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?"