CHAPTER THREE	


    The delicious smells of newly baked bread and freshly brewed coffee
wafted into Sam's nostrils.  He better get up and start the milking or
Dad would have his hide.  No, that was a long time ago.  He didn't do
that anymore.
    He opened his eyes, and jerked up in the bed, panicking, unable to
think where he might be.  Then he saw the scruffy denim jacket neatly
folded on a chair and the awful platform shoes beneath.  Memories
flooded his mind.  Brian Palmer, that's who he was.  He relaxed back
onto the pillows of the big bed, pleased he had remembered.  His stomach
growled emptily and his mouth was as dry as the New Mexico desert but he
ignored them, not wanting to face the world.  Looking around the 
bedroom, he noted the quality of the deceptively simple furnishings.
Good colonial reproductions, no frills or furbelows, the room definitely
had a masculine flavor.  That guy at the hotel - what was his name?  
David.  Yes, that was it - David must be pretty well off to afford this
place. 
    He remembered more of the previous day.  Al had behaved really weird
- even for Al.  What was it he had yelled just before he'd disappeared?
Something about having been here, too.  He wondered when, and why Al had
been so upset.  Probably some woman.  It usually was with Al.  His mind
turned to his own situation and he wondered again why he was here.  A
vacation?  No chance.  He never got vacations, only work, continuous
hard grind, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks
a year.  No holidays - not ever - not even one day at Christmas.  His
mouth twisted.  His employer - the Someone - was more hard-hearted than
Scrooge, not even Bob Cratchitt had to work on Christmas Day.  That girl
had to be wrong.  *I must be here to do something.  Where are you when I
need you, Al?*
    If only he knew what was going on at the Project.  Perhaps Ziggy was
still playing up.  That would explain why Al had not reappeared.  His
mind began to whirl, so he thrust the memories of the previous day away
and concentrated on the present.
    His stomach rumbled again, even more insistently than before.  He 
had to find the source of the wonderful odors attacking his nose. He
pushed off the bedcovers and realised he was still wearing the jeans and
shirt.  Standing did not make his head spin and he wasn't as tired as
yesterday.  Feeling vaguely pleased with himself, he wandered through
the open door in his bare feet, rebelling at the thought of the platform
shoes, enjoying the feel of the warm, polished timber floor, out into
the main living area of the cabin.
    As in the bedroom, the furniture was of a good, yet simple, quality.
On a small side-table next to a comfortable-looking couch stood a carved
chess set similar to the one at the girl's house.  Here, too, there were
lots of books, mainly old hardcovers, some bound with leather, most of
which were crowded into a couple of bookcases set either side of a large
picture window.  Then the view grabbed his attention and he stared at
the panorama before him.
    The cabin was built on a ridge, surrounded by trees descending
towards a distant lake, whose waters glittered in the early afternoon
sunshine.  This was set against a backdrop of dark wooded hills, rising
ever higher into hazy, shadowy mountains.  The scene seemed familiar and
he struggled to remember why.  Try as he would, nothing definite came
into his mind, only a vague happy feeling.  Then he realised the lake
and mountains were different shapes from those in his memories.  This
was not the same place as the one he almost remembered.
    Soft singing in pleasant contralto voice made him drag himself from
the view.  The girl was standing with her back to him washing dishes. 
She turned to pick up more dirty crockery from the bench that divided
the kitchen from the living area, and stopped singing abruptly as she
noticed him.
    "Hi," said Sam warily.
    "Hi," said the girl, her face breaking into a welcoming smile.  "So,
you're awake at last.  How are you feeling?"
    "Fine, er, fine, thanks."  Sam's stomach gave an audible growl.
"Something smells really good," he said with a rather embarrassed grin.
"Um, I'm famished and my mouth feels like I'vebeen eating sand." 
    The girl's eyes twinkled.  "Well, I should think so.  You must be
half-starved and completely dehydrated.  You've been asleep for nearly
two days."
    He gaped as she went to the refrigerator, took out a large jug of
water and poured a glass.
    "TWO DAYS?" 
    "Uh-huh."  She held out the glass.  "Here, drink.  Sip slowly,
you'll find it quenches your thirst more than if you gulp."
    Sam drew his brows together.  He knew that.  But he took the glass
eagerly and sipped the icy water, swirling it around his mouth, 
moistening dry tissues, before letting it trickle slowly down his
parched throat.  "Just what I needed.  Thanks."
    The girl sliced the crust off the new loaf that sat on the bench and
spread it thickly with honey.  "Here you go. This should stave off the
pangs of hunger for a while."
    He finished his water, then bit into the still warm bread.  It was
delicious, crunchy and hard on the outside, soft and yielding within.
    "Mmm, this is wonderful," he mumbled in between bites.
    The girl poured him more water.  "Why don't you go have a shower
while I fix something a little more substantial.  The shower and loo are
back there," and she nodded in the direction of the bedroom. 
    "Okay."  He walked away with the glass in one hand whilst licking
the fingers of the other, puzzling a little over the odd word she had
used.  What on earth is a loo?  "I must reek to high heaven."
    "By the way, you've dripped honey all down your shirt."
    Sam automatically looked down.  There was no sign of honey spreading
on his front. 
    "Gotcha," said the girl, grinning.
    Sam didn't think anyone but Al had teased him like that in a long
time.

                * * * * *

    He took time to shave as well as shower, using the razor and foam he
found on the marble-topped vanity in the bathroom.  Removing the stubble
from the reflection's face was immensely pleasurable, even if the chin
did look weaker than ever.  After finding fresh flared jeans and a shirt
in the wardrobe, Sam felt better than he remembered feeling in ages.
    When he went back to the living room, the girl was carefully sliding
an omelet out of a pan onto a plate.  The cedar dining-table was only
laid with one place and he sat down at it, hunger taking precedence over
manners, merely asking, "Aren't you eating?" 
    "No," Helen replied, setting the omelet in front of him.  "I had
something earlier while you were still asleep.  You go ahead.  I'll just
have coffee."  She sat on the chair next to Sam and poured coffee for
them both, then sipped while he ate, hiding her smile behind her mug as
he dived into his meal with enthusiasm.
    The omelet was perfectly cooked - light and fluffy with a sprinkling
of fresh herbs and black pepper.  It was the best thing Sam had tasted
in years, apart from possibly the bread and honey.  These were also on
the table, together with butter and home-made strawberry preserve as
good as his Mom's.  There was orange juice to drink along with the
coffee.
    Helen raised an eyebrow as she saw he didn't put butter on his bread
or milk in his coffee, making a mental note not to use them in future.
He liked her preserve though, slathering it generously on slice after
slice of her crusty bread. 
    Sam ate at first with intense concentration, giving his plate his
complete attention.  However as the yawning void in his middle 
diminished, he began to wonder about the girl sitting so composedly
beside him.  Who on earth was she?  There were so many questions he
ought to ask, but he backed away from having to think and remained
silent.  Besides, it would seem rude to cross-examine her after all she
had done for him.
    He finally pushed away his plate and leaned back in his chair with a
contented sigh.  "That was wonderful.  You're a great cook."  His
curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "Are you some sort of
professional chef?"
    Helen laughed.  "Oh no, I learned from my Mom.  She ran her own
restaurant, though she'd never had any formal training.  She loved to
experiment with this and that, trying different combinations, and
everything always turned out great."
    Childhood memories of her mother working busily away in the kitchen
filled Helen's mind and she smiled.  Then later, unhappy, memories
surfaced and she pushed her chair back abruptly and took the empty
plates to the sink, not wanting Sam to see her face.  Fighting to regain
control of her emotions, she turned on the faucet, then squirted in
dishwashing liquid.
    Sam brought over the dirty mugs.  "What can I use to dry with?"
    Helen cleared her throat and pushed unwanted thoughts away. "Tell
you what," she said in a bright tone, "I'LL dry and you can wash, then
you can see where I put things and dry next time."
    She forced her mind back to the present.  Focussing on Sam, she was
glad he was doing something for himself at last, rather than letting her
do everything for him, surely a sign he was feeling better.  She watched
him closely while he concentrated on the dishes, trying to assess his
state of health.  He certainly looked better; there was more color in
his face, though the hollow cheeks and dark circles were still visible.
He seemed to have more energy, as well.  His long sleep must have done
him good.  He wasn't as listless as on that first day, even if he was
clumsy and did everything at half speed.  She caught yet another glass
that slipped as he misjudged the distance from the sink to the drainer.
    "Would you like a walk up to the store?" she asked quickly, before
he could apologise - again.  "It isn't far and we need more juice, we're
nearly out."
    "Sure, sounds fine to me," he agreed immediately, trying to cover
his awkwardness.

