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From: "Bill Morgan" <morg1058@chartervt.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} NEW from Morgan: Jean and Jim, Part 9 of 9 M/F Rom
Date: Tue, 24 Jul 2001 02:10:03 -0400
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* * *

The following is a work of fiction regarding sexual relationships.  If you
feel that it is illegal, immoral, or otherwise improper for you to read
this, then DON'T READ IT.

* * *

The Callaways:

Jean & Jim -- Part 9 of 9

Copyright 2001 By Morgan.  All Rights Reserved

Preface & Acknowledgments

This book is the third in a series but it's the first one to be completed.
With the exception of Jim Dawson, all of the major characters will have
appeared in either or both of the two preceding works.  It is being posted
at the insistence of two of my fans, Heiner and Jeff, both of whom have read
it.

Unlike prior books [See <www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Morgan/www>], this one is not divided
into chapters.  Rather it's divided by triple asterisks, but it's an ongoing
chronicle.  The divisions are in the interest of ease of posting and have
nothing to do with the story's structure.

Finally, I would most particularly thank Adrienne for her invaluable
assistance in critiquing this work.  (Another reason it's being posted now
is that if I didn't, her comments would exceed the length of the book
itself.)  All I can say about Adrienne is that she has a background in
intelligence and used it to good -- if for me, painful -- effect throughout.
I mean... is it really fair?  I mean just because a woman's body can't work
that way is no reason to change is it?  (Don't you just hate it when the
woman is _always_ right?  She is and I do.)

A note: Throughout this story you'll see underscores before and after words
and phrases (see the lines above).  There is a convention used by MS Word in
its Auto Format mode that italicizes such content.  That's my intent.  For
those of you using other word processors, you'll at least know why those
strange marks appear.

Any errors remaining -- and I'm certain there are more than a few -- are
strictly my own responsibility.

If you enjoy the story -- or if you don't -- please let me hear from you at
<morg105829@aol.com>

* * *

A short time later the phone rang and Jean picked it up.  It was Janice
Page, and she was bubbling over with excitement.  My new power was neat.  I
could hear everything said without even trying.  It seemed she had just
received a call from Roy Neill, the vice president -- sales.  Being more
cautious than is common among salesmen -- a typically optimistic lot -- he
had called Casco's headquarters.  He spoke with Tim's secretary who
confirmed that a company check for $20 million had already been picked up by
a FedEx courier and was on its way to Executive Aviation.

"Anyway," Janice continued, "it appears that the reality has finally
registered on Mr. Neill.  He's FedEx'd material to Bill and me on sales
commissions and all that good stuff.  He did tell me what the commissions so
far look like, and the number blew my mind!

"So anyway, would you folks consider having dinner with Bill and me?  We
really do want to celebrate... unless you're planning on flying somewhere in
the morning."

There then followed a good-natured argument between the women as to who
would pay.  I think that Jean finally won that one on the basis that she and
the girls had picked up $4.5 million.  It was agreed that Bill and Janice
would join us in our suite for cocktails in an hour.

As soon as the Pages appeared, Jean and the girls hustled Janice off to our
bedroom leaving Bill and me alone.  It was the first chance I had had to
talk with him.  He was a thoroughly delightful guy about my own age and --
no surprise -- an Air Force veteran.

Bill was almost embarrassingly effusive in his thanks for what I had done in
signing up Casco.  "It's unreal," he said.  "Janice and I worked out the
money and it turns out we'll be able to pay off our mortgage and buy a
larger house that will be debt-free."  He grinned wryly and added, "Now if
only I can convince her to start filling it with children..."

Just then Janice reappeared.  She looked utterly exquisite!  She was wearing
a yellow sleeveless dress and from the appearance of her nipples poking at
the fabric, no bra.  Clearly Jean and the girls had done a number on her
face and her hairdo.  She was gorgeously feminine.  Jean and the girls
followed wearing light blue dresses that complimented their eyes.

At Jean's instigation, I had ordered Dom Perignon.  The hotel knew its
stuff: instead of sending up the far-more-common champagne glasses -- wide
and quite shallow -- they sent up flutes.  Perfect.  Now that the women had
joined us I opened the first bottle and served.

"I guess this is to celebrