Freeberg took a sheaf of papers from his desk and shoved it across to Gayle. "There's the case history. You can review it tonight." As she folded the papers and stuffed them into her purse, Freeberg went on. "He's a young writer, a magazine freelancer named Chet Hunter."

"I don't recognize the name."

"He's still struggling. His dysfunction may be an obstruction to his work."

"I hope I can help. Is he a good writer?"

Freeberg shrugged. "I'd say this one needs some rewriting." More seriously, Freeberg said, "He's a little too fast and anxious. He even wants to hurry through our program, which is not unexpected. While you might move him along at a steady pace, still it wouldn't hurt to slow him down."

"If I can, I'll do it," said Gayle.

"I'm confident," said Freeberg. "At nine o'clock in the morning, Chet Hunter and I will be waiting."

Passing the Market Grill on her way to the parking lot, Gayle decided that she wanted a cup of coffee.

Inside, the restaurant was almost empty. She was about to sit at the counter when she saw someone waving from a booth. Then she recognized that the man signaling her was Paul Brandon. He looked as attractive as he had the last time she had seen him here-in fact, better in his sport jacket and turtleneck sweater-and she made up her mind to join him.

After calling out her coffee order, she strode over to Brandon's booth and slid in across from him.

"How are you, Gayle?" he asked.

"Never better. Busy. Hey, I hear tell that you're busy, too. Freeberg got you a patient?"

"Oh, yes. A local lady. Very interesting."

The waitress delivered Gayle's coffee, and Gayle busied herself sweetening it.

Without looking up, Gayle said, "So she's interesting? Well, that's lucky." Gayle paused. "Is she pretty?"

"Not Miss America, but attractive in a plain way. She's rather shy, which lends her a certain charm."

"I see. Have you helped her overcome her shyness?"

"A little, I think." He appeared reluctant to discuss his case. "What about you, Gayle? How's it going with you? I know you have a case."

"Two, in fact." She sipped her coffee.

"Two?" He grimaced. "Isn't that a bit of a load?"

"No, not at all. I can manage. The first one, as you know, is impotency, the tougher of the pair, but we're well on our way. The new one is premature ejaculation. I'm rather good at curing that, if I do say so."

"Two of them?" Brandon repeated. "But how . . . ?"

She laughed. "Not together, silly. I'm going to do them alternately, if possible. There is some pressure, but it's a challenge."

He shook his head. "You're something. I'm barely able to make it with one. But two . . . I don't think I could . . ."

"You're a man," she said. "Ultimately, you have to get it up. So more than one would be asking a lot of you. With women, with me, it's not the same problem."

Brandon had become uncommunicative. Gayle sipped her coffee and tried to guess what was on his mind. Her mention of two male patients had upset him. Was he disapproving? Was he a competitive male before he was a trained surrogate? Could he be regarding her as some kind of chippy? No, that was impossible. Still, men were incredible in their expectations of a woman.

Another thought occurred to her. Could he be jealous? That was impossible. He hardly knew her. He could not be remotely possessive.

Still, who could tell?

Taking him in once more, Gayle reaffirmed that he was attractive and that she was drawn to him. She wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms. To be embraced by him when both of them were naked.

This was ridiculous, she decided, and too quickly she changed the subject, launching into an account of her application to UCLA for a scholarship. Then she asked him how he was doing subbing as a science teacher.

"Well enough to keep my head above water," he replied.

"You may drown if most of your teaching has to do with sex education classes in the secondary schools. Does it?"

"It does. What do you mean by saying I may go under?"

"There's an evangelist here in Hillsdale-I think his name is Scrafield-who's been on television weekly ranting about sex education in the schools. I caught a bit of his show twice. To me, he was revolting. But maybe, to others, persuasive. He wants to give sex education back to the family."

"Which is like giving evolution back to the Bible," said Brandon. "That guy-Scrafield, you say?-is obviously a nut. I'm not worried about him. Sex education is in the schools to stay. So don't worry about my drowning."

