Chapter Four

Peter called from the airport before he left, and he sounded in good spirits. He made a vague reference to the surprise again, and then he had to dash to get on the plane, before he missed it.

It was an odd feeling after he left. I had gotten strangely used to him in the short time we'd been together. It had all the elements of a fabulous romance, and yet there was a comfort level, and an ease with each other that was almost like being married. J loved being with him. There had never been anyone like him in my life. Not even Roger. This was very different. It was more grown up, more respectful, more comfortable in many ways. We had a great time, laughed a lot, talked constantly, and enjoyed being together. And there were none of the dead spots, or disappointments there had been with Roger. Peter was terrific.

He had won Sam over weeks before, but Charlotte was continuing to glower. She still attributed the worst motives possible to him, and cast aspersions on him at every opportunity, probably because he liked me, and made me happy. He was aware of her hostility, but didn't seem bothered by it, which made him seem like even more of a hero to me. No matter how much abuse she heaped on him, subtly or otherwise, he was good-natured about it. Nothing seemed to bother him. He was the consummate good sport, and really did seem to like my children.

Later that day Charlotte was in the process of telling me how glad she was that he was gone and that she hoped his plane crashed, as she described the flames that would devour him after it did, when the doorbell rang. I was cooking dinner, and didn't like what she was saying, since I knew he was still en route to California, or at least I thought so. That is, until I answered the door, wearing an apron, and carrying a ladle. It was the first week of school, and Sam was in his room, doing homework. Charlotte disappeared to hers at the sound of the doorbell, as though she knew what was coming.

I was surprised the doorman hadn't announced who was coming up, and figured whoever it was had slipped past him, or maybe it was someone from the building, with a package for me. But I was in no way prepared for what I saw, when I opened the door, and almost dropped the ladle I was holding. It was Peter, in an outfit the likes of which I had never seen, anywhere, at any time, on anyone, and certainly not on Peter. He was wearing fluorescent green satin pants, skintight and startlingly revealing, with a see-through black net shirt, with a little sparkle to it, and a pair of black satin cowboy boots I'd seen in a Versace ad, with rhinestone buckles. I remember distinctly wondering who on earth would wear them, when I saw it. His hair was slicked back, differently than he normally wore it, and he was smiling at me. It was Peter, there was no doubt about that, and he had played the best joke on me. He hadn't left town at all. He had stayed, and dressed up for Halloween, a little early to be sure. It was a far cry from his immaculate white jeans, and well-pressed khakis, and the blue Oxford shirts I had grown so fond of.

I threw my arms around his neck and laughed. It was a terrific trick to play, and I loved it. “You're here! … And that's quite an outfit!” I noticed that he was wearing a different aftershave. I liked it, but it was a lot stronger, and made me sneeze. And as he followed me back into the kitchen, he walked with an outrageous swagger. He was almost grinding his hips, and in the clothes he was wearing, reminded me of an interesting cross between Liberace, Elvis, and Michael Jackson. He looked as though he were about to go onstage in Las Vegas.

“Do you like it?” He seemed pleased that I liked what he was wearing, and smiled broadly at me.

“It's quite a surprise…. What I like best is that you're here.” I couldn't stop grinning as I watched him, and put down the ladle as I stared at him sauntering around my kitchen. I could hardly wait till the kids saw him, particularly Charlotte, who had just been complaining about how conservative he was, and how boring. This was definitely not boring, neither the trick he had played, nor the outfit he had worn to do it.

“He told you I was coming, didn't he?” he asked, as he straddled one of my kitchen chairs, and ran a hand up the skirt I was wearing. It was a gesture he had never before made with the kids so near at hand. But fortunately, they were both in their rooms, doing their homework.

“Who?” I was confused by the question. No one had spoiled the surprise, how could they? I hadn't met many of his friends yet. It was still too soon, and he hadn't had time to introduce me.

“Peter,” he said, sliding his other hand up the other leg, as I pulled away gently. If one of the children walked in, I didn't want them to see that. It might shock them, but the sensations he was causing were certainly pleasant.

“Peter who?” He was so distracting, between the way he looked and the way he behaved, and the very fact that he was there, that I couldn't concentrate on what he was saying. I still couldn't get over the fact that he hadn't gone to California, and I was pleased that he hadn't.

He spoke as though to a child, with careful patience, as I gently avoided his hands this time and looked at him, trying to understand what he was saying. “Didn't Peter tell you I'd be here?”

