The Lovely Chocolate Mob

Evaluation

My sessions had gone well; I was pleased with the visits. Miss Planter had so far been a fair woman to me. She hadn’t really made any judgments, no condemnations, anyhow, which was a good thing. She had been thorough, and had made me re-evaluate my life from another person’s viewpoint, from a person whom I was learning to trust, whose opinion I respected. I had shared my opinions… and feelings… with a mental health counselor, who had been patient with me in return.

She had evaluated me, but I had been evaluating her as well. She was bright, intelligent, thoughtful, and knowledgeable. I had friends, yes, but not the kind of friends who could give me deep insights into myself. Hearing what she had to say was something new, something helpful. Speaking of help, that’s one thing she recommended. Like Lucy to Charlie Brown, Miss Planter said that I needed some kind of involvement. She remarked that one of the reasons I hadn’t been happy was because I hadn’t felt useful, or significant. Since I had missed out on being a husband and father, I wasn’t able to see my spouse or children be helped, and this made me feel like a failure, in my own eyes, even though I wasn’t. I was glad to hear this from Miss Planter, who seemed to hear what I had said, even though I was paying her to listen.

My assignment was to help other people, somehow, in order to deal with the feelings I had been experiencing. Now I was seeing that men have feelings that they have to deal with, also. Miss Planter said this was normal, and she was one smart cookie.

The next step was to figure out how to help people, and how to do this with good motives, and not just because it would make me “feel better,” although that may be reason enough.





Game Changer

I had arrived home after work, and was preparing supper-for-one in the kitchen. Eating healthy had become a concern, so I had read up on how to make something that was supposedly healthy taste good as well. Like I had told Miss Planter, I used to be able to eat anything, with no repercussions, but that had all changed. My clothes had become tighter in recent years, and now I’d sometimes get headaches after eating out, probably from too much salt. I wasn’t a diabetic, but did work with people who were, and saw how they had to handle their problems with diet, exercise, and medicine. I didn’t want that in my future. I also wanted to have a strong heart and healthy muscles, but working out seemed to be getting more and more strenuous. So it came down to concentrating on cooking, for now, as one means of keeping the health intact.

Anyhow, I was in the kitchen, trying to cook, and the telephone rang. I walked into the den where the hard-line phone was and picked it up. It turned out to be a blast from the past; it was Helen Ceraldi.

If you’ve ever been in love and lost what you had, then you know what it’s like to have your heart cut out with a rusty three-pronged fork. I had been stupid in love with Helen Ceraldi, a school beauty from both my high school and college years. She was as American as apple pie, mixed with a bit of Europe, which gave mystery to her persona and personality. A dark-haired beauty, a dark-haired Italian-American beauty, she spoke with a hint of the Italian accent. Tall, slender, smart, from a large family in the community, she became too much woman for the withdrawn-type former bookworm and now computer-literate social freak like me. What was she doing on the other end of my telephone line? Guess I needed to find out.

The heart jumped when I heard her voice; all of a sudden I wasn’t hungry anymore, and also, wasn’t she married to a medical doctor and living on the wealthy west side of Lovely?

“Hello, Helen; it’s good to hear you,” I forced myself to say. “How are you?” I guessed that was pretty safe territory; I couldn’t just come out and say, “Hello, wench. What the Sam Hill are you doing calling here, and how in living blazes did you drop me for a good-looking medical student with a bright future ahead of him a quarter-century ago? Yes, yes, I know a girl’s got to be practical, but do you know what that did to ME?”

Helen answered that she was working on a school reunion and would like to see me. She would like to see me? Lots of scenes went through my mind in the few seconds I had before I caved in and answered in the affirmative. Maybe I could have sent her a picture of myself on e-mail, then she’d be able to see me all she wanted; maybe we could do the “Skype” thing, talk face-to-face on the computer; would that have made her happy? What about her husband, her kids, her family? What would they think about me, an old thrown-aside boyfriend, being seen with her, the Italian-American beauty who’s probably still a beautiful beauty at the age of… 47 now? Yes, that’s right; she was three years younger than me. Did I owe her anything? I had to think quick, quick! Because she was on the phone and waiting for an answer, I didn’t want to be rude and have this door slammed shut in my face again for another 25 years!

“Yes, yes, Helen. I’ll meet with you. Where are you now?”

