“You’re a better person than I am, Claire. Your outlook on life is safer and probably more noble than mine, but it’s just not my way. I’ve even been tempted to ‘try on’ more traditional ways of living and thinking but that kind of change would leave me with too many unresolved issues, too many questions and doubts. I would have to be terribly dishonest with myself. For you it’s good, and I respect your ability to wrap a ribbon around everything and make it work for you – it’s an easier and a better way to live.” Realizing he had said more than he intended to say, and feeling somewhat embarrassed about having exposed so much of himself, he quickly brought this conversation to its close. He looked at his watch, then at Claire. “We ought to leave so they can finish cleaning up in here. The evening crowd will start to arrive soon.”
At Claire’s suggestion they stopped at the manager’s office on the way out and thanked him again for the afternoon’s arrangements. As they made their way down the main hallway connecting the various dining rooms, they stopped before the large guest room with its panoramic windows looking out over the San Diego skyline. The sun was setting behind them in the west, bathing the eastern skyline in amber tones. “Have you been here in the evening?” asked Paul.
“To tell you the truth, today was the first time I’ve eaten here. I booked the place solely from people’s recommendations. I met with the manager a couple of months ago. After we talked menu and costs, he did give me the grand tour but I’ve not seen the city at night from this vantage point.”
“It’s really one of those ‘unforgettables,’ if you’re the romantic type, that is.”
Claire knew she was being teased and responded in the same vein. “Aren’t all women?”
At that moment a large Polynesian wearing a flowered shirt jostled past Claire and Paul. He was carrying a guitar case in one hand and was wheeling a large amplifier with the other. He moved into the dining room and across a small dance floor to an area that seemed to be a floor show stage. There, another man was stringing cable from a microphone atop a stand to an input jack at the base of the elevated stage. “Looks like they’re setting up for tonight’s floor shows,” said Paul.
Claire glanced at the elaborate staging. “Yes, I understand they provide some impressive entertainment. Have you seen the show?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” said Paul, as he led Claire towards the outside door. “They do two shows a night, with all the glitz of a Las Vegas production. They’ve got that island beat down to a fine art – lots of singing and dancing, even some fire eating thrown in. Audiences love it. That, plus the food and the atmosphere, fill this place with people in the evenings.”
“I wondered why Leo was so insistent that I check out the Bali Hai,” said Claire. “It sounds as if you may be his consultant when it comes to San Diego night life.”
Paul avoided Claire’s comment. His night-life experiences in San Diego had been neither memorable nor fulfilling. As they stepped outside he motioned in a direction opposite the parking lot. “Have you seen their private docking area on the other side?”
“I haven’t. I guess that wasn’t on the manager’s itinerary the day I visited.”
“It’s really quite worth seeing. Let me show you, unless you’re in a hurry.”
Something was happening inside of Claire. She didn’t understand it and wasn’t sure she liked it, but there was unmistakable magnetism between her and Paul. She would analyze it all later, but for now she willingly followed Paul into a beautiful secluded area nestled between the restaurant and the bay. The short-clipped lawn and carefully trimmed hedges, as well as the beautifully designed flower gardens, made it apparent that an artist had been at work here.
Together they descended a grassy knoll to a private dock where a harbor boat was moored. What little could be seen through the windows of the boat revealed an opulent interior with guest tables neatly arranged and covered with white tablecloths. “They use it for private parties,” said Paul – “A little pricey, but worth it for people who are looking for a unique experience.”
As they stood together in this peaceful spot, listening to the water lap against the sides of the boat, both of them felt the stirring of feelings that had been set aside – disallowed for a long time. Though stemming from vastly different experiences, each of them had led essentially solitary lives in recent years. Each of them had made attempts to find their way back to an emotional safe place where amorous feelings and personal commitments could fill their important role, but both had failed again and again for significantly different reasons. Paul looked at Claire, the gentle breeze was slightly rustling her hair and he acknowledged to himself that she was truly a beautiful woman.
Slightly unsettled at the intensity of his gaze and the protracted moments of silence on his part, Claire quietly responded, “What is it, Paul, is something the matter?”
He shook his head slowly, communicating a feeling that said far more than his words. “No, there’s nothing wrong. It’s just one of those times when everything seems so very right.”
On another occasion Claire had seen anger in Paul’s eyes and the fierceness of his dissatisfaction with her, but now she sensed his approval and, likewise, a tenderness that surprised her. In that moment, as she gazed upon his strong masculine exterior and the lines of his face that seemed to characterize the intensity of his personality, he became transparent to her and she perceived something deep within him that was good and noble. She sensed that this was the quiet, submerged side of his nature. She was right. It was there, seldom visible but relentless as it prodded him to rethink his life – to explore another way of living. Without being told, Claire sensed the significance of this part of Paul’s nature. Though inexplicable, it was real and kept him ever locked in conflict with himself.
Paul motioned towards a little alcove created by the hedge-work that had been planted and shaped near the shoreline. Overhead the branches of palm trees rustled in the breeze as the two of them sat on a rough-hewn stone bench. For a few minutes they sat in silence – not the kind of silence that makes one feel uncomfortable, but that silence produced by mood and setting when communication is accomplished without words.
At length Paul renewed their conversation, steering it toward personal things. “Obviously you enjoy your work with the University,” he said. “What kind of long-range career plans do you have?”
The question was not an easy one for Claire to answer, nor would she have answered it at all had it not been for her disarmed frame of mind. She responded sincerely but carefully. “Yes, I enjoy the work and it’s important for me to be good at what I do, but my heart really isn’t in it. I’m treading water right now in my life, trying to do some personal healing I suppose.”
“Have you always been single, or perhaps I should say unattached?” asked Paul.
Here it was, that question she’d been asked so many times during the last several years. It came in different ways but the question was always the same. “Why is a beautiful girl like you still single?” She’d thrown up defenses against that question and almost always avoided an answer with any substance to it; but today was different for some reason, and even though a month earlier she would have walked the plank rather than speak with Paul Kirkham about the intimate details of her life, there was an impulse to be open and honest. She spoke ever so cautiously, not entirely sure she wasn’t being unwise. “Being a single woman in her early thirties was not part of my long-range plan, but here I am out of necessity.”
Paul looked at her, questioningly. “Of necessity?”
“I was engaged to be married some years ago and, well, let’s just say it turned into a devastating experience.” What she had to say now came slowly and deliberately. “It shook my faith in men, Paul, not intellectually but emotionally, if you know what I mean. Had it not been for my own happy home life I’m afraid it would have shaken my confidence in marriage itself. Deep down inside I know what love and fidelity is all about. I have seen a relationship between a
husband and a wife at its best, and as a child in that kind of a home I grew up with idealistic expectations of family life firmly implanted in my mind. It seems like I’ve spent the last several years defending that image as being valid – something one should realistically hope for, I mean. I’ve probably been trying to convince myself as much as anyone else.
“That’s why I’ve taken such strong exception to some of the things you’ve said publicly, Paul.” She spoke almost apologetically, pleading for understanding. “These are things I believe with all my heart and if I can’t have them – if, for some reason they’re invalid aspirations, then I don’t want any part of an alternative kind of marriage. I’d rather be deprived of marriage and love all my life. I’d rather remain single and full of idealism than to be married and discover that it was an empty illusion or a legal formality, no better than the ‘live-in’ relationships that are in vogue these days.”
The intensity of Claire’s feelings and the utter honesty with which she expressed them had a curious effect upon Paul. He found himself envying her for her aspirations and wishing to know exactly what it was that she expected of marriage. She was speaking of something foreign to him.
Again there were moments of silence, then she looked at Paul and smiled. “You ask hard questions. Undoubtedly my answers sound a little confused to you. I could say much more but I don’t dare. For the time being there are parts of my life that must remain very private.”
“I’m flattered at your openness with me,” said Paul, “especially since I’ve been such a challenge to you personally.”
Claire immediately tried to remonstrate, but Paul gently dismissed any need for further fence mending. “It’s all right, Claire,” he said before she could continue. “You’ve been honest with me and I respect you for that. I’ll never criticize you for what you feel or believe. I promise you that.”
She was like a delicate flower in full bloom, unlike anything he had ever encountered before – she possessed a physical and emotional beauty that became even more appealing as she made herself vulnerable to him. He, as well, found himself saying things at a level of personal honesty he had not thought possible. “I’ve had my own experience with disillusionment when it comes to love and marriage. There are some major differences between us, however. While you’re so determined to preserve your idealism, I keep hunting for reasons to justify my cynicism, and thus far I’ve had no difficulty in finding them. I’ve made an honest effort to give love a chance in my life, but as you might suspect, it’s done little more than make me an expert on San Diego night life and brief, shallow relationships. In the end I found it easier to leave the whole thing alone. I’ve been safe in my monastery and you’ve been living out your days in the safety of your convent.” He smiled sadly, then added, “I didn’t mean to be offensive with that kind of a comment.”
She returned the smile. “The truth should never be offensive,” she said.
