Fool Me Once - 1. Fool Me Once

Oliver Treadwell sighed heavily for something like the thousandth time. He did not mind air travel, not at all, but he wasn't a frequent flyer. Packed into a too-small window seat without sufficient legroom, he squirmed, trying to find a least uncomfortable position.

"Excuse me," he apologized to his seatmate as his elbow strayed into her territory, "sorry about that."

"First time flying?"

"No, no, just anxious, that's all."

The large auburn-haired woman nodded in understanding. "Nothing to worry about."

He might not have minded sharing such a small space with the stunning young man sitting a few rows ahead of him, but he was having his usual luck that day.

He tried to smile. "It's just that my flights have been delayed all along the way. I actually left home at two-thirty this morning."

"Oh, how awful. Weather delays are a bear, aren't they?"

"Yes. Yes, they are," he agreed, wondering vaguely at the ursine metaphor. Since when do bears delay the weather?

"Is someone meeting you?"

"I think so. I'm supposed to speak at a conference in San Francisco this afternoon. Their time. Anyway, the organizers were going to have me met at the airport."

"Well, that's good. I'm sure it will work out."

"I hope so." Oliver sighed. "Still, in hindsight, it would have been better to take the nonstop out of Philadelphia."

"Not fond of the sights of O'Hare? Relax. The weather is horrible everywhere. There isn't much you could have done about it anyway."

The whine of jet engines ticked up a notch, and the plane inched forward. Perhaps their turn to take off would come soon. He looked anxiously out the window.

"What kind of work are you in?" His seatmate was pleasant enough. She was making an effort.

"I teach math at a private school. Clarkfield Hill School, near Allentown."

"Ugh." She made a face. "I hated math in school."

He put on a bland expression. "Everybody says that." And he hated when they did.

"I would have guessed you were a teacher."

"What, do my tweeds and grey beard give me away?"

"Well, I was thinking English teacher, and not math."

"English? Hmph. I shouldn't have left my pocket protector and slide rule at home." He smiled, but he kicked himself again for not getting the Clarkfield business office to buy a more expensive fare with fewer connections.

"At least you don't seem too, um, dangerous." She looked as if she had chosen her words carefully.

He cast a quick glance at his clothing. It had been clean and pressed when he left his dormitory apartment in the dark, wee hours of the morning. Now he looked more than a little rumpled.

"What's your talk about?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said you were speaking at a conference. What's your topic?"

"Oh. Right. Well, I wrote an article for a magazine. I'm talking about that."

Of course, there was plenty more to the story. He had written an engagingly worded, accessible piece about getting students to relate to mathematics in nontraditional ways; through architecture, found objects, poetry and philosophy. It had been published in Private School Magazine, a periodical circulated around independent schools and consultants. He was quietly pleased with its very positive reception. His email box filled up with congratulatory and encouraging remarks from colleagues all over the country.

Oliver's headmaster was pleased, needless to say. Anything that brought Clarkfield favorable publicity was welcome. But the feather in his cap had come in an email from the Northern California Association of Private Schools asking him to address their annual meeting.

His very natural delight turned to alarm and anxiety when he tried to re-draft his essay into a coherent lecture. Should he attempt to be more entertaining? More erudite? In the end he feared what he had prepared would be a tangled muddle.

Another uptick in the engines interrupted his thoughts. His brain's cerebellar-vestibular centers noted the plane's ninety-degree turn. At last. The engines' pitch rose to a roar. Oliver breathed another long sigh as the jet seemed to quiver like a cat about to spring on an unsuspecting mouse. After an eternity on the ground, he and his companions hurtled down the runway, and rose up above the wind and cloud of Chicago.

There were partly cloudy skies and little wind on touchdown at San Francisco International, far nicer than it had been at O'Hare. Still, Oliver fidgeted nervously in his seat, rehearsing his movements to extract his briefcase and bag from the overhead bin.

"I hope your talk goes well," his seatmate told him, putting a book into her tote.

"Thanks. I just hope I make it there." A glance at his watch told him he had under ninety minutes to be at the convention venue, ready to speak. Oliver fingered the USB stick in his pocket for the millionth time.

She offered him a smile, but there was nothing terribly reassuring she could say. But she very kindly stood aside to let him deplane first, ahead of her.

Once Oliver managed to muscle his way out of the jetway, he checked his phone for messages. Dead. He wasn't surprised, as he'd been on it for quite a while trying to monitor departure times in Chicago. And he hadn't been very good about re-charging either. As it was, Oliver nearly sprinted for the arrivals area. At least he didn't need to claim any checked baggage. If the full airport dash were an Olympic event, Oliver felt he would have had a good chance to make the U.S. team.

He only slowed as he reached the wide-open space where knots of people waited expectantly for friends, relatives or acquaintances to appear. Oliver scanned the area for signs, half expecting to find no one waiting for him. His flight was horribly late, after all.

However, he quickly spotted a tall individual dressed in a crisp black suit, holding a sign bearing a single word: "Treadwell." Oliver strode up.

"I'm Treadwell. I mean, I think I'm the Treadwell you're looking for. Sorry I'm so late."

The handsome young man looked relieved. "Mr. Treadwell? We've been waiting for you quite a while. You have any bags?"

"No, just these." He gestured to indicate his case and travel bag.

The driver raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. "Right this way, sir."

Oliver followed the driver out the doorway. He allowed himself the brief luxury of enjoying the view. Right at the curb, a long black limousine stretched for what seemed like miles. He'd driven smaller school buses.

"Let me take your bags." Oliver found himself relieved of his tired old briefcase – it still had several sections' worth of homework papers in it – and overnight bag. He made for the limo door, but the driver reappeared magically to open it for him.