Now there’s a man of iron for you. Some girl practically leaves me at the mental altar and I manage to crawl back to her, through the mud, just to kiss her rear end when she finally decides to glance in my direction, perhaps just out of curiosity, or worse, pity. It doesn’t matter; I’d soon be seeing Helen. Hopefully she’d be fat, then I could laugh, but not to her face.

We decided to meet at a restaurant on the far north side of town, far enough away from our old neighborhoods, so that the chances of our being seen together were lessened. Of course we didn’t say that to each other; we just said we’d meet at this certain restaurant because it was a nice place for two adults to be dining like civilized and classy people with money to spend.

I quickly put the cooking meal in the refrigerator. I showered and shaved and powdered and put on some nice clothes in the 45 minutes that I had before I was to meet Helen, clothes for the restaurant, not for Helen. I even put on some better cologne for the restaurant, and clipped my fingernails as well, and used the emory board on them. My teeth were flossed and I had a mint piece of gum in my mouth, chewing it slowly so nobody would notice. I didn’t want to look too lowbrow in a highbrow place. Good thing the restaurant didn’t require a tie since I don’t like wearing ties when I eat. I put on a colorful Hawaiian short-sleeved shirt, complete with flowers and palm trees, with a pocket for my pen. The black pants were better than average, and they were comfortable, still fairly new, and weren’t faded. They were a step up from blue jeans, but not formal suit pants. I was wearing black shoes, not hard shoes, but soft leather and soft soles, because I’d found that softer shoes were good for my back and didn’t make me tired from walking. I could walk all day in those shoes, and I polished them for the restaurant as well.

I drove fast and furious through downtown Lovely, up to the north side where the restaurant was located. Good thing there wasn’t much traffic in the evening. Maybe I should have taken the loop around town.

I arrived and stood out in front of the eating establishment and had butterflies in my stomach. Why should this be bothering me? Helen’s a married and respectable woman, now. She probably just wants to see an old “friend.” Yeah, friend. A friend who used to cover her face with kisses, a friend who bought her flowers and took her to movies and out to the burger shack whenever he could. I guess with all that effort, she thought I had earned her kisses. And why did I wind up paying for all our dates, seeing how she was on a paid scholarship, and had money from her summer job? Her clothes alone could have bought and sold my future; why did I fall for a dame like that? Maybe that’s what “friends” are for; what the heck was I doing here?

I heard a powerful engine in the distance and looked to my right, focusing down the street. A red convertible, top up, came down the avenue, getting closer to the restaurant. I knew it was Helen; she’d always had a thing for red cars and sporty convertibles. How like her to combine the two-in-one.

She drove up and found a spot near the front door, where I was standing. I walked over to the front of the convertible, and saw the driver’s side door open. Two beautiful legs popped out; nope, she didn’t get fat.

I got near in time to meet her as she stood out of the low car. She saw me, paused for a moment, long enough to recognize me, and smiled, her teeth shiny white. My gosh, she was still beautiful! I hoped I hadn’t changed too much; I felt conscious of my thin hair. She still had a head full of beautiful long and wavy hair, and it was still dark, with no grey, not in the least, not even with white streaks that I thought I might see. White streaks in her hair on a fat body? No, no way.

She walked toward me and hugged me around the neck; it was a long hug. Maybe she had missed me? I hugged her back. I wanted to keep hugging and then start with the kissing, but since she was married that wouldn’t be the thing to do. We pulled apart, with me somewhat still holding her; I looked into her eyes. She smiled, her teeth were perfect, her face perfect. Nothing had changed, except there were a few lines around the eyes, but that’s easily overlooked. After all, she wasn’t a teen-ager anymore, and hadn’t been for quite a while.

“Randall, it’s so good to see you.” Well, those were good words to hear. Not as good as “Randall, it’s so good to hug you,” or “Randall, your cologne is so strong and your breath is especially minty,” or “Randall, you’re a total hunk, and truly a man among men,” but still, it’s a good start.

“Mom, are you going to introduce me?” I was startled by another female voice; I hoped I hadn’t looked too grabby. I put my hands behind my back and turned around to see a miniature Helen, a younger black-haired beauty.

Helen said, “Yes, sorry. Mindy, this is Mr. Owen. Randall, the friend I was telling you about. Randall, this is my oldest daughter, Mindy Burke. She followed me here.” I was completely caught off guard, but managed a handshake, and said, “It’s good to meet you.”

I suddenly felt hungry again. We went inside and got a table.





Helen Speaks

We had a nice supper at a nice restaurant for a nice price. I picked up the tab for the three of us, for both the meal and the tip, even though it was Helen who initially wanted to speak with me. We talked small talk during the meal, speaking of classmates and townsfolk we had both known, while Mindy sat silently through most of it. I tried to include her in the conversation, but we older types didn’t have much in common with this college-aged girl.

After the meal was over, then it was time to “get down to business.” The restaurant wasn’t eager to chase anybody out, so we had plenty of time to burn. Mindy had excused herself to visit the little girl’s room, and so I figured I would cut to the chase.

“What kind of reunion party are you planning? High school or college?” I asked, trying to be matter-of-fact.

“I’m sorry for misleading you, but I’m not here about a reunion,” she said, speaking in a serious tone.

I locked onto her eyes to look for any deceit; I didn’t see any. “Okay, then, why are we here?”

Helen took a breath, and said, “I needed a sounding board, Randall. I’ve recently had some developments in the family, and I needed to discuss them with somebody on the outside.”

On the outside. On the outside? Yeah, that’s me, all right. I could have been your husband, but oh, no, here you are speaking to someone on the “outside.”

“Well, what kind of developments has the family been experiencing?”

She hesitated, then said, “I believe my husband is having an affair.”

I leaned back in my chair and looked around. “Do you think you want to be discussing this with your daughter so close by?”

“Mindy knows,” she said. “I told her to disappear after we ate. I needed the time to speak freely.”

This was a little bit too much for me to take in all at once, so I asked, “You’re talking about your husband, Mindy’s father… Franklin Burke, the medical doctor?”

“Yes.” Helen averted her eyes from my gaze.

“Do you have any idea who he’s having an affair with?”

“I do. Her name is Susan Lovely. She’s heir to the Lovely family fortune, and Franklin is the family doctor.”

“Susan Lovely,” I said, remembering her from the local interview. “I’ve seen her on television. Do you know anything else about her?”

“I know a little about her,” said Helen, “from what I can pick up through the grapevine, and read in the newspaper, mostly the society column. She’s 37 years old, a former model, single, never-married with no children, went to college for a little while but dropped out to further her modeling career. I suspect she quit college because she was bored with it and then later quit modeling for the same reason, plus…” Helen stopped short.

“Plus? Plus what?” I pushed.

“I’m sure she had some kind of trust fund to live on, and her grandfather recently passed away, and she’s about to come into a lot of money. Her family was already among the wealthy, but now she’s about to become one of the super-rich.” I could see Helen was becoming frustrated, even though she knew how to hide her emotions.

Here was competition she couldn’t compete with. Helen had the beauty of a model, but the youth and riches part were giving her some trouble.

“You’re saying that your husband, Franklin, the M.D., has gotten involved with a rich socialite, even though he’s been married to you for 25 years?”

“Yes. It would seem so. This is what I believe, anyway,” she said.

“What makes you believe this?”

“He’s her family doctor. He helped take care of Cornelius Lovely.”

Now that name carried some weight, even though I’d already figured out he was in the picture somehow. But Mr. Lovely had the reputation of being above such sordid scandals; what was his granddaughter doing being involved with a married man?

Helen continued, “I used to hear all about his patients, and I heard about her and her family, up until about six months ago when suddenly, Franklin stopped speaking about them. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. He’s such a busy man and has many patients.”

“This is all interesting,” I said, “but is there any proof of his being involved with Susan Lovely? I mean, how do you know?”

Mindy reached for her purse, placed it on the table and opened it. She pulled out a folded piece of paper, which turned out to be a grainy black and white 8” X 10”

photograph. She slid the photograph across the table to me.

There was Franklin Burke, M.D., a still-handsome man of about 47, Helen’s age, kissing a beautiful young woman on the cheek in a parking lot while standing next to a car, presumably Susan Lovely’s car. The door was open and she was standing, looking as though she was about to get in, but having a “good-bye” kiss planted on her by a possible romantic interest.

“How did you get this?” I asked.

“Mindy’s boyfriend. He works as a security guard part-time at the hospital, and this showed up on the parking lot cameras. He saw this while it happened on the viewing screens, recognized Franklin, and made a photo from the digital files.”

I looked at the picture. “This is a pretty grainy picture… why did he give this to you?”