   * * * * *

    They started out a little later, after Helen had found Sam some
sneakers.  She let him set the pace, mindful of his debilitated
condition, although she itched to stretch her legs into a longer stride
that would burn off some energy.  The tension had been growing inside
her all day, partly due to her enforced inactivity and partly to the
pressure of staying in control emotionally and being the cheerful,
competent companion Sam needed.  His dawdling pace became increasingly
irritating and she made herself inhale slowly and deeply, filling her
lungs, then exhale equally slowly, to dispel the irritation with the
carbon dioxide. 
    Other than to give Sam the occasional direction she remained silent,
busy with her thoughts, trying to decide what to tell him - how MUCH to
tell him - now it was obvious he was feeling less confused, his mind
alert enough to ask questions.
    Sam tried to make conversation but gave up after the girl barely
replied to his comments about the woods through which they walked.  She
didn't appear to take much notice of the surroundings, he, on the other
hand, constantly surveyed the area, taking pleasure in the warm
afternoon sunshine which filtered through the canopy.  Occasionally, the
blue of the lake flashed through the vegetation, its clear waters
sparkling an invitation.  It might be warm enough for a swim.  The air
was certainly warm, scented faintly with pine.  Insects buzzed around,
providing a background hum for the bird-calls that echoed through the
trees.
    The path gradually steepened and Sam was perspiring from exertion by
the time they came to a sealed road.  They walked along until they
arrived at a small village, a mere half dozen dwellings and tiny general
store.  
    At the store, the girl introduced him to Jimmy, a gangly youth of
about fifteen, all hormones and acne, who blushed furiously when she
thanked him for the trouble he'd taken at the cabin.  She paid the boy
for the groceries he had left, obviously including a tip for which the
kid managed to stammer, "Th-th-thanks Miz Carter."
    "You don't need to call me Miss Carter, Jimmy," she gently reproved
the teenager.  "I've told you before, Helen is fine."
    The boy blushed again.  "Uh, th-thanks, H-helen."
    Sam and Helen were halfway to the door of the store when she looked
speculatively at Sam and asked if he'd like an ice-cream.
    "Mmm, great idea," he replied, still feeling hot and not looking
forward to the trudge back.
    They bought the ice-creams, the girl laughing at him when he
dithered over flavors.  Jimmy piled hers particularly high and she gave
the boy a most charming smile in thanks - probably the best thing that
had happened to him all day.  This time even the kid's ears went pink.
When she turned back to Sam, she winked mischievously.
    They walked back licking their cones, Sam carrying the juice.  The
incident in the store had dissolved much of the constraint he felt and
he kept sneaking glances at the girl.  She was wearing a peasant-style
skirt and white petticoat that she lifted and pulled aside from the low
branches that barred their path, flashing nice, well-toned legs.  The
way she filled out her cotton top was pretty nice, too.  Her long, 
silver filigree earrings tinkled with every step and the breeze was
gently disturbing her hair.  Sunlight glinted on coppery highlights,
turning them red-gold.
    The girl - Helen - turned her head, catching his eye.  He dodged her
gaze, suddenly embarrassed.
    "You're about to lose your ice-cream," she said in an amused tone.
    He'd been so busy studying her he'd forgotten to eat his ice and
quickly looked at it.  Although it was melting fast, it still sat firmly
atop the cone.
    "Gotcha twice."
    The mischief in her grin tugged an answering smile from himself.  He
really ought to find out who she was.  Maybe then he'd be able to figure
out why he was here.  He quickly finished the ice-cream, then cleared
his throat.  "It isn't fair, you know."
    The grin dissolved into a puzzled frown.
    "You know so much about me but I don't know anything about you."
    "True enough.  Okay, what do you want to know?"  Helen looked
directly at him, ready for his questions now.
    Sam was startled to discover that the eyes regarding him had great
depth and clarity.  They seemed more green than grey now and were
sparkling in the sunshine.
    "Umm," he said, dragging his gaze from hers to give himself a chance
to think clearly.  "Oh, I know - where are you from? You have a faint
accent I can't place and sometimes you use words that are a little
unusual."