"Thank you," he said, nodding, and slid onto the seat; the door thunked solidly shut behind him.

"Mr. Treadwell?"

Oliver started. He hadn't realized there would be company. He faced a slim, business-suited woman, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. An ear bud trailed a wire down to her elegant blazer pocket. She offered her hand.

"Maryanne Partridge. I'm assistant coordinator for the conference. Hope your flight was okay."

Oliver felt the limousine surge away from the passenger loading zone and out into traffic. He returned the handshake tentatively. "Nice meeting you. It took forever, but it was all right, I guess. Are we all right for time?"

"We're a little tight, but we'll make it. There was a last minute change in venue; we had more registrants than originally planned. We'll be going directly to the Fairmont downtown."

Already the huge vehicle seemed to be speeding along a roadway. Of course, he wasn't really looking at the scenery passing by. He glanced at his watch, and realized he was three hours off. Still, subtracting three hours...it was 3:22 Pacific Time. He was scheduled to speak at 4:30, according to his paperwork.

"Miss Partridge?"

"Call me Maryann."

"Yes. Maryann. Um, how long until we get there?"

"A forty minutes, hopefully. Plenty of time."

Oliver turned and stared out the window, not really seeing the scenery. He tried to concentrate his mind. He needed to calm his mind. Focus. Prepare. But eventually, the world passing by the car window became a distraction. He saw the exit for Candlestick Point fly by.

"Mr. Treadwell?" Maryanne again.

"Hmm?"

"Can you send me your presentation? You were going to email it to me, but I didn’t get it." She held up her iPad.

Oliver felt a slight panic begin to rise. "I sent it to you last week. I'm sure of it."

"I'm sorry, but I can't find it in my email."

He began a fevered search of his pockets. He knew he had it on a USB stick somewhere. Had he remembered to bring it? Oliver broke out in a cold sweat. "It's just got to be…you sure you don't have it?"

"No. Not even a draft." There was a definite note of disapproval in her voice.

Oliver emptied the contents of the inner breast pocket of his tweed blazer all over the seat. Four-color pen. Scraps of paper with random ideas for geometric figures, problems and poems. A pocket ruler. Two sharpened pencils. He dug down deeper into the pocket with questing fingers. There it was. With a deep feeling of relief, he withdrew his Clarkfield Hill standard-issue USB drive from its place, wedged into the deepest recesses of his coat.

"Here you are. The file is on that."

"Oh. I see." Her mouth was a thin line. She grasped the wire and spoke into a tiny microphone. "Stuart? Stuart, are you there? He's got it. But it's on a USB stick…yes, I know, but that's all he has…well, let's hope it's compatible."

She dropped the stick into her own blazer pocket.

The car seemed to slow. Traffic was definitely thicker. Oliver's mind registered a sign for the Bay Bridge. He shook his head to clear his mind. His talk. Would he try them on a Fibonacci poem first, as a warmup, or maybe the old Museum of Modern Art problem…there was a sketch of something someplace in his briefcase…he realized Ms. Partridge was saying something to him.

"...and Mr. Kittredge will want your bio again. He can't find his notes for his introduction. Do you have those too? Mr. Treadwell? Sir?"

"My what? My CV? You don't have that?"

"Mr. Kittredge seems to have, um, misplaced it."

"Well, he can rely on my article…the bio is in there."

"Article?" The bright, efficient smile faltered a moment. "Oh, right. Your magazine article."

"Yes. There's a bio there."

Ms. Partridge spoke into her microphone again.

Oliver watched the scene change as the vehicle slowed again. Beyond the cityscape, distant hills rose on the far side of San Francisco Bay. He was glad not to be driving, so he could see something of where they were going. And he hated driving in unfamiliar cities anyway. They crawled past a sign for Cesar Chavez Street.

Oliver tried to focus on his talk. He'd gone over it a hundred times. His PowerPoint was just a collection of slides really. Pictures of interesting places, buildings, or objects – brief excerpts of poetry and prose – he could wax lyrical on any one of them for an hour or more. His idea was to get his audience to include a mathematical way of seeing, reading, or experiencing the way a discipline was approached. It was a way of getting everyone to see the world very differently.

Oliver smiled to himself thinking about several of the slides he'd chosen – the Cathedral at Chartres, the Parthenon, and one of Raymond Queneau's combinatorial sonnets. But he wondered if he'd overreached, trying too hard to impress. And would they actually get to the venue in time?

"Worried, Mr. Treadwell?" Miss Partridge broke in on his thoughts.

"Yes. A little," he admitted.

"We'll make it. Nathan's good."

He smiled tightly.

The woman proved to be prescient. A few moments later, the big car pulled to the left, and surged forward again. They were moving. He caught a glimpse of the San Francisco skyline – the Transamerica building was recognizable to anyone.

Oliver was doubly impressed as the driver bullied his way across three lanes of traffic five minutes later to take an exit which deposited them in busy city street traffic. They traveled along a wide boulevard; low-rise buildings let plenty of sunlight in. But these gave way to taller, more impressive structures; a tawny art deco building rose on his left. The driver executed a tight turn as he glanced at his watch. Perhaps five minutes to go.

The car climbed another hill, and powered through an intersection. He couldn't help noting the modest residential buildings on either side; they looked like something European, almost – nothing like New York. Another narrow turn – how did limo drivers ever manage these maneuvers? Another steep incline. He saw a huge church on his left. The limo dashed forward, passing a park of some kind, and then another left turn brought a magnificent structure – maybe in an elegant French Empire style, he mused – dozens of flags fluttered above the entrance.

Miss Partridge's face seemed to relax as the car veered over to the curb. "We're here, Mr. Treadwell. The Fairmont Hotel."

