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Fourth Meeting As she smiled at him, he opened his arms, beckoning her to come to him. In his arms she felt as if she were home. Thoughts of home–his and hers–brought to mind their fourth meeting. Was it then she wondered, the night of their picnic, that she knew she loved him? The night she learned of their bond? . . . She knew he was coming; she could feel his approach. Waiting expectantly, she made sure that everything was perfect. She had planned a Fourth of July picnic supper on the balcony where they could watch the evening’s fireworks. It was to be an old-fashioned picnic with southern-fried chicken, potato salad, green salad, baked beans, and apple pie. The pleased expression on his unique face was worth all the trouble she had taken to prepare this for him. His hair was still damp from bathing, as he had come to her directly from the bathing pool after working all day shoring up a weakening tunnel. She had been so busy getting things ready that she hadn’t eaten dinner, and he had not stayed to eat in the tunnels. They were both hungry and fell to it with gusto, enjoying the fireworks while they ate. Looking up from cutting the apple pie, she said, “Vincent, may I tell you something?” She wasn’t sure how he would take what she was going to tell him. “You can tell or ask me anything, Catherine,” he replied solemnly as he took the plate of apple pie she offered to him. “Well . . . it’s really strange, but I knew when you were approaching. I could feel you coming closer. I think I felt you anticipation. Isn’t that weird?” “No,” he shook his head. “Have you felt as if you were experiencing someone else’s feeling?” “Now that you mention it, I think so.” Reaching across the picnic cloth, he took her hands. “Catherine, I’ve wanted to tell you this before but didn’t want to frighten you: we are connected. There is an empathic bond that joins us. I feel what you feel. I have always been empathic, but with you, it is so much stronger. I know when you’re happy, sad, tired, or afraid. I’m sorry if this is an intrusion into your life, but there is nothing I can do about it.” Catherine was silent for several minutes, digesting this new twist to her life. Vincent couldn’t feel her withdrawing from him, only puzzlement and wonder. At last, she spoke, “Then I can feel you too? But I’m not empathic.” “I think you can be but not to the extent that I can. You don’t mind?” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Oh no, it’s been so long since I felt really connected to anyone. It’s nice to know that there is someone somewhere who is aware of me, who is thinking of me.” He sat back in relief. One more hurdle overcome. There were only two more meetings for her to come to love him. He felt in her a deep affection for him, but she had never acted in any way but as a friend. He needed more than that; he wanted her declared love. After the last magnificent burst of fireworks, the grand finale, Catherine leaned back, glorying in the happy results of her picnic. “Vincent, can you tell me about your life? I know so little about you. If it has to be a secret, I swear that I won’t tell anyone; you can trust me.” “There is no need for that, Catherine, I know your heart. A promise is enough.” He grinned at her, relaxing against the wall, closing his hands around a raised knee. “Would you like the full story or the abridged edition?” he joked. “Oh, the full story if you have the time.” She settled next to him, waiting patiently for him to begin. “There is a drainage tube in Central Park.” Nodding, she said, “I know where that is.” Slowly, pacing his words to gauge her reactions, he continued, “That is the entrance to my world.” “It is?” she delightedly wondered. “Yes. There are hundreds of miles of tunnels under the city and that is my world.” “I never thought of people living below the city.” “We live the best we can. There are Helpers above who give us what they can. We use the castoffs of the world Above.” “I’ve noticed that your clothes are an odd mixture of different materials. It suits you; almost makes you look medieval.” Surveying his clothes, he began again, “Hmm, I suppose it does. Our community is led by my father, Jacob Wells, and a council of four. There are very few rules: give and accept help, don’t waste anything, abide by the majority decision, and most important of all, tell no one about our world.” “Sounds wonderful. How many of you are there?” “A hundred and fifty, give or take a few. Right now we have about twenty-five children.” “Children? Where do you find them?” “Most of them we find on the street: abused, abandoned.” “Like you?” “Yes, like me. But some of them are born Below. Then there are old people, needing a place to live quietly and safely; young people, trying to find themselves; those discarded or lost by society; even families.” “Oh Vincent, can you take me there sometime? I would like to become a Helper.” “I will have to talk with Father and put the proposal before the council.” “Is there a chance they might refuse me?” “If I sponsor you, I don’t think there will be a problem. They have never refused me before.” “Thank you. I will do all I can to deserve your trust.” He smiled down at her shining face. “I know.” “What about education? You seem well versed in the Classics, both books and music.” “Father has a very extensive library and everyone teaches what they know. And then there are Helpers that teach music and other disciplines.” He continued to describe his world and its people until it was time for him to leave. As Catherine carefully fastened his cloak, she couldn’t help gazing at his fascinating lips. She wanted to touch them, to kiss them, but instead, she forced her eyes to his and reminded him of his promise. Wrapping them both in his cloak, he said lightheartedly, “I won’t forget, I’ll send a message when I get the answer.” With a gentle squeeze, he released her and vaulted over the terrace wall disappearing into the night. Sighing happily, Catherine tidied up the balcony and repaired to her bedroom where she spent the rest of the night in dreams of Vincent and his world.
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