    Helen chuckled.  A potted history of Helen Carter, that was easy
enough.  "I was born right here in good ol' Truro, Virginia.  I'm a
'real, live niece of my Uncle Sam' - though I was born on June twenty-
first, Midsummer Day, NOT the fourth of July.  My father was American
but I guess I get my accent from my mother.  She was Welsh and always
spoke with that wonderful lilt.  She loved America but hated the way we
say some words and insisted I speak them with a Welsh inflection - at
least, when I was home.  She was always 'Mam' when I spoke to her, but
'Mom' when I talked to my friends.
    "My Dad was in the Air Force - ground crew, not a pilot - a mechanic
actually.  He was sent to Sydney, Australia during World War Two and he
met my Mom near the end of the war - my Welsh grandparents had emigrated
there just before the war started.  They fell in love and got married
and came back here when the war ended.  Dad was posted to Truro in 1956
and they liked it so much they bought a house - the one I took you to.
I was born in '57 and grew up there.  I don't know how Dad wangled it
but he managed to stay at Truro Base until...  So I've lived here all my
life, apart from when I went to college in '75."  Helen flashed Sam a
deprecatory smile.  "Very boring, I guess, to someone like you."
    "No.  It sounds nice."  Nice and ordinary - stable, uneventful.  If
only his life was like that.
    Helen could see he was looking at her - really looking at her -
finally, she had his attention.  All she had to do was keep it.  Maybe a
little sympathy would help. 
    She pulled in a breath.  "My Dad died in an accident at the base
when I was seven.  My Mom took it pretty hard.  I think knowing she had
me to look after was all that kept her going for a while.  I look a lot
like him, maybe that helped.  She was always sad inside after the
accident, even when she was laughing.  I remember, she had a beautiful
voice - a clear, high soprano - not like mine.  When I was very small,
when Dad was still alive, she sang around the house all the time."
Helen gave a wistful smile.  "I really missed hearing her after he'd
gone.  It was tough for her.  She had to work real hard to support us,
but somehow she always made special times for me."
    She was speaking of her mother in the past tense.  Both her parents
must have died.  Sam knew how much it hurt to lose a parent.  A vision
of his Dad, the father he'd loved so much, flashed before him.  A big
bear of a man, lumbering around the farmhouse kitchen in faded overalls,
wheezing and hacking, demanding real coffee - not that decaffeinated
hog slop - searching for cigarettes while his time-travelling son tried
to persuade him to eat a healthy, cholesterol-free breakfast.  But what
father was going to listen to medical advice from a son he thought was
only sixteen?  His Dad hadn't known the son giving him advice was much
older and a fully qualified doctor of medicine, hadn't believed his son
when he'd tried to explain he was from the future.  And so his Dad had
died of a coronary whilst his younger self had been away at MIT, leaving
his mother and little sister to grieve alone.
    "She must have been a very special woman," Sam said gently.
    "She was.  She was my best friend as well as my Mom."  Despite her
resolve to speak of her mother without emotion, Helen's voice shook.
"She died three months ago.  And - and I miss her so much."  She
clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms, using the
physical pain to bring the mental hurt back under control.  *You mustn't
let go.  You can't let go.*
    "I'm sorry."  Sam touched her arm in sympathy, distressed his
question had caused her so much pain.  He ought to know what to say to
comfort her, it was part of the job, but the words refused to come.
    The girl flinched away as if she had been stung.  He withdrew his
hand, still bitter over his father's death and his inability to change
it, hurt he couldn't console this girl, not even with a simple gesture.
    "It's okay," Helen tried to reassure him, once more in command of
her emotions.  But it was too late, a barrier had already sprung up
between them.  They finished their walk in uncomfortable silence.

   * * * * *

    Sam was very glad to get back to the cabin.  They had only been gone
about an hour, walking at a stroll, yet he felt exhausted, the juice he
carried a lead weight, making his shoulders scream.  He'd had to switch
the bag from one arm to the other in an attempt to alleviate the strain.
And he was dismayed by the girl's distress, upset at her reaction to his
clumsy attempt at comfort.  His head throbbed, but he was determined not
to show her how tired he was.  When she went into the kitchen to prepare
dinner he offered to help. 
    Helen set him to work preparing salad, noting how pale and strained
his face had become, but not wanting to reject him again.  She cooked
steaks quickly, changing from the more elaborate and time consuming menu
she'd originally had in mind, serving them simply with the salad, the
Idaho potatoes she'd put in the oven before their walk, and the
remainder of the bread she'd baked earlier.  She also uncorked a bottle
of red wine and in a very short time they were sitting down to their
meal.