When she'd drained her cup of coffee, she gathered up her purse and check. He tried to take her check from her. She held on to it. "No. This time we go Dutch." She started to rise. "I'd better be going."

"Me, too," he said, standing. "Do you happen to have a car?"

"Next door. Need a lift?"

"If you don't mind," Brandon said. "I should have my own car tomorrow. I bought a nice secondhand Chevy. They're still tuning the motor."

"Well, tonight you can be my guest."

After paying the cashier, they walked silently out to her Honda. She got behind the wheel, and he sat beside her. "Turn right," he said as they left the parking lot.

He directed her to a five-story apartment building. He pointed at it. "My new digs," he said.

Gayle drew up at the curb near the front door and let her engine idle as he got out, then came around the car to her side.

He opened her door. "Why don't you park it and come up and see my new apartment? It's a nice one. Maybe you'd like to have a look?"

She sat unmoving, her hands on the wheel.

"You're inviting me to come up to your place?" she said.

"Why, yes."

"Then what?"

He was taken aback. "Why, I don't know. We-"

"I know, Paul," she said. "You want to take me to bed." He stared down at her. "Now that you mention it, not exactly a bad idea. In fact, a very good idea."

He held out his hand for her, but she ignored it. "Paul," she said, "let's get off on the right foot. First, if I went to your apartment, I'd go to bed with you. I'd want to. But not tonight. Two reasons. One, I don't want you to think I'm a pushover. Two, I don't think I can handle three men in one week." She closed the door. He leaned toward her, but she said, "And no goodnight kiss. That could ruin all my resolve. Let's save something for next time."

"Next time," he said, cherishing the words as if they were pearls.

"Definitely," she said, gunning the engine and then shifting into drive. "Don't call me. I'll call you."

And she and her car were off, as he stood looking after her, his heart beating harder and his person utterly flabbergasted.

Chapter V.

It was during his interview and discussion with his latest patient, Chet Hunter, and the surrogate assigned to the case, Gayle Miller, that Dr. Freeberg received the unexpected telephone call.

At nine twenty-one in the morning, Freeberg's ICM button on his phone lighted up, and his secretary's voice came on. "Sorry to disturb you, Doctor," said Suzy Edwards, "but I have Mr. Hoyt Lewis, the district attorney of Hillsdale, on the line. He wants to speak to you."

Annoyed by the interruption, Freeberg flipped off the tape recorder and replied, "The district attorney, you say? I have no business I know of with him, and I'm tied up right now. Can't it wait?"

"I'm afraid not, Dr. Freeberg. Mr. Lewis insists on speaking to you. He says it's important."

Freeberg had been glaring at the phone, but then Suzy's message gave him a pause of apprehension. "Well . . ." he said, becoming less resistant. "Okay, Suzy, if it's so important, you might as well put him through." He lifted the receiver, held a palm over the mouthpiece, and apologized to his patient and surrogate. "Excuse me, Mr. Hunter, Gayle. You heard. The district attorney. I suppose I should be respectful."

Hunter and Gayle both indicated their understanding as Freeberg brought his palm away from the mouthpiece and drew the receiver closer.

"Hello," he said into the phone. "This is Dr. Freeberg."

"Ah, Dr. Freeberg, glad I could get hold of you," came the voice from the other end, at once hearty and jovial, "and sorry to butt in on your busy day. I'm Hoyt Lewis, the city's district attorney. We've never met, but I've heard of you."

"I've heard of you, too, Mr. Lewis. What can I do for you?"

"We need to meet personally, Doctor. It's some local matter that's come up. Nothing I can go into on the phone. Just something I want to discuss briefly. The sooner, the better."

"How soon?"

"Today, if possible. Even later this morning, before lunch. Can you make it?"

Freeberg had bent over to examine his calendar and appointments. "I'm just looking to see . . ." He nodded at the mouthpiece. "Yes, I could schedule a meeting this morning. I have a heavy work load in the afternoon. But this morning I'll be clear from eleven o'clock on. Is that satisfactory?"

