To See The Daises ... First

One

Ben kept his head carefully bent, pretending to be absorbed by the blank notepad on the desk before him. The fluorescent light sapped the color from his brown hair and tanned face, giving him an older, harsher appearance. Through the glass panel of the office door he watched the small woman rise from the bench across the hall, its dark wood shiny from the inadvertent polishing of thousands of bodies through the years. She walked casually back to the door, twisting a lock of her long, red-gold hair around her index finger as she read the name on the panel for the third time.

C.E. BRADBERRY

PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

She had been standing in the hallway for fifteen minutes—almost half the time Ben had been there waiting for Charlie to return to his office for their regular Tuesday lunch date. And for those fifteen minutes Ben had watched her surreptitiously, waiting for her to enter the office and nervously tell him about the husband who was acting suspiciously or the teenage sister who had run away. He had even mentally rehearsed how he would tell her that he was not in fact C. E. Bradberry, but merely a friend who was also waiting for him to return.

He had studied her all this time as she hovered indecisively in the hall and, now, watching as her lips silently formed the words on the door, he thought he had at last grasped what it was that persistently drew his mind and his eyes back to her.

It wasn't the way she was dressed, although her clothing could certainly be described as unusual. You just don't run into many women wearing a man's trench coat on a hot September day. He stifled a laugh when he thought of the way she kept raising her slender arms to shake back the sleeves that periodically engulfed her small hands.

And it wasn't her face, although it too would be called unusual. The bright, clear blue of her eyes instantly caught the attention of an observer, calling up half-forgotten memories of the brilliance of the Texas sky after a sudden summer rain. The small, expressive mouth—bare of lipstick—looked as though it wouldn't know how to collapse into a sulk. These features, added to the lightly tanned skin, high cheekbones, and the slight tilt of-her large eyes resulted in a face that couldn't be called beautiful, but would linger long in the memory.

However these were not the things that nagged at Ben as he watched her. It was something more subtle. Something that lay beneath the unusual surface. He raised his head as she turned away to open the door across the hall for a bent, old man who was shuffling along with the aid of a metal walker. She stayed a moment to speak to the frail man; then suddenly her laughter rang out, slipping like a wood sprite through the cracks around the door, drifting through the office like a song from another time.

That was it. That laughter was the audible evidence of what shone out of her unique features. It
was like almost catching a ray of sunshine in
your hand, only to have it slip away before you
could grasp it. It intrigued and beckoned. It made
him afraid to take his eyes from her animated
face in case he missed something vital.

"God," he muttered, bringing one large hand up to massage the aching muscles of his neck. "I'm getting punchy from hunger."

What he was experiencing had to be a delusion. The sensations were foreign to him. They had no place in his world. He knew the instincts that a few months ago he would have trusted implicitly were now highly suspect. In fact, everything that had happened to him lately could probably be shoved together in one bag labeled symptoms.

Moving abruptly, he shoved the chair back and stood to walk to the dirty window that looked out over one dreary section of Houston.

Lord, how he hated the cliche "midlife crisis." It was an overworked, meaningless expression that lumped his unsettled state with that of thousands of others—men who traded their obligations for a few months of excitement that left them feeling emptier and older than ever. He resented any notion that his was an average condition. His ego demanded that what was happening to him be unique—an exotic, new mental process untainted by the snickers that accompanied the mention of middle-aged crazy.

His case was different. It had to be. Just because his discontent had hit him at nearly forty, a time when other men that age were longing for teenagers who made them feel sixteen again, didn't mean he had caught the same disease. He shoved his clenched fists into the pockets of his brown slacks when he realized he was trying much too hard to convince himself.

The facts. Look at the facts, he told himself. The facts would tell the story. And while his age and the fascination he felt for the young woman In the hall were certainly condemning bits of information, they didn't tell the whole story. In his favor was the spartan way he lived and, more important, the reason for his restlessness.