    When they had nearly finished, Helen could see Sam was beginning to
feel the effects of the wine.  She had been very careful of her own wine
consumption and had only sipped her way through about half a glass.  She
set the glass down on the table.  "Sam, tell me about Al Calavicci.  Who
exactly is he?  I don't really know much about him other than his name."
    Sam had stiffened as she used his name for the first time that day,
but her query about Al caught him off guard and before he could think of
a good reason not to answer, he replied, "Well, he's my Observer, my
link with Ziggy and my own time."
    Helen put her elbows on the table, rested her chin on her linked
fingers and nodded encouragingly. 
    "He and Ziggy help me figure out what to fix in a person's life so I
can Leap - or at least, sometimes they do.  Sometimes they get it all
wrong and I have to work it out for myself."
    "But that only tells me what he DOES.  What's he like as a person?"
    Sam took another sip of wine to give himself time to think.  How
would you describe Al?  And where had he got to?  What was going on at
the Project?
    The girl was looking at him expectantly.  He pulled himself
together.  *Concentrate, describe Al.*  He took a deep breath.
    "He's older than me and not so tall.  Dark hair - though he's going
grey at the temples - and brown eyes, and he always dresses real sharp."
He made a circle with his forefinger and thumb.  "I mean REALLY snazzy.
Oh, and he smokes.  Cigars, big fat ones.  And he's got a one-track
mind.  Sex.  He never stops thinking about sex and he just adores women
- all of them.  He's got a thing going with Tina, she's our
communications expert at the Project - or at least, he USED to have a
thing going with Tina.  I keep forgetting, he doesn't anymore.  It's a
little, er, complicated - but he still lusts after every woman who comes
into view.  Whenever there are women around in the Leaps, he can't keep
his eyes off them."
    Helen laughed.  "The Australians have a wonderful word for that.
'Perving'.  It doesn't mean a person is perverted, as in deviant, simply
that they like looking at the opposite sex.  Like window shopping rather
than actually buying."
    "'Perving'," repeated Sam, tasting the word as though it were a new
food.  "Yes, that sums up Al's behavior perfectly.  Mind you, he does -
did - as much buying as he could, too, when he had the chance, but he
can only window shop when he's in the Imaging Chamber because he can't
touch, only see - perv.  He didn't tolerate Tina buying or perving very
well though.  He still gets jealous about her even though he has no
right to now.  In fact, when he was here - at the library I mean - he
was more interested in telling me about some new guy at the Project he
thinks Tina's got the hots for than trying to help me find out what it
is I'm here to fix." 
    Helen opened her mouth to reiterate that he was simply on a vacation
to get him fit and well enough to do his job again, but changed her
mind, shutting her mouth on her comment.  He seemed to have accepted
that she knew who he was and where he came from.  He was even trusting
her enough to talk about the Project and Al.  Though, he obviously still
didn't believe what she had told him about his reason for being with
her.  At least it was a start.
    Sam was still talking, the alcohol loosening his tongue.  "That's
what he's like on the outside, but there's a lot more to him than that.
He believed in my time travel theories when everyone else thought I was
nuts and used his influence to help get the funding we needed for the
Project.  He's very shrewd and - and worldly.  He knows lots of things I
don't.  He's a navy man, a highly decorated one, an admiral."
    Now it was Helen's turn to savor words, though she did it silently.
Admiral Albert Calavicci.  It had a nice ring to it, though she wasn't
sure if she thought much of his character.
    Sam continued, "He's been a pilot and an astronaut, amongst other
things.  He was shot down and captured by the VC during the war."  He
stared at his glass, the dregs of wine looking like blood.  So much
blood, spilt for nothing.  "They kept him in a cage he couldn't even
stand up in.
    "He - I had a very special Leap once where I found myself in 'Nam in
Tom's - he's my brother - in his SEAL squad.  Al helped me save Tom's
life when I could have been saving him from that hell-hole.  He didn't
get repatriated for five years, and by then Beth, his wife, had given up
on him coming back and married someone else.  Yet he never hesitated in
his decision to help me save my brother rather than himself.  That's the
kind of guy he is.  He never even told me I could have helped him, I
only found out by accident.  Al doesn't remember that, though - the bit
about Beth not waiting, I mean.  I fixed it, you see, so that Beth would
wait.  He's still married to her."
    "Al's married?"