“They’re pretty serious, Mindy and her boyfriend. He knew the woman wasn’t me, and thought Mindy should know,” she said, with some subtle disregard for Mindy’s choice of boyfriends.

I looked back at the photograph. I could see both people’s faces, with the girl’s face turned toward the camera. Even with the grainy photo, I was struck by her beauty. I remarked, “She is quite a pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

This hurt Helen; she tried to hide it, but it was as if someone poked her with a sharp object. I should have been more sensitive.

“She’s young, rich, and pretty, and involved with my husband,” Helen said.

I continued to look at the photograph, thinking, “Dr. Franklin Burke, I don’t know if you’re a lucky dog or just a total idiot. You already have a beautiful wife, who seems to care for you. You’ve got an intelligent young daughter. On the other hand, you’ve picked a cute little girlfriend. I’m sitting here with your wife, and your daughter is in the immediate vicinity, so I’ll have to side with them on this one. You’re doing something wrong, but after seeing your choice, I can understand how you’d fall into an affair.” I wonder if he sought her out, or if she picked him? I guess that didn’t matter. Helen was hurt and needed some support.

“What are your thoughts on this, Randall?” Helen asked. Oh, you don’t want to know my thoughts, Helen. I think you’re getting to know the pain of rejection and betrayal. I’d like to ask you how it feels, but your daughter is near and you’d leave, and I don’t want that.

“Helen, do you love your husband?” I looked up to see her face; I wanted to know.

This question seemed to startle her, but it was a fair one. After all, we were talking about family.

“He’s my husband.”

“I know he’s your husband,” I continued. “Do you love him?”

“Yes, I love him. I think I love him. Not like when we first were married, but I’ve always respected him and his opinions, what he’s done for the community, the people he’s helped, his work, his position…”

She sounded as though she were describing an employer, or someone she worked for. Good thing Mindy wasn’t here to hear this; it might hurt her. Nevermind that he kept her and the family in comfort and luxury, I’ll bet she respects that, too. She’s had plenty of years of non-work. What does she do all day?

“The reason I asked that is because this photograph alone would probably give you an easy divorce.”

“I don’t want a divorce. I want my husband back. I want my life…” her voice trailed off.

I stayed respectfully silent. It was difficult for her to speak. I could wait. I’ve waited a long time.

“I want my life back,” she said again. She took a breath, and said, “We have children…”

“I’ve met one,” and smiled. “I think she’s quite a little girl; you two have done well. Tell me about the rest.”

“There are four of them,” she said. “Three girls and one boy, and he’s the youngest. Mindy is in college, one child is in high school, one in junior high, and one in grade school.”

“You really did have a family. Congratulations on that.”

She smiled. “Their names are Mindy, Beth, Lucia, and…”

I waited.

“J.R.”

“J.R.? As in Junior?” I asked. ”Now I was the one who was surprised. “I assume all your children are named after relatives?”

She smiled again. “They’re named after people we admire. The girls adore their father, as does J.R. I’m what you call the ‘bad’ parent. I make them mind, behave, do their chores, clean their rooms, do their homework.” She continued, “Franklin is the ‘good’ parent. He buys them gifts, takes them places, lets them do what they want. He adores them as well.”

She reached for her purse again, still on the table, and looked for her pocketbook. She reached it, opened it, and pulled out family photographs, pictures of herself and Franklin and the four children. I looked at them all closely for awhile, and listened as Helen pointed out the children and their names. They were a nice-looking family, almost perfect in appearance, and, somehow, this wound up hurting me. I was looking at a family that could have been mine, except, I’m sure any child I had wouldn’t be as pretty as the ones in the pictures. I was instantly smitten by the children.

“Helen, what the heck is he thinking?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t asked him about this. I just found out recently, and he doesn’t know that I know. I came to you for advice. I needed someone who…”

I waited, again.

“Mama needed someone she could trust.”

I looked up. Mindy had come back. I don’t know how long she’d been there.

I looked back at Helen. “You trust me? When did you decide this?”

Mindy didn’t say anything, because now she knew her Mom didn’t want her to talk. Helen looked a little uncomfortable by my question.

Trustworthy. That’s me. And loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous and kind. A nice guy. A nice guy who finished last.

I broke the silence: “Does anybody else know about this photograph?”

Now Mindy could talk. “Just my boyfriend, me, Mom, and now, you.”

“None of the other children?”

“No,” said Helen. “I don’t want them to know.”