Oliver's attempt to reach the door handle failed, as a hotel doorman opened up the limo first. He practically tumbled out of the car, blinking a little in the light.

"Beautiful day, sir. Welcome to the Fairmont." The doorman beamed professionally at him.

"Um, yes. Thanks."

He found his arm taken by Miss Partridge. "Nathan, bring Dr. Treadwell's briefcase, and check his bag in at the front desk, will you?" This last was called out over her shoulder.

Oliver himself was hustled into the hotel, far too quickly for him to appreciate its opulence and luxury. He caught a glimpse of marble columns, ornate ceilings and gilded metalwork staircases. Miss Partridge kept a firm grip on his elbow as she steered him through the lobby to his right. He nearly fought her for the privilege to stop and gape at the magnificent space in its fin-de-siecle elegance. Potted palms. Gold leaf. Marble floors – no cheap, characterless industrial carpet here. And he thought the schools in Philadelphia were wealthy establishments.

Alas, mistress Partridge hustled him past the front desk and down a corridor to his left. She set a brisk pace.

"You're all ready, Dr. Treadwell?"

"Yes. Everything's on the USB drive you have there," he answered, his anxiety seeping into his voice.

"I've got his talk on the stick…we're on our way down the Loggia now…" Miss Partridge murmured into her mic. She turned back to him. "You didn't bring another shirt or suit to change into, did you?"

"Um, no, I'm sorry. I mean, I have something for tomorrow in my bag…." He was supposed to have a day off to himself the next day. He wasn't sure the comfortable, but loud, plaid shirt he'd packed would be appropriate to appear before an audience, even if they were teachers.

She took a long look at him, then went back to the mic: "No. He'll be all right. Probably."

The exchange sent a chill up his spine. He vainly tried to smooth his shirt and straighten his tie. Had he forgotten some sort of dress code?

Down a sunlit space they proceeded. He caught a glimpse of an inviting fountain and garden. Maybe he could rest out there after he'd finished speaking. If he managed to survive the ordeal. Why had he agreed to this? So many thoughts crowded in, like unruly students, as he tried to concentrate.

Where the hell was his briefcase? He still had grading to do. And his overnight bag…had he remembered his toothbrush?

They arrived at a large, closed double door. A booming, amplified voice was speaking on the other side, but he couldn't make out the words. Miss Partridge stopped and turned to him.

"Mr. Kittredge is making your introduction now." She tried to sound soothing as she adjusted his lapel for him. "The podium is to your left along the wall. I'm going to follow you in, and plug your USB into the computer on the rostrum while you shake hands and wave. Do you need anything else?"

I need my head examined. "No. I should be fine."

"Good. Don't worry, Mr. Treadwell. They're not sloppy drunk yet."

Oliver's eyes went wide for a moment. Dear God.

Miss Partridge opened the door slightly. Suddenly, he could hear more clearly. "…and I know we're all interested in hearing more from this internationally acclaimed writer. So let's give a warm San Francisco welcome to our guest speaker, Dr. um, Oliver Treadwell!"

The door opened wide, and his feet seemed to lead him inside as the sound of applause rose.

The room was packed. Oliver's first impression of his audience was the front row: well-dressed, earnest looking. Many were in business attire. A real upgrade on East Coast teachers, he reflected. As Oliver approached the podium, a large, beautifully-suited man stepped down and offered him a meaty handshake.

"Dr. Treadwell, I presume? Tim Kittredge. Glad you could make it." The man nearly shouted over the clapping. They shook hands, and Oliver took a few moments to wave at what appeared to be a multitude, as the unflappable Miss Partridge ministered to the rostrum computer. He caught sight of the most enormous chandelier he'd ever seen.

Kittredge led him to the rostrum, and left him there, on his own, three thousand miles from home in front a crowd of strangers. And his notes were nowhere to be seen. Where had his briefcase gone?

Hotel staff quietly and efficiently closed thick drapes over the enormous windows, shutting out the view of the garden and city. His audience quieted. For several awful moments, Oliver vainly searched about at his feet for his briefcase. Nothing.

Oliver looked at the computer screen in front of him. His PowerPoint lay on the desktop, waiting. Oh, for heaven's sake, Oliver, it's just a big class of rowdy seniors, a small voice in the back of his head cracked.

Automatically, he reached for the touchpad, and opened the presentation. His first image flashed onto the wall over his head.

Oliver cleared his throat. "Well. I'm glad you're all in time for class, so I don’t have to keep anyone in detention," he began. That drew a quick ripple of amusement. He relaxed, and glanced over his shoulder. "So what happens when you set out to build a monument to your favorite goddess, which also just happens to advertise your own political triumphs?"

In a minute, Oliver knew it would be all right. After three minutes, he felt he had the measure of the group. And in five minutes, he started to forget he wasn't in his comfortable old classroom. He became animated, and started making little side trips away from the podium with the microphone.

"You, there…" Oliver practically pounced on a fellow who happened to glance at his phone. "Now how would you solve the problem of making deliveries in Königsberg?" There were chuckles as the unfortunate man gaped. Classrooms were the same everywhere.

He picked up the pace, moving faster through his slides, jumping from one idea or problem to the next in a rapid-fire journey around the world. He pounded away at the idea that mathematical language was a perfectly natural way to speak; as much a mother tongue as any other.

When he let his audience rest, Oliver realized he'd spoken for almost an hour. Yes, there had been one or two dull spots, but on the whole, Oliver felt he'd done well speaking to what was obviously a group of generalists. "The whole point of all this is to get you, me, everyone, to start thinking far outside our comfortable little boxes. Mathematical language is rich and creative and useful. And if you can speak in mathematics, you can talk to anyone."

