paul, now I need to apologize to you. I'm sorry, but I misled you. Clint – his name is Clint Wilson – Clint sent the flowers as an expression of admiration, not as a thank you, and the dinner engagement tomorrow evening is a date." Hopefully a romantic date, she added to herself.

Paul didn't speak for a long moment. "I see," he said, his voice flat, resigned.

"Do you, Paul? Do you truly understand? I'm not saying I don't want to see you anymore. I'm saying I believe our relationship has become too ... comfortable best describes how we are with each other. We're friends, good friends, and sometimes we're even lovers, but..."

"But you want more," he said.

"Yes," she said.

"Marriage, children," he said.

"Yes," she said – with the right man, she added silently.

"You were right. I've been complacent. Comfortable. Too comfortable, it appears. Please cancel your date, and we'll..."

"No," Leah said. It was time to cut the string binding her to Paul Moore. She didn't love him. She'd never love him. She wanted more than he could give her. She wanted some excitement in her life, if not with Clint Wilson, then with another man.

"All right, I understand," Paul said. "I'll attend the dean's party alone, make some excuses for you, and..."

"I don't want you to make any excuses for me, Paul," she said, suddenly flushed with anger, anger that was evident in her voice. She took a deep breath and calmed down.

"All right, I won't make any excuses, but let's get together Saturday. My place," he said. "I'll cook dinner for us, and we'll talk about this some more."

He deserved that much, at least. "What time, and do you want me to bring anything?"

"How about six o'clock, and I'll take care of everything, Leah."

They said their goodbyes and ended the call.

As she sat and thought about the conversation, she wondered how she would have reacted if he'd said he loved her. He had not said the magic words, though. During all the time they'd been together, he'd never said that he loved her, another source of irritation she'd put up with.

No more. Saturday evening, I'll end the relationship, she vowed. I want some goldurned excitement in my life.

Friday morning while Leah was working on her book, her office door opened again, but her friend, Grace Boswell, walked in, not Paul.

"Am I interrupting?" Grace said.

"Yes, but that never stopped you before," Leah said, returning her friend's smile.

Grace settled into a chair and said, "Too true. I ran into Paul. He told me his side of the ... ah, disagreement. I thought I'd drop by and hear your side."

Leah put an innocent look on her face. "What disagreement?"

"That your date with another man tonight caused," Grace said. "Is it true? Are you actually going out with someone besides Paul?"

"Oh, that disagreement, and to answer your question, I am, a man named Clint Wilson." She pointed at the flower arrangement. "From Clint, and he also sent a dozen long-stem roses to my apartment."

"Ooh, juicy. Paul didn't mention the roses."

"I didn't tell him about the roses. You're attending Givens's cocktail party tonight, right?"

"I am. Wouldn't dare do otherwise. It's a command performance."

"When did you receive the invitation?"

"Golly, I don't know; it's been weeks, why?"

"Paul mentioned the party for the first time yesterday and expected me to drop everything to attend as his guest."

"Paul didn't mention that little tidbit either.

Suddenly, another thought occurred to Leah. She said, "He asked you to drop by to talk me out of my dinner date with Clint, didn't he?"

Grace laughed gaily. "Guilty as charged. Consider yourself talked to. Now tell me about Clint Wilson. Is he a hunk?"

Leah grinned. "Yep."

"How'd you meet him?"

"I stayed as a guest at his estate in Gold Canyon while my parents were visiting to check out the job Clint offered my father."

"Estate?" One eyebrow rose, a cute affectation.

"Eighty acres that backs up to the Superstition Mountains, five for his home in a walled compound, the rest for an Arabian horse ranch, a ranch my father will run. I'd call that an estate. Wouldn't you?"

"He can't be a dotty old man, not if he's a hunk." She giggled. "How old is this guy?"

"My age, maybe a little older."

"Inherited wealth, I take it."

"Yes. He sold the ranch in Montana he inherited. Now he invests and manages his money, works at it according to his assistant, a woman named Sable Darcy."

"A hunk. Rich. There's got to be something wrong with him. Give, Leah. Tell Gracie all. Dish some dirt for me."

He's a telepath, Leah commented, but kept the comment silent. Grace would go gaga if she knew Clint could read minds, and Leah was sorely tempted to tell her. She didn't. She'd promised to keep his paranormal gift confidential, and she kept her promises.

"He's overly security conscious," Leah said. "Armed security personnel, a walled estate with video feeds to monitors in a security room, a room manned 24/7 by armed men."

"Ah, a crook, maybe."

"I don't think so," Leah said. She went on to outline the reasons Sable and Greta had given her for the security at the estate, and then went further, describing how Clint had recruited his staff.

"He sounds too good to be true," Grace said. "A hunk. Rich. Charity in his heart."

"Old fashioned, too," Leah said. "He asked for my father's permission to court me."

"You've got to be kidding!" Grace exclaimed.

"Nope. Dad told him he had to ask me, so he did. That's how the dinner date tonight came about. To avoid stepping in it, he asked me what activities I enjoyed, giving examples like hang gliding, watching pro wrestling, and bowling. He's got a good sense of humor. I suggested a quiet dinner so we could get to know each other."

Grace shook her head. "I've gotta meet this man, Leah."

"I'll introduce you if an opportunity arises," Leah said, grinning. "For all I know, tonight will be the first and last date I have with him."

"Humph, not likely. Sounds to me like you should make damn sure he asks you out again."

"You think?"

"I do?"

"And just how should I go about making sure I have a second date with him?"

"The old-fashioned way, by making him want you but keeping your shapely ankles crossed and your feet flat on the floor."

"Grace, I'm shocked!" Leah exclaimed, failing miserably with her attempt to look shocked. In truth, she was a little shocked, shocked that Grace's plan mirrored her own.

Bobby's was everything that I'd seen on the restaurant's web site, and more. It was indeed sleek and contemporary, but not as sleek as my dinner companion. Leah wore a little black dress that figuratively made my eyes pop out when I picked her up in a limo earlier. There were other differences. The room was glitzy. Leah was elegant. I preferred elegance. The sounds in the room were intrusive. I'd never tire of hearing Leah's melodious voice.

I'd visited the restaurant earlier that day, picked out the table I wanted, and threw some cash money around to insure good service.

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Long Life and Telepathy

Paul Phenomenon

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