“Now here’s a question that’s suddenly popped up in my mind,” I said, “and I’m not being sarcastic when I ask this. What do you expect me to do?”

“Randall, you were known for reasoning with people in college, making friends with different people in different groups. I don’t know what you can do. I guess I just needed somebody to tell. I need to know what to do.”

Why, you little Delilah. You’re married to this cheater and then you come crawling to me, the guy you threw over, so I can set your life straight for you.

“I’m glad you came to me,” I heard myself say.

Then I heard someone clear his throat. Looking up, I saw the manager of the restaurant, far in the distance. It was getting near to closing time, and he was hinting it’s about time to leave without actually saying it. I got the message.

“Helen, the restaurant is closing soon. I have to work tomorrow. Can we meet again, later, and can you share more information? Mindy, are you computer savvy?”

Helen said, “She knows more about computers than I do.”

Speaking to both, I said, “If you’d like, you can e-mail me your findings. Can you do this on a separate computer, one your father doesn’t have access to? Let me give you my e-mail address.”

Helen opened up her purse again and handed me a piece of paper. I wrote my e-mail down and slid the paper back across the table to Mindy. I held it to the table before she picked it up, which got her attention as she tugged on it. She looked into my eyes.

“I’m not asking you to betray your father. He may be an innocent man. I’d like to find out more about this woman, Susan Lovely. This picture really doesn’t tell the whole story. If he is innocent of any affair, we need to find out.” I released my e-mail address and Mindy picked it up, put it into her purse, and snapped it shut. “I understand,” said Mindy.

“You two contact me first and I’ll write back, if you want. Let’s find out about this ‘other woman.’ What can you tell me about her? Find out all you can, without raising any suspicions, of course.”

“Of course. Yes,” said Helen. “I know a few things, but not as much as I should. Mindy is good at research, especially on the internet. We’ll find out what we can, and get back in touch with you, hopefully soon.”

Mindy got up and left without saying a word. I guessed she was emotionally overwrought, but she’s the one who alerted her mother. After a few moments, Helen and I left the booth and walked outside, and I accompanied Helen to her car. It was dark by then, with most of the parking lot empty, and it wasn’t good to let her walk alone, even if the car wasn’t far from the building. Of course this put me in an awkward situation; in the old days, she’d expect me to kiss her goodbye. I held back so as to not crowd her, to not be too close. She got her keys out to open her car door, but before she did, she looked up at me and said, “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Randall.”

Well, I guess that took 25 years to say. What am I supposed to say in return?

“There was no ‘if,’ Helen.”

She took this well. “Then… I’m sorry I hurt you.”

I stopped for a moment, searching for sincerity in her eyes. Helen didn’t say anything more, but got in her car and drove off, leaving me standing in the parking lot.

Maybe I revealed too much. Perhaps I let my anger take over.

I got into my car and drove home, still wondering about Helen’s latter-day acknowledgement of my feelings. The more I thought the angrier I got. “Sorry?” I said out loud. “Sorry? Sorry is good, Helen, sorry is a good start, a good beginning.” I could feel my blood pressure go up and my pulse quicken as I continued, now yelling, “But ‘sorry’ doesn’t FIX things. FIXING things fixes things! If you wanna be SORRY about something, try FIXING it. How? I don’t KNOW how; that’s your problem, not mine!” By now I had changed into a driving Incredible Hulk.

I found myself yelling as I drove down the street into the neighborhood and into my driveway. I hoped none of the neighbors heard me, since my car windows had been down.





Work Day

When I woke up, the first words to come out of my mouth were “Oh, no.” I had to go in to work in an hour.

People sometimes asked me, “Do you like your job?” to which I always replied, “I like getting paid.” This got me some strange looks, but hey, I’m used to that, and have learned to expect it. I’ve learned when I don’t get an unusual stare, something’s wrong, as though I’ve gone against the flow of the crowd; sometimes I’ve enjoyed that, and other times I have been caught by surprise to see that stare from other people.