His flow of words stopped, and for a moment there was silence. Then the lights came up, and there came the sound of resounding applause. Oliver seemed stunned. They'd actually enjoyed it. Unbelievable.

He suddenly found his hand seized and pumped vigorously by the wide, beefy man who'd introduced him – Kittredge, that was the name. Taking the microphone, his host bawled out: "Ladies and gentlemen, I know we're all grateful to Mr. – um, Doctor Tidwell for his talk. I bet you have tons of questions – which you can ask him over drinks in the garden. The bar is now open, which is out the side door. See you all there."

Like magic, the heavy drapes were pulled aside, and the door to the garden opened. Light flooded in; people flooded out.

And suddenly, Oliver felt very, very tired.

But he was not left alone. No. A large knot of conventioneers gathered around him, full of comments and questions. Had he ever done a TED talk? How had he come up with all those slides? A very serious young man from the subcontinent wondered why Oliver hadn't spoken about the mathematics of logistics and supply chain management. Somebody had a very successful nephew in Philadelphia; were they acquainted?

Oliver kept eyeing the garden outside. There was a fountain, and there were palm trees. It looked lovely out there.

But he couldn't drag himself away from the questioners. He felt duty bound to respond to every one. After all, they'd taken a day out of school – and probably begged the registration fees from their perennially pinched budgets – just to hear him speak. Fortunately, the group around him thinned down to a few determined members of the audience.

Oliver kept hoping he'd get a chance to get outside, even as he dealt with the well-meaning few who remained. The party in the garden was still going quite strong. He needed a drink for his throat at least. Oliver doubted his students could have imagined him in such an opulent place as this. The thought jarred him. Where was his briefcase? He felt very uneasy not knowing where it was. He glanced around for Miss Partridge. She'd had it last.

"Um, hi. Are you looking for this?"

Oliver turned to face the voice. The person holding his briefcase had graying hair like his own, and below a wiry mustache he bore a pleasant, boyish smile. Laugh wrinkles around his blue eyes betrayed an age well beyond youth. "Where did you find that?"

"Over by the door, there. I could tell you were missing something."

"Well, what I really could use is a drink."

"Come on, then, Doctor…?"

"Oliver. My name is Oliver; let's leave it at that. And you?"

"Martin Hammond." They awkwardly shook hands and traded possession of the briefcase. "So, about that drink?"

"Lead on, my friend." Oliver grinned.

The Fairmont Hotel's Rooftop Garden is justly famous. Part formal garden, part subtropical oasis, with palms, manicured lawns and a fountain, conference-goers now spread out on its paths and seated themselves on its benches. The hotel loomed impressively behind, as Oliver looked out onto views of the San Francisco skyline. He could see the Transamerica Building not far away. In this lovely spot, one could be aware of the city, without being in it. Despite the party atmosphere around him, he felt he could relax.

"I hope you don't mind white. I got one for both of us." Martin Hammond apologized as he handed him a wine glass.

Oliver sipped speculatively. "Wow. Thank you. This is good. Better than my usual fare at large functions." He would have to talk to the Business Office about sourcing wine for the next Clarkfield reception. Usually they served dreadfully cheap stuff, perhaps to scare the parents off, who knows?

"They do okay at this kind of thing." Martin nodded, taking some of his own wine.

"So, you were given the day off from the salt mines?"

Martin smiled pleasantly. "Well, I gave myself the day. And your talk was well worth it. Really different from what I was expecting."

"Oh? What were you thinking it would be like?"

"I've been to a couple of these, and the speakers have been pretty stuffy and dull, you know? All models and targets and…."

Oliver held up a hand. He'd been to enough professional development conferences. "I know exactly what you mean. Well, I'm glad I turned out to be a good sort of surprise."

"Well, you integrated some fascinating ideas into your talk. I never thought about, well, thinking that way before."

"I hope you don't mind my asking, but if the speakers are usually so dull, why did you decide to come this year?" Oliver found himself enjoying the conversation.

Martin stared into his glass for moment. "Networking, mostly. It's a chance to meet plenty of other people in the same situation as I am, you know?"

"I do. It's often the best part – just talking to someone who understands where you're coming from," Oliver agreed.

They were interrupted by a couple of well-wishers wanting to shake hands, who drifted off soon after their anodyne words were delivered.

Oliver cleared his throat. "So, um, weren't you going to go network? I don't mean to keep you; you've been very kind already."

"No, no, not at all. It's really interesting just talking with you. So, you're from back east, right?"

They traded conversation, not really watching or realizing the time. But at some point, Oliver became aware of the thinning crowd.

"Martin, is there a dinner or something, now? I'm afraid I didn't get a chance to see the conference schedule, my plane got in so late."

His companion smiled a little sheepishly. "Yeah, there is. But we don't have to go."

"We don't?" Oliver's face wore a puzzled expression.

"Oh, god, no. I mean, the food will be great, but the program is pretty dull. Mostly the conference chairs congratulating themselves. Actually…actually, I was kind of hoping I could take you out someplace else."

Oliver blinked. Was Martin asking him out? It had been years. Almost a decade. But a frisson went up his spine. It was possible.

No. Get hold of yourself. You're an aging math teacher from a middling private school. What could you offer a man like Martin?

Oliver's internal dialogue was interrupted by his adoptive host. "I mean, I would completely understand if you wanted to stay, but honestly, if you're only in San Francisco for what, one night? You really ought to get out of the hotel, right? And I have so much to learn from you," Martin added.

Oliver couldn't help smiling at the compliment. And Martin did make some sense. He'd never been on the west coast before, ever. Why not live a little? He'd be back in the monastic cell of his classroom soon enough.

"Sure. I'd love to go out. But on one condition. No shoptalk. Just for once, I want to forget about it all. Fair?"

"Fair. No shoptalk," Martin agreed.