“Very funny. No, you didn't tell me you'd be here. You told me you were going to San Francisco, and I'm thrilled you didn't.”

“I did,” he said smiling ingenuously. “I mean, he did. He left this morning. He told me to get here by dinner. He told me you'd be out before that, picking up the children at school.”

“You are utterly outrageous,” I said, laughing openly. “Are you pretending not to be Peter? Is that the game here?” It was very clever, and it totally amused me. He looked so out of character, it was perfect.

“I'm not pretending anything. It has taken years to perfect me. It was only an experiment at first. But it's been so successful, he wanted to share the secret with you.”

“What secret?” I was amused but baffled. He was talking in riddles. Perhaps it went with the costume, which was a great one. The fluorescent green pants looked like they were going to burst into flames as he moved lithely around my kitchen.

“I'm the secret!” he said proudly. “Didn't he tell you anything before he left?” He was smiling, and I was too.

“He said I was going to get a surprise,” I said, falling into the game with him, without intending to. It was hard not to.

“J'w the surprise,” he said proudly, “and the secret. They cloned him.”

“Who cloned him? Cloned who? What are you talking about?” I was laughing, but suddenly nervous. This was unnerving. I was beginning to wonder if he had a twin, or a far more unusual sense of humor than I had at first suspected. The fluorescent green pants were the first clue.

“The lab,” he explained, while opening cupboards and looking for something. “Peter must have told you he was in bionics. I'm his most successful experiment so far,” he said proudly.

“What are you looking for?” He was pulling everything out, and seemed very determined to find whatever it was he wanted.

“The bourbon,” he said simply.

“You don't drink bourbon,” I reminded him, wondering if that was part of the act too. And then suddenly I had a terrifying insight. What if he was schizophrenic, or had multiple personalities? Was that possible? Gould that happen? Maybe as loving and wonderful as he was, he was crazy. Maybe there was no genetic engineering firm in San Francisco. Maybe there had never been a wife, or a son, or any of it. I started to panic as he poured himself a full glass of straight bourbon. This was no longer funny. It was much too convincing. “What are you doing?” He had filled the glass by then, and all I could think of was Joanne Woodward in the movie about the woman with the dozens of different personalities possessing her. I had seen it as a child and been terrified by it. This was almost as scary. Maybe worse. He seemed to believe what he was saying to me.

“He doesn't drink bourbon,” he explained, sitting down again, but this time the roving hand was holding his glass of bourbon. He didn't even bother to put water, soda, or ice cubes in it, and began guzzling it like Dr Pepper. “I drink bourbon,” he said happily after the first long swallow. Half the glass was instantly empty. “He drinks martinis.”

“Peter, stop it. I'm happy you're here. It's a wonderful surprise. But stop playing this game. It's making me nervous.”

“Why?” He looked hurt when I said it, and took another gulp of the bourbon, and then burped loudly and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Don't be nervous, Steph. It's not a game. This is Peter's present to you. He had me sent from California just for you.”

“How did you get here? By UFO, with aliens driving? Peter, stop it!”

“My name's not Peter. It's Paul. Paul Klone.” He stood up and bowed low, sloshing a little of the bourbon on his fluorescent green pants, but he didn't seem to mind it. I was mesmerized by him.

“Why are you doing this?” I grinned at him. “Stop teasing me. This is crazy.”

“It's not crazy. It's wonderful,” he said proudly. “Ten years ago, no one could have done this. It's his research that made me possible, you know. He's a genius.”

“No, he's a nutcase, apparently.” And then I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering suddenly if this was his twin, and the surprise was that I'd never known it. But it was a hell of a way to introduce me to him. “Tell me the truth, are you his brother?”

“No, nothing that mundane. I am truly what I told you. My name is Paul, and I can do everything he does … except,” he looked apologetic, “wear khakis. I can't stand them. He tried programming me for that at first, but it kept screwing up my systems. You know the blazer, the white shirt, those awful ties he wears. Short-circuited me completely, so he lets me pick my own wardrobe.” He pointed to the satin boots with the rhinestone buckles, and I stared at them. This was madness in its highest form. After all the wonderful times we'd shared in the past month, this was suddenly a nightmare. This was worse than Roger telling me he didn't love me. Peter was crazy. “You're the same color as my pants,” he said sympathetically. “Are you pregnant?”