My job, as I told Miss Planter, is being a civil engineer at Root and Bonham, a private engineering firm in Lovely. The bosses are pleasant enough, and they’ve learned to leave me alone in my work area, which means I usually have all day to coordinate drawings correctly. They come by a few times during the day to touch base and make sure we’re on the same page, but since I’m their best worker and really don’t care for interruptions, they only stay as long as they have to. I’m a civil engineer, and we have a civil relationship. If they ask reasonable questions and give reasonable suggestions, I’ll listen and talk with them. If they’re just talking to be talking, I have to bite my tongue to not be rude. I know more than they do about any project in the building and they know it, although it’s not said. If I chose to, I could have been one of the managers and bosses, but then I wouldn’t be an engineer, would I? Why did I go to school to learn how to be an engineer if I were going to be a people manager? I went to school to become an engineer, and an engineer I’ll stay until I retire, which, I hope, won’t be too far in the future.

The pay is fair, not great, but fair, which is why I don’t bolt and sell out to another firm. I know I could demand more money, based on the sheer quality and quantity of my work, but I don’t really like to raise the stress levels at work. Plus, if they paid me more, they might expect me to put out more work. I’m doing the best I can now, and I really don’t need that extra pressure. I give them good work. I get paid a fair wage. That’s good enough.

Another perk is the hours I work, Monday through Friday with weekends and holidays off. If a project is due, I’ll work late at my desk into the night, and the bosses appreciate that. If I want to go to the doctor, they let me go, no questions asked; if I want to take a day off, they understand that also, with minimal interference. Since I outwork and many times guide their other engineers, I’m seen as a somewhat valuable commodity, which works in my favor. Understand that I don’t cheat them; I just like to have flexible hours.

This isn’t the best atmosphere to make friends; if something goes wrong, everybody steps back so as to not catch the blame. Everybody is watching out for himself, and I guess that’s fair, too, but it doesn’t really help to build trust in this environment.

The best thing about work is, I really don’t have to talk to anybody if I don’t want to. I can take breaks and be in touch with anybody I need to contact concerning outside issues. Since I was at work and it was break time, I figured I needed to call an old friend, Walter Dale. The problem with that, though, is I don’t know how.

I do have a few other friends from high school and college who might know where he is. I immediately called Gary Byers, a friend in common and a florist in town; perhaps he could help.

I dialed, or push-buttoned, the business number, and an employee answered, “Byers’ Florist, how can I help you?”

“Yes sir,” I said, “I need to speak with Gary.”

“Is he expecting your call?”

“No, I’m an old friend from school days.”

“Hold on.”

I liked these kinds of conversations. The fellow on the other end of the line was strictly business and loyal to his employer; that’s something I could respect. About a minute rolled by. The employee returns to the phone. “Gary wants to know who’s calling.”

“Tell him it’s Randall Owen.”

“Just a minute.”

I waited another minute, then heard another line pick up on the other end.

“Randall! How are you doing? What have you been up to?”

“Hello, Gary. Everything’s fine; I need a favor.”

“Sure, anything. What do you need?”

“I need to speak with Walter.”

There was a moment of silence. “I’m afraid I don’t know any Walter.”

“Come on, Gary. We went to high school together!”

“We’re having a sale this week on day lilies. If you’d come in, I could show them to you personally. Some of the pictures on our website aren’t as pretty as they are in real life.”

I was stumped for a second, then understood what he was saying. His phone might have extra listeners, and he was hesitant to say more. He wanted to speak face-to-face.

“You know, I have a real interest in day lilies. I’d like to see some of them real soon. Tell you what, I’ll drop in sometime and you can show me what you’ve got.”

“Okay, Randall! Well, hey, I’ve got to get back to work. I look forward to seeing you!”

After work, I drove to Byers’ Florist and looked around. Gary was in the back work area, cutting and mounting flowers and tying ribbons and bows to them, arranging and making them look desirable for the ladies. I guess some people liked buying flowers. I walked back to the work area.

“Hey, Gary!” I said, “How’s it going?”

“Hello, Randall! Didn’t expect to see you so soon!”

He stood up from where he was sitting, came over to me and shook my hand. “Let’s go to the back,” he said, “I want to show you some of those lilies we talked about.”

We walked to the far back of the shop, out the back door and into a greenhouse. It was a nice temperature in there, so I didn’t mind. I usually liked doing my business indoors, away from the sun, but all the flowers and climate controlled atmosphere made it kind of nice. Gary walked over to a corner and turned on a CD player, and cranked up the volume. Fortunately, it was classical music. Must have been for the employees while they’re working out back, or maybe it was for the flowers to help them grow. I wouldn’t know, but I guessed giving the plants music beat spending time talking to them.