"You have someplace in mind?"

Another enigmatic smile from Martin told him all he needed to know.

Oliver looked around. "Now where did I put that dratted briefcase?"

With the precious briefcase located, Martin hustled Oliver out of the garden and back along the corridor Miss Partridge had manhandled him through earlier in the afternoon. However, Martin took them down a staircase to the left, and the pair exited the hotel from a side entrance, as if they were a couple of schoolboys cutting class.

Martin turned left, leading Oliver down one of the city's many hills. It was steeper than the easterner had expected. Not like Pennsylvania, at all.

"We're going to cross the street here," Martin said to him. "Watch out for the cable cars. They can surprise you."

Oliver was going to reply, but Martin tugged him by the elbow and soon they were darting across the busy street.

"I have just the place in mind," Martin told him, apparently alluding to the restaurant to which they were headed, "and I was lucky I got us a table."

"How did you manage that?"

"Used my iPhone," Martin replied, looking genuinely surprised. "Doesn't everyone do it that way?"

They walked quickly, turning right again, further downhill. More rail tracks in the street. Oliver was enjoying the sights of a completely new neighborhood.

Martin turned them left again, along a series of what appeared to be residential row houses of a distinctly San Francisco sort.

"Not many neighborhoods like this back home," Oliver remarked.

"Never been out here before?"

"No, and I'm regretting it," Oliver replied.

Downhill they walked some more, bantering pleasantly as they went.

"So tell me about your work," Oliver prompted.

"I thought we weren't talking about that tonight," Martin laughed.

"You're absolutely right. Sorry. I broke my own resolution."

"No, not a problem. But I think it's fascinating that we let our work define us so much, you know?"

"You're right. We’re so much more than that – we're so much more than any single facet of ourselves."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Martin enthused.

A little further on, Martin spoke again. "See that building with the pagoda sort of roof?" He was pointing, arm extended. "Chinatown," he added succinctly. Martin's enthusiasm for his hometown was infectious.

And soon Martin had turned them downhill again, into a narrower street crowded with cars and pedestrians jostling for position. Storefronts sported signs written in characters Oliver had no idea how to decipher. At the end of a block, a charming copper-roofed gateway stood, as if guarding the way up the way they had walked.

"This is the Dragon's Gate. It's the entrance to Chinatown," Martin explained. "Come on, let's cross again."

After the relative tranquility of Clarkfield Hill, Oliver was not used to the traffic and bustle of city streets. Of course, he wondered if Martin would find himself elbowed as he tried to navigate the classroom buildings.

The street headed downhill yet again – Oliver wondered if he would make it back uphill to the hotel – until Martin paused at a small, dark alley. The man bowed almost theatrically, pointing the way down the passage. "Je vous en prie, monsieur."

"Oh, yes, um, oui." This was about the limit of Oliver's French. He could manage in German and try to make the best of his schoolboy Latin, but that was it.

A few paces farther, and they found themselves in front of a completely unexpected sight. A French Restaurant. "Café Claude," Martin pronounced triumphantly. "One of my favorite places."

They were seated at the last available table indoors. The brightly lit dining room was narrow, but he was used to such things in Philadelphia. The bar was a treat in mahogany and empire style, something right out of the restaurants he recalled from his one visit to Paris so many years back. Coming away with Martin was definitely a good idea.

"What's good on the menu?" he asked his guide.

"Everything," Martin smiled. "And don't worry, it's on me."

"No, no, I can't possibly let you do that."

"Of course you can. You gave me a wonderful excuse to skip work today, and an intriguing and entertaining keynote to boot."

"But –"

"No buts. My treat. If I head back east, you can take me out for lobster or something."

"Or a cheese steak."

Martin made a face. "A what?"

Oliver couldn't help laughing. "How is it we're actually living in the same country?"

By the time Oliver finished his Salade de Chevre Chaude, he was ready to consider moving out west. What a change from the Clarkfield Inn's faux colonial American offerings. Incredible. And to think he was eating the school's dining hall slop, what, a day ago?

The Pinot Gris they'd ordered practically melted on the center of his tongue, entrancing him with honey and fruit. The package store at home carried nothing like this.

"So I'm really interested in how you manage to integrate your ideas into a coherent strategy," Martin said as the salad plates were cleared away.

"Hey, I thought we said 'no shop talk,'" Oliver warned.

Martin grinned a little. It was infectious and nearly adorable. Could men their ages still retain their adorability? "Sorry. I forgot."

"Tell me about where you grew up. Did you always live here?"

Martin smiled, knowing the subject had been officially changed. "No, I moved here from Minnesota when I was twenty-three."

"So you understand cold then."

"Not anymore. I haven't been back since."

"No family left there?"

"Oh, sure, I have two sisters there, with in-laws and so on," Martin replied in a vague way.

"But your parents?"

"They're still alive. They live in Arizona. Phoenix."

"You must see them more often then."

"No, not really." The look on Martin's face suddenly told Oliver the conversation was on the wrong track. God, he'd been awake for far too long. He should have picked up on those cues.

"Yes, well, my own parents are gone, now. They never approved of my major in college."

Martin looked relieved. "Oh, and what was that?"

"Art History." He smiled. "At least for undergrad. After that it was a Master's in Education at BU."

"Boston University?"

"That's right. That's where I discovered I liked math."

"How'd that happen?" Martin's interest was genuine.

"I met someone who turned me onto geometry and numbers."

"Sounds like someone with a special gift."

"I fell in love with him." Oliver had said it simply, but he was more than a little nervous relating this part of his life. He didn't do it often.

Martin's features wore a look of understanding. "What happened?"