It wasn't youth and excitement he was searching for. Nor was it the company of beautiful women to boost his sagging ego. He was looking for one glimmer of sunshine in a world gone dark. He was Diogenes searching for the honest man he knew was hiding somewhere in his own soul.

Giving a short, self-mocking laugh at his fanciful thoughts, he leaned his shoulder against the wall. "You don't know what in hell you're looking for, you fool."

His lunch dates with Charlie were the only contact with his old life that he allowed himself. He had even put restrictions on the friendship that was the only remnant of his past. It was understood between them that there would be no mention of the world Ben had left behind. It had to be that way. The confusion of the present was too hard to deal with without adding confusion from the past. And standing clear in the midst of all the confusion and uncertainty that surrounded him now was one sure fact—he didn't need any more complications. Like the woman in the hall. The only people who came here in search of Charlie had desperate problems of their own.

Glancing over his shoulder, he caught sight of her again. He had to admit this woman didn't look desperate. She looked like someone who was in love with the world. And an errant husband was the last thing he would have associated with her. In fact, this small woman would probably keep her husband so fascinated, he wouldn't have tone to think of other women.

Just like she's got you fascinated, came an unbidden thought.

Turning away from the window In frustration, he walked back to the desk and picked up the black phone. As he began to dial, his eyes wandered back to the hall and he saw her move her head to glance back at the door of Charlie's office. She shrugged, smiled slowly, then turned and walked away.

Slamming down the telephone, he swung around the desk and walked rapidly to the door. He had no Idea why he was following her. He only knew his heart had started to pound when he saw her turn to leave and he had moved automatically, perversely following the instincts he had just warned himself not to trust.

The elevator doors were beginning to close when he caught up with her and he lunged awkwardly to stop them, then moved to stand against the back wall, feeling like a perfect fool as the elevator began to creak and groan, protesting the slow movement downward.

Now what do you think you're going to do, you ass? he asked himself, raising his eyes to the yellowed ceiling in disgust. Why don't you come right out and ask her if you can follow her around and watch her face?

"You don't look like a private investigator."

Her voice startled him. Not that it wasn't exactly as he had imagined it—clear and musical with a hint of what must be perpetual laughter. But he hadn't expected her to speak. She was staring at him curiously, apparently comparing him to her idea of a private investigator.

"I'm sorry," he said, his lips spreading in a smile that surprised him as much as her speaking. "Were you expecting Tom Selleck?"

"Oh, no," she assured him with an answering grin. "That's just what I mean. I thought the whole point was to blend into the background—be as nondescript as possible."

Ben thought of Charlie's horn-rimmed glasses and balding head and chuckled. "I see what you mean, and I think you just paid me a compliment."

"Why, yes. I guess I did at that," she said, tilting her head back to laugh up at him.

Fascinated, Ben leaned against the wall to watch her face. Hold on, you dope, he cautioned as he felt himself being wrapped in the spell of her smile. Remember, this is just another symptom of the restlessness that's been screwing up your life. She's just an ordinary woman.

But when the elevator stopped with a noisy jolt at the ground floor, his logical thinking fled and he touched her arm to detain her. "Is that why you decided not to come into the office?" he asked, responding to her look of inquiry, refusing to think of how he had pretended not to see her standing in the hall. "Because I don't look like Henry Kissinger?"

Her brilliant blue eyes ran up and down his large frame, resting for a moment on the laugh wrinkles around his eyes. Then she nodded as though confirming some secret conviction.

"I think I would like to talk to you after all," she said softly. "That is, when you get back." She smiled at him, her, eyes crinkling softly at the edges. "Will you be gone long?"

"I was just going to have lunch," he lied smoothly. "Would you like to—"

"I'd love to," she interrupted, her grin widening infectiously, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she linked her arm through his. "Where are we going?"

Ben stared at her for a moment in stunned silence, then threw his head back and laughed in delight, suddenly feeling more alive than he had in months. "How do you feel about pasta? There's an Italian place just around the corner."