Gary came over and said, “Okay, we can talk now. Sorry about all the cloak and dagger.”

“That’s okay, Gary. I’m getting used to it. The older we get, the more we seem to do this kind of thing.”

“You just can’t be too careful; you never know who’s listening.” He looked around as though he was searching for somebody with a camera. “Were you followed here?”

I chuckled at that, but said with a straight face, “No, nobody followed me. I’m not in any trouble, so nobody wants anything to do with me.”

“That’s good to know,” he said. He pulled up a stool and sat down. I don’t think he liked to stand too much, since I’m sure he was always on the move in this job. He probably sat down every chance he got, like I do; I decided to follow suit, so I pulled up a stool as well. Gary looked at me, and said, “I don’t know where Walter is these days. He’s been kind of hard to find since his release. He took a hard fall, and I think he’s embarrassed that he hasn’t been able to get back into the corporate world, now that he has a record, even with all his expertise.”

I nodded, and added, “He said he was going to lay low until his parole was over. That time has passed.”

“I’ll put the word out that you’d like to speak with him,” said Gary, “but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I may not have any need with him. It’s a concern I have; it’s nothing pressing.”

Since that was out of the way, we talked about people we knew, schoolmates, old girlfriends, old teachers, for about 20 minutes, reliving our youthful days. Gary was a businessman now, and I didn’t blame him for being careful. He had to keep himself far from being associated with controversial and shady characters, and I guess Walter had somewhat of a reputation for being a character, although I felt he had been misunderstood. Nobody understands genius; they’re labeled as ”eccentrics,” which serves to isolate them socially.

I finally got up to leave, and Gary walked me to the front of the store, talking all the way. He probably didn’t get many schoolmates and old friends here at his business; it must be lonely at times although he does have much of his extended family here with him. He’d become a family man, and had to be thinking about them as well; it wasn’t just about himself anymore. It’s good to see that in a person; Gary had become a humble man looking after his kin.

I went home to get something to eat and catch some shut-eye; the next day was Saturday and so I’d be able to relax and mow the yard or not, clean up around the house or not, or just sleep late, or not. I got home, turned on the television; I didn’t watch it much anymore, but wanted to hear some noise in the house, in the background, because I usually spend my time on the computer. Speaking of which, I decided to type in the name “Susan Lovely” on the search engine to see what would show up about Dr. Franklin Burke’s maybe/perhaps girlfriend.

I found what Helen had told me, that Susan Lovely was 37 years old, no longer a child, no longer a young adult, but a lady who was now in middle age territory. She’d never been married and had no kids, which was kind of unusual for a rich and beautiful woman like herself. Surely there would have been sharks or gold-diggers or suitors who would have swept her off her feet, years ago. Wonder why that never happened. She had a pretty portrait photograph…

The cell phone rang and I picked it up. A strange voice said, “I hear you’re looking for me?” It had an electronic, tinny quality to it, with no inflection or accent. I said, “I think I’m looking for you if you’re who I think you are.”

“I’m probably who you think I am. Let’s meet. Leave your house and walk to the Janet Field park. Take your phone with you.”

It was getting late, but I didn’t want to miss this meeting. It was 8:30 p.m. and dark already, so I took a flashlight and lightweight jacket.

Leaving the house, I walked about a quarter mile until reaching the park, where the cell phone rang. I took the phone off my belt and said, “Hello?”

“Now walk to the Dairy Queen,” said the tinny voice. “Don’t go in. Stand at the curb. Should take you about five minutes to get there.”

Good thing I didn’t mind walking at night. I followed the instructions of the electronic voice, and headed to the neighborhood DQ. I slowed down as I got near and looked around. Since it was Friday night, many of the townsfolk were out with their children buying ice cream. My cell phone rang again, and the voice said, “Walk to the post office.”

“I’m starting to get a little tired,” I said.

“I know, sorry, but this is how it’s got to be.”

So I walked a few blocks to the local post office, a little further down the street and just around the corner. There was minimal traffic and I was soon out in front of the small government building. I hoped I wouldn’t get mugged; this part of town wasn’t exactly the newest addition to the city.

As I looked around, I saw headlights coming my way. It looked huge, and turned out to be an RV camper; it made its way up the street and stopped directly in front of me. I could see that there was a man in the driver’s seat with glasses, thick eyebrows, big nose and mustache, all in one piece since it was a disguise, who leaned out his side window and said, “Get in, quick!”