"We were a couple for a while. But it didn't last. I had to go back and get some undergrad math courses done, and I was at least two years behind Jeremy, anyway. I was still in my Master's program when Jeremy got his PhD." Oliver sighed. "Jeremy got a job offer in Texas. I couldn't hold him back; he went and I stayed. We agreed that breaking up was best."

"But that was bullshit, wasn't it?"

Oliver nodded, slowly. "It was the stupidest decision I ever made." He took a pull on his wineglass, and tried to lighten the mood a little. "Now you know my deep tragic past; what about you?"

Martin shrugged. "I'm gay, if that's what you mean. I came out to my family, and they basically washed their hands of me, plain and simple. Mom and Dad are fundamentalists, and my sisters married socially conservative guys, even if they're not that religious." Martin looked away. "I get a card at Christmas, sometimes."

Now it was Oliver's turn to be sympathetic. "I'm sorry. At least my parents supported me, while they were alive."

"So what happened after Boston?" Martin changed the subject,

"I just couldn't stay – there were too many sad memories. I took a year off, went places I wanted to go, traveled." Oliver smiled, remembering. "I got to see Paris and Florence and Rome, thinking I had to feed my need for Art. Strangely enough, everything I saw kept making me think of mathematics."

"Damn, you met a man and he converted you!" Martin laughed.

Oliver joined in. Martin really had a charming smile; one he could get used to, very easily. "You're right; I'm a carrier of the math germ now."

 

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the entrées; Oliver glanced with a tiny twinge of envy at Martin's Steak Frites, but his own Daube de Boeuf Provencale tantalized.

"Oh, this looks incredible," Oliver exclaimed.

"Wait until you taste it."

He didn't have to wait long.

"I really envy you," Martin admitted later on, taking a bite of steak. "You got a chance to see the world, take the grand tour. Me, I've been to Minnesota and California, and that's pretty much it."

"You came out here for college?"

"That's right. I went to a little school south of the city; Menlo College."

"What did you study?"

"Economics."

Oliver made a face. "You're far too cheerful to be a disciple of the dismal science." He meant that, too. "But, it just goes to show how far one can wander from one's original major."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I was thinking how far I went in starting as Art History major, and finishing with a PhD in Mathematics Education from Columbia."

Martin took another bite, and chewed slowly, savoring. "You sure I can't offer you a bite of this?"

Oliver hesitated. He found himself drawn to Martin; to the man's infectious smile and genuine good humor. And to his sensuous lips, if he was going to be honest with himself. Anyway, if Martin wanted to share, he wasn't going to refuse. "Yes, please"

A delicious, savory moment later, he continued. "So, you never traveled?"

"Not really. This was where I wanted to be. I felt free to be myself for the first time in my life."

"I know what you mean," Oliver reflected. "I've worked in several places where I had to be, well, circumspect. It's good when you don't have to consider how everything you say or do will be parsed and interpreted."

"Out here it’s a whole different world," Martin shook his head. "You don't have to be circumspect, you have to be honest. If people think you are even trying to pass as something you’re not, you're going to be deeply suspect."

"It must be nice."

"Anyway, there must have been someone after Jeremy, right? Martin inquired.

Oliver stared into his wine glass. "No, not really."

There was a long pause. Suddenly, he was startled to find Martin's hand resting on his own. He looked up into a deeply sympathetic gaze.

"I'm sorry," his new friend stated simply. "That sounds very lonely."

Oliver took a deep breath, and forced a smile. "I've managed just fine."

Oliver would remember everything and nothing about that meal. Every bite so full of flavor, every sip a revelation. And conversation with Martin flowed so easily, they could have known each other since boyhood. They talked about favorite movies and of television programs they both knew and loved when they were growing up. They skirted politics and debated music and the arts. There were no more hints of shop talk. Martin insisted on more wine, and by the time they ordered cheese and later coffee to finish, Oliver was flushed and relaxed enough to tell some of his worst mathematically flavored jokes.

"You know the one about the statistician going duck hunting, right?"

Martin just shook his head, smiling. The man either had a nerd's sense of humor, or he was a saint.

"So, a market analyst, an economist and a statistician all go out duck hunting. Eventually some poor duck decides to fly their way. The market analyst raises his gun and fires away, but aims too high; the economist shoots, but way too low. The statistician doesn't fire at all, but jumps up and down, celebrating, 'we got it! We got it!'"

Martin grinned for the slightest moment, then began laughing. "Oliver, where do you come up with these?"

Eventually, they had to go, though. Oliver felt completely relaxed, and on top of the world, as they strolled out into the alley. He'd remembered his briefcase. He was not looking forward to crashing, though he supposed he ought to think about it. For heaven's sake, he hadn’t even checked in at the hotel, though he supposed the efficient Miss Partridge had taken care of that and his overnight carryall too.

"Oliver, do you suppose…" Martin bit his lower lip. It was quite fetching.

"What?"

Martin walked them back up to the main thoroughfare they'd walked before. Oliver felt a little disoriented in the dark and bright city illumination.

Martin stepped to the curb and raised an arm. "Come on, I just want to show you one more place," he said over his shoulder.

A cab pulled up, and they got in. " Mission Dolores," Martin spoke to the driver. Turning to Oliver, he continued. "It's a little too far to walk. I hope you don't mind."

"Martin, what are we doing?"

"Oliver, I thought that…maybe I was wrong, but I kind of got signals from you that maybe…."

Oliver felt a certain glow spread over his face that had nothing to do with his excellent meal. The butterflies in his stomach which he'd felt earlier danced again. No, Martin hadn't been wrong. He couldn't help sending out signals of interest all evening. But he didn't want to disappoint either.

"I'm flattered, and a little surprised. I mean, I'm just an old re-tread math–"

"Shhh. Don’t say anything. Please." Martin took Oliver's hand and squeezed it.