"I adore pasta," she said, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm.

As they left the building and walked down the street, passing structures that didn't claim to be historical, just old, Ben tried to hide the fact that he was staring, but the small face lifted exuberantly to the sun, the hair that blazed with golden fire, the vital way she walked beside him held his eyes fast. Unreasonably, he felt as though he had just given her a priceless gift. It felt good. Her hand on his arm felt good. And—to his astonishment—being Ben Garrison suddenly felt good.

He ushered her inside a small, aromatic cafe, then craned his neck to locate a free table. Finding one, he turned to look at her. "I see a table," he said, raising his voice in order to be heard over the noise. "Would you like me to hang up your coat?"

Her eyes suddenly sparkled with concealed laughter and a touch of the mischief he had seen earlier. "No, thank you," she replied demurely, denying the look in her eyes.

As they made their way through the maze of small, square tables, he wondered in exasperation what on earth he had said to amuse her. If she had purposely set out to intrigue him, she was doing one hell of a fine job of it.

When they had given their orders, he turned back to question her, but stopped when he saw her staring with a curious intensity at the center of the table.

Slowly she drew a breadstick from the straw basket. Lifting it to her mouth, she took a bite with strong, white teeth, then leaned back and sighed, her eyes closing as though she had just sampled a rare delicacy.

"Did you skip breakfast?" he asked, puzzled by her frank enjoyment.

Her spurt of laughter caused her to choke on the breadstick. Ben grabbed a glass of water, shoving it quickly into her hands. When the spasm subsided she looked up at him with laughing, watery eyes. "As a matter of fact I did," she said.

"Why do I get the feeling you're using me for comic relief?" he grumbled, wavering between exasperation and amusement. "Why don't you tell me ..." His voice faded away as her hand paused in midair on its trip back to her mouth and a look of surprised enchantment settled on her expressive features.

He glanced over his shoulder to find the cause for her rapt expression, but saw nothing more than a room brimful of hungry—but ordinary— people. "What is it?" he asked in bewilderment.

"That man," she whispered in awe, still staring. He looked again and pinpointed the man in question.

"The one in the overalls? What about him? Do you know him?"

"Don't you see?" she asked in astonishment.

"I see a wino in dirty overalls who needed a shave about two weeks ago," he replied drily. "What am I supposed to see?"

She smiled as though she were indulging a backward child, then said softly, "Look in his back pocket."

Ben looked again, and suddenly he was confused and, unreasonably, a little frightened. In the back pocket of the dirty overalls there nestled three fragile yellow and white daisies. An unexpected shudder shook his body and his eyes closed briefly as he tried to combat the flood of painful emotions that shook him. For in that moment he knew what he was trying desperately to regain in his own life—the ability to see the daisies first.

When he opened his eyes to stare across the table at her, in some incomprehensible way it seemed that she knew what he was feeling. And understood and hurt with him at the loss. It was an extremely uncomfortable sensation, almost an invasion of his privacy. He was not at all sure he wanted another human being able to see inside him like that. It made him feel vulnerable and exposed somehow.

Clearing his throat, he said gruffly, "Don't you think it's time you told me your name and why you came to the office?"

"I can't tell you my name," she said, taking another bite of the breadstick.

"Why?" Ben frowned as he leaned forward to rest his forearms on the checkered plastic tablecloth. "What kind of trouble are you in? I would keep the information confidential."

He felt a twinge of guilt now. He was quite deliberately misrepresenting himself to this young woman, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to confess the deception. Not just yet.

"I'm sure you would," she said sincerely, reaching across the table to touch his hand as though she were afraid she had offended him. "I don't doubt your integrity. I just can't tell you."

"Am I supposed to guess?" he asked, grinning as his somber mood disappeared at her touch. He considered her thoughtfully. "You're a Russian spy who wants to defect, but you're afraid the breadsticks are bugged, so you can't talk until you've eaten them all. Am I close?"