"Perfect. Eleven is perfect."

"Where's your office, Mr. Lewis?"

"I'm in city hall," said the district attorney, "but never mind. I'll just drop by and look in on you."

"Do you know where the clinic is?"

"I know," said the district attorney. "Looking forward."

Hanging up, Freeberg was not certain that he himself looked forward. But the tone of the district attorney's voice had carried no sign of urgency, other than the fact that their meeting had some priority. Freeberg determined to put it out of his mind for the time being. He cleared his throat, apologized to Hunter and Gayle once more, and reached for his notes. He realized that there were no notes because he had been recording the discussion.

"All right," he said, "let's see where we left off." He pressed the Rewind button on his tape recorder, then pressed Stop, then Play.

Freeberg heard his voice on the machine. "-so, of course, you may remember, we discussed surrogate therapy at length in our initial talk. You already have an idea of what it is and what it is not. I think you have the picture."

He heard Hunter's voice. "I think so, Doctor."

He heard his own voice again. "Now, the purpose of this session is not only to acquaint you with your actual surrogate, Gayle Miller, who will be working closely with you, but also to review the goal of the therapy, to be specific about it. Essentially, the goal is not just to make you feel better and to do better; it is to make you function better all around. So-"

At this point, Suzy's buzzer and voice on the intercom broke into the tape, and then there was no more on the tape because obviously, just then, Freeberg had shut the recorder off.

Freeberg stopped the machine, pressed two buttons to start it recording again, and swung toward Hunter and Gayle.

"Now we can resume," Freeberg said. "There was one thing I neglected to ask you, Mr. Hunter, in our first session. You felt, I gather, some discontent about your sexual dysfunctioning from the very beginning of any intimate relationship you had with women?"

"That's true," said Hunter.

"I mean, it is a problem that's worried you for a long time? It didn't happen yesterday and make you decide to do something about it? Perhaps it's been eating away at you for many months, even years?"

"At least three years," said Hunter, half addressing himself to Gayle.

She did not appear surprised, and nodded with understanding.

"And each time you tried to be intimate with a woman," said Freeberg, "you were uncomfortable, and your own anxiety continued to sabotage you again and again?" Freeberg sat straight. "Mr. Hunter, did you feel your dysfunction in any way affected your work?"

Hunter seemed startled. "My work? I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"You're a writer. You were a writer in New York before you moved to California. All that time, you had this sexual problem. Did you feel that this problem interfered with your concentration, your creativity?"

"It was sure on my mind a lot," Hunter admitted. "I would be trying to work, but I was also always worrying about my-my failures."

"These so-called failures," said Freeberg, "did they result in an emotional, even a physical, withdrawal in your behavior? What I mean is, did you date less often-and when you dated, avoid intimacy more often-because you were concerned with not performing?"

Hunter squirmed uneasily. "Well, you have a couple of questions there . . ."

"I'm sorry. Can you sort them out?"

"Yes. I kept dating women all the time. I wouldn't give up. But, yeah, you're right about avoiding sex. I mean I did try, but when I kept ejaculating too soon, I began to stop testing myself with women. I knew it wasn't going to go well. After I moved out here, I almost became a celibate. Not quite, but almost. Then I met a woman . . . and fell for her. I fell in love with this young woman in Hillsdale. So I felt that this could be a new start. If you're in love, and want someone for real, want her so much, it has to go good." He shook his head sadly. "But it didn't."

Freeberg was sympathetic. "So you wisely decided to do something about it."

"Not easy," said Hunter.

Gayle, in a kindly tone, spoke to the patient. "In our society, with all its pressures, your anxieties are fully understandable. However, your problem shouldn't embarrass or humiliate you. What's happened to you happens to many, many men every day, but they don't talk to each other about it because they think they're the only ones suffering, and so they suffer alone and in silence. Dr. Freeberg has assured you that you can be cured, and for my part, I can assure you, too."