They got out in front of Mission Dolores. Modest lights bathed the facades of two buildings in the night.

"That's the oldest building in San Francisco," Martin said, pointing out the lower building on the left. "It's a museum now, but it's the original mission. Founded the same year the Declaration of Independence was signed in Philadelphia."

In its humble way, the old mission seemed a more comforting place than the enormous Spanish colonial-style church which reared up to the right. "That's the Basilica church. It's still a working parish."

Both buildings were a far cry from the plain white Congregational churches he'd grown up with in New England.

"Come on." Martin turned, and walked up the street; Oliver followed.

"So what turns a church into a Basilica? I've wondered about that."

Martin shrugged. "I really don't know. Maybe something special about who built it?"

They turned down a very dark, very narrow street. "Or maybe there was a miracle that occurred there?"

"Sure there was a miracle there. Someone got me to walk in once."

Oliver chuckled. "What was the occasion?"

"A friend of mine asked me to a choral concert there. Great reverb in that church."

Another turn, another deserted, narrow street. Modest houses, a few with lights still shining, crowded the pavement. It was quite late, yet Olive felt a wonderful tingle of excitement. There was no pretense.

Martin stopped them at a steep set of steps. "We don't have to do this, not if you're uncomfortable. You've had a long day. You must be exhausted, and your office must–"

"I'm okay with this." Oliver's brave words came out hushed, almost whispered. He trembled a little. "And right now, I feel more alive than I have in years."

Martin took his hand again, and smiled. "Me, too." They ascended the steps.

 

Sunlight poured in on Oliver through open window blinds when he woke. He felt disoriented for a moment; he wasn't in a hotel bed. In fact, he wasn't even clothed at all.

He moved, and felt a wonderful, long-forgotten ache. And he remembered. Martin.

Their lovemaking had been feverish, intense, passionate. Oliver could not recall the last time he'd given himself to someone like that. What had he done? He was not a man given to one-night stands. But he had allowed himself to be seduced by the easy conversation, the excellent food, the wonderful evening. By the companionship.

Oliver was only a little surprised to find he didn't regret a moment, not one second of the previous twenty-four hours.

Where was Martin? He smelled coffee. Taking a deep breath, he sat up in bed and threw his legs over the side. He felt rested, content. Happy. He looked around for his clothes, but without his glasses, it was hard to tell exactly where they might have landed.

Oliver discovered his underwear first, at the foot of the bed; his shirt over on the far side beyond. His glasses were still no place to be found. Thus attired, he made his way out of what seemed to be a very pleasant bedroom, painted a lovely shade of green.

Oliver hadn't gotten to see much of the apartment the night before. He had been rather distracted.

He found his glasses sitting on a coffee table next to his briefcase in the middle of a large living/dining room. Now Oliver remembered Martin removing them – to make their kissing easier. Now that the room came into focus, Oliver could appreciate the lovely details in Martin's home: beautiful trim around the windows, glowing hardwood floors, rich colors, and a marvelous bay window that looked out over the narrow street.

A rattle of dishes told him where to find Martin.

He wandered into the galley-style kitchen. "Oliver! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up." Martin was dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt; Oliver felt just a little disappointed.

"No, no, it wasn't you. It was the sunshine."

"Well then, I won't feel guilty."

"I thought San Francisco was supposed to be fogbound and grey."

Martin grinned. "For some reason, this neighborhood gets a lot more sun than the rest of the city. Farther west, up by Twin Peaks, it's often mistier."

His host picked up a couple of steaming mugs, and handed one over.

"God, you know exactly what I needed." Oliver inhaled the aroma.

"Do you like it black? I have half-and-half or sugar if you want."

"No, this is fine, thank you."

"Come on, let's go out and sit. We can enjoy the sun."

Martin and Oliver sat themselves side-by-side on the sofa. After a few moments, Oliver spoke.

"Martin, I just want to thank you…for last night…for everything…."

"Oliver, believe me, if there's any thanking to be done, it's me who should be thanking you."

"It's just that, well…it's been a long time…."

"I get that. Hell, you must be incredibly busy, what with your work and writing and speaking. Not much time for, um, romance."

"No, not much time for romance." Oliver agreed, ruefully. He'd never had time enough for love.

"I can't believe I only met you yesterday, but it seems I've known you forever." Martin moved to put his coffee mug down on the table.

He was going to say something more, something quite serious by the look on his face. But Martin's arm jostled Oliver's briefcase, upsetting its precarious balance, toppling it to the floor. Papers and folders cascaded out all over the rug.

"Oh, shit, Oliver, I'm so sorry," Martin gabbled as he launched himself off the couch to gather up the mess.

Oliver hastened around to help. "It's all right. No major harm done. Just a bit of sorting." And he really meant that. He started trying to reorganize some of the student work as he recovered it. But soon Oliver became aware of a silence.

He lifted his gaze to find Martin staring at a sheaf of homework papers. Martin raised his eyes, and met Oliver's with an expression of bewilderment.

"You…you…you're a…a…you're a math teacher!"

Now it was Oliver's turn to be confused.

"Of course I'm a math teacher."

"But, how…how did you…your speech…." Martin looked stunned, as if he'd suddenly discovered a talking frog on his living room floor.

"What else would I have been doing at a private schools' convention?"

"But, that wasn't a school thing yesterday," Martin got out. "You addressed a small business conference."

Now it was Oliver's turn to be stunned. "I did what?"

A goofy grin was spreading over Martin's face. "You gave the keynote speech to the Bay Area Entrepreneurs Association Convention. You know, the up-and-coming people behind the up-and-coming startups that will revolutionize the world as we know it."

Oliver began to feel ill. "But then...it wasn't the Northern California Association of Private Schools?"