    "Yes."  It had been worth giving up the chance to go home for a 
while so he could change Al's life, give Al his true love as Al had
given him his brother.
    *Had it really been worth it?* asked a small voice from the center
of the gnawing ache.
    "Yes.  I'm GLAD I fixed it," he answered fiercely, shoving the doubt
away.  "He deserves to be happy.  He's saved my life a dozen times over
since the whole Leaping business started and he's the best, truest
friend anyone could ever have.  He helps keep me sane in this mad
existence I'm stuck in.  I couldn't do the Leaps without his help and
support."
    Where was Al?  He needed him.  He missed him.  DAMN ZIGGY! 
    Helen hardly heard what Sam was saying, too concerned with the
effect words and memories were producing on him.  His shoulders were
visibly shrinking, hunching over his chest, protecting himself.  His
eyes had clouded over, the smudges beneath seeming darker than ever.
    She reached out her hand, but stopped just before she made contact
with his arm.  "You look all in, Sam.  I think that walk was a bit much
for you.  Why don't you go to bed?" 
    "Yeah, I think I will," he replied in a dull voice, not even
noticing her movement.  All the old hopelessness and confusion had come
crowding back and he felt nearly as bad as he had in the library.  If
only he could shut it all out, just for a little while.  Maybe if he
slept he would.  He twisted his mouth apologetically, not really looking
at the girl, avoiding her eyes.  Then he stood rather unsteadily and
went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

   * * * * *

    For the second time in forty-eight hours, Helen looked down at Sam
as he lay asleep on the bed.  She felt guilty watching him without his
knowledge, he looked so vulnerable and exposed, but she wanted to
imprint his image on her mind so she would never forget how he looked.
He was younger than she had imagined - the word 'scientist' had conjured
up images of a madman from some old B-movie or a white-haired Albert
Einstein.  Physically he still looked in pretty good shape.  Tall.  Nice
body.  Wide shoulders tapering to a lean waist and hips.  Under the
bedcovers she knew there was a flat belly and long, muscular thighs,
shown to advantage earlier by the tight, flared jeans.  A body any
football jock would be happy to possess.  However, unlike the jocks
she'd met at school, this guy possessed a brain as well.  He was curled
up tightly in the fetal position, drawn in on himself, but she could
just see a dusting of hair on his chest.  His big hands with their long,
sensitive fingers were twitching.  If only he would touch her again.
    She cursed silently.  Why had she jumped away from him on the walk
back?  She knew he'd thought she didn't want him to touch her, not even
to express sympathy.  She couldn't exactly explain that the mere touch
of his hand made her blood sing and her heart leap.
    She crossed her arms over her ribs, holding in the need that ached
inside, and tore her eyes away.  Leaving the door open so the lamp by
the couch cast faint light upon the outline of the sleeping figure, she
went impatiently back into the living room.  She prowled around, then
yanked a cushion off the couch and threw it across the room.  Hell and
Damnation!  She'd had one chance today when Sam had really looked at 
her, seen her as a person, and she'd blown it.  She went over and over
the scene on their walk, how she should have played it, instead of
losing control in that snivelling way.
    How could she get to know this man if she kept messing up like that?
AND if he never stayed awake for more than a couple of hours at a time?
All he did was sleep and eat.  She was getting sick of playing nursemaid
and cook. 
    *I don't know how long we have together and he spends most of the
time in bed - on his own!*  She jammed her fists on her hips and glared
heavenward.  "This better not be Your idea of a joke!"
    After a few more impatient turns around the room, she threw herself
down on the couch, swung her feet up onto the cushions and snatched a
book from the pile on the side table.  She opened it and tried to
compose her mind sufficiently to read.
    When she realised she'd read three pages without taking in the
meaning, she inhaled deeply and started again, forcing herself to
concentrate more.  As the sentences finally made sense, she flipped the
book over and read the title.  'Selected Love Poetry by John Donne'.  
*Oh for Pete's sake!  This won't help!*  With a rueful expression, she
snapped the book shut and dumped it back on the table.  For a moment she
sat on the couch with folded arms.  Then, with one fluid movement, she
swung her legs around and slid to the floor.  Settling herself with the
ease of long practice into a full lotus, she placed her hands lightly on
her knees, thumb and middle fingers together, took a long, slow breath
and began to chant: "Om Mani Padme Hum."  Eventually, the age-old mantra
worked its magic and she became relaxed enough to settle back on the
couch and rest.