The evening lights had gone on and the shoreline was exquisite. The mirror-like surface of the Bay gave the illusion of numberless points of warm light shining from beneath the ripples that gradually made their way to the shore, like another city submerged within the Bay. Their conversation came to its close and both of them ascended the slight incline leading up from the shore, past the hedges and trees to the street level. In the half-light, Claire slipped on the grassy incline and Paul caught her in his arms. That brief moment of physical contact had an electric quality for Claire, awakening a yearning inside of her that was alarming and yet she allowed it to remain. She would remember those feelings again and again in the days to follow. Nor was this moment of unexpected physical closeness lost to Paul’s sensitivities. The softness of her skin as he touched her arm, the essence of her perfume and the sensation of her body touching his brought feelings that were curiously different from those he had known in the numerous false starts into the shallow relationships of earlier days. Though he was uncertain as to the outcome of their relationship, he knew from that moment that her presence in his life and her influence upon him was something to be reckoned with.
The parking lot was no longer empty but was now filled with the cars of guests who had come to Shelter Island to sample the unique cuisine and atmosphere of the Bali Hai. Paul followed Claire to her car and opened the door for her. She slid inside and rolled down the window before closing the door. Paul placed his hands on the roof of the car and then leaning forward said, “May I call you?”
With merriment in her eyes she said, “Does this mean that we’re going to be able to work together after all?” Then she added warmly, “Yes, please do call me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
There was a good crowd at the San Diego Symphony Hall. The audience spread out across the spacious multi-tiered facility, and had come, for the most part, not to hear the performance of works that would be new to their ears but rather to enjoy repeat performances of beloved favorites. The program had included selected compositions of Tchaikovsky, including a stirring performance of the “1812 Overture,” complete with what sounded like real cannon blasts. There had been enthusiastic applause just prior to the intermission. And now the final movement of the Fourth Symphony was progressing steadily in its crescendo to a spectacular finale. The theme, carried at this point by the violins, was punctuated by the pyrotechnics of the cymbals and timpani drums, producing a certain euphoria for those who were easily stirred by Tchaikovsky romanticism.
As always, the strains of these beloved melodies had found responsiveness within Claire, but tonight they brought a flood of new feelings she did not fully understand. She felt drawn to Paul, who was seated at her side, with a yearning that seemed to push reason into the background. Yet it was still there, incessantly sending its warning signals, demanding that she not compromise herself. After all, this was a man she had deeply disliked only a few weeks earlier. She still detested many of the things he believed and saw serious flaws in his character. She also knew, if she were honest with herself, that her involvement with Paul Kirkham had moved significantly beyond that of a mere professional working relationship. By allowing this to happen she was doing the very thing she had vowed never to do. Her feelings were a complex combination of bitter and sweet, mistrust and admiration, loathing and attraction.
It had been a wonderful evening – dinner at a quaint little Greek Restaurant in Mission Valley and musical selections which Claire dearly loved. Paul’s manner had been gracious and sensitive, in complete contrast to the brusqueness he had exhibited in his first encounter with Claire. He had seemed warm and interested as he led her through meandering conversation on a variety of topics, everything from faculty politics at San Diego State to historical tidbits about the life of Tchaikovsky. Though the two of them had vastly different perspectives on so many things, their tastes in music were very similar – so much so that Claire wondered what Paul’s true feelings might have been so far as “acid-rock” music was concerned, with its flashing strobe lights and heavy metal sounds that had become a pop-culture staple. This, of course, was the standard musical fare for the many students who flocked to Paul and identified with his radical views.
“Have you ever been to Tijuana?” asked Paul, as they drove through the streets of downtown San Diego following the concert.
“Not yet,” said Claire. “Have I missed something important?”
“That all depends on whether or not you’re a bargain hunter.”
She chuckled in response. “I’ve never been very good at competitive sports.”
“That’s exactly what it is: buyer-seller competition. The vendors are there to sell and the tourists are there to buy, but when the two come together it becomes a game of skill. It goes something like this: The seller does his best to convince the buyer that his asking price is fair. The buyer then tries to convince the merchant that the price is inflated and totally unreasonable and makes his offer which is ridiculously low. The seller is now expected to be offended almost to the point of breaking off the negotiation.
But he rebounds by convincingly accusing the buyer of trying to beat him out of any profit at all on the sale; nevertheless, he reluctantly makes a small reduction in the sale price. Now comes the buyer’s counteroffer. They both know quite well where all the dickering is going and when they finally arrive at the magic price, it’s a done deal. As the two part to go their separate ways, the merchant is supposed to whine as he hands over the goods, feigning embarrassment that he allowed the buyer to abuse him so badly. But the buyer, believing he has driven a shrewd, hard bargain, pretends to be disappointed in himself that he’s allowed such an unscrupulous salesman to fleece him of all his pocket money. There are occasional customers, however, who skillfully manage to ‘tip the cart over,’ so to speak, and walk away with unbelievable bargains.”
“You being one of those,” said Claire, continuing the banter.
“Well, as a matter of fact …” Paul paused and they both laughed. “All kidding aside, there really is an art to it. I’ll have to take you down there some time and show you what I mean.”
“And of course you’d be buying something for me,” said Claire, with mock coyness.
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