"Sorry, Oliver. No."

"Oh, Jesus." What the hell had he gone and done? "How did this happen?" Oliver cried out.

"This is hysterical," Martin began to laugh.

"No it's not. It's a disaster!" Oliver snapped.

"You really mean you addressed the wrong group?" Martin tried to suppress a giggle.

"Well, if you're not a private school teacher or administrator, it certainly seems that way."

"No, I'm definitely not. I invented an environmentally friendly and seriously low-tech method for cleaning chimneys. I'm working on the marketing to go national next year."

"Why didn't you say anything? Couldn't you have…?" Oliver held out his hands full of student papers in supplication.

"I didn't know. You were so incredible yesterday, Oliver. You were like one of those motivational speakers we sometimes get; you know, trying to get those greedy, profit-driven business types to look outside their little boxes."

Oliver shook his head.

"If it means anything, I thought it was fantastic, what you said. You could be a killer business guru."

But Oliver's brain was whirring far too fast to appreciate the compliment. If Oliver Treadwell addressed a bunch of entrepreneurs in San Francisco last night, then who gave a talk on mathematical thinking to all those teachers yesterday?

"Hell and Death," Oliver swore. It was amongst his strongest oath, saved for when he was really annoyed.

"What?"

"Don't you see? Nobody showed up to speak at the conference I was supposed to be here for. Someone would have called my school – probably got hold of my headmaster – and now I'm really up a creek. Oh, hell, and my phone's dead…."

"Let's not panic. You can use mine."

Oliver nodded. "Yes, well, I'd better get my things together. I'm going to have to go and apologize." He started stuffing papers into his briefcase.

"Do you really have to…?"

Oliver just sighed. "Yes, Martin, I think I do. It's been lovely, but I'd better go."

There was nothing Martin could do to deter his guest, and he was obviously sad about it. He tried to be apologetic for laughing at the situation; it was a mix-up of astounding proportions, a joke on the whole light-speed world.

But even Martin had to admit that Oliver's headmaster didn’t see it that way, not after the phone call his guest made to the school back east. He tried not to eavesdrop on the words used, but the tone of voice came through loud and clear from three thousand miles away.

"You sure you don't want a shower, at least?" Oliver had already waved off breakfast.

"No, thanks. I've got to get back to the Fairmont and try to reclaim my bag. I can eat and shower there."

"I called an Uber for you."

An automobile horn sounded in the alley.

"That was fast."

They stood there awkwardly by the apartment door.

"Thank you, Martin. Thanks for a wonderful time last night. I'm sorry it had to end this way."

"No, Oliver thank you. I don't want you to go."

They embraced. "Well, I've got to try and go apologize for all this mess. My boss is threatening to fire me. I embarrassed the school."

"Keep in touch, okay?"

"Sure."

And then Oliver was gone, down the steps, and out to the waiting car.

 

The Fairmont front desk staff looked a trifle askance at Oliver's disheveled appearance, but retrieved his overnight bag for him readily enough. They very courteously refused him the use of the room that had been reserved for the previous night; it was nearly checkout time. Of course, if he wanted to pay for an additional night's stay, that would be a different matter.

Oliver sat in the lobby, and recharged his phone at the discreet station for a short while, then took a cab out to San Rafael, to see the Head of the Carew School, which had sponsored the event he had missed. He was received courteously, and Oliver reflected that it paid to call ahead.

"I appreciate your coming out, Mr. Treadwell. It does seem there was a miscommunication somehow. Our driver certainly picked up the wrong man." The Head of Carew School pulled a hand over his face. "God, that man never looked up from his laptop until it was time to speak; then he started spouting some godawful crap about the 'twelve steps to enterprise stability.' Why didn't you call?"

A dead phone was a lame excuse, and there was the complication of the horrendous weather back east. In any case, the humor of the situation seemed lost. But at least his apologies were accepted, grimly.

His groveling completed, Oliver headed to the airport. His stomach growled the whole way. He looked forward to getting through security screening so he could buy some airport food before his long flight back to Clarkfield.

It wasn't until he'd taken off his shoes and placed his overnight bag on the conveyor that Oliver realized he was missing something. His briefcase was still in Martin's apartment.

 

While Oliver's reception back to Clarkfield was unremarkable from the students and his colleagues, the headmaster was notably cooler. Oliver was given additional supervision duties, and notified that his housing assignment for the next fall would be under review.

Oliver was a veteran teacher. He knew the meaning of this language. It was time to hunt for another job. All through the lovely spring weeks that followed his return, Oliver kicked himself.

Why couldn't I contain my enthusiasm? Why did I have to write that damned article?

Of course, the requisite regrets and speeches were made; Oliver was resigning for other opportunities, and his letter of notice was accepted with some grace. At least he was able to find another position at a school in Paoli. He had thought briefly about trying the west coast, but the thought of Martin actually hurt.

He had left Martin badly, he knew. And that knowledge simply magnified the melancholy in Oliver's heart. Worse still, he had no way of finding the man. He had spent several long evenings trying to locate contact information for a Martin Hammond in San Francisco, but was unhappily surprised to find none. Oliver didn’t dare contact the Bay Area Entrepreneurs for help.

Another stupidest decision made.

As he packed up the last of his boxes and looked around his dormitory apartment, Oliver realized he wouldn't miss Clarkfield all that much. It had just been a stop along the way to wherever he was going on his lonely journey.

There was a knock on the door. Buildings and Grounds would want the key, no doubt.

He went to open it.

There, waiting on the worn threshold was a casually dressed man with graying hair and a wiry mustache. He held up a battered briefcase. A boyish grin beamed.

Martin.

"You're a hard man to find, Oliver Treadwell. But, you left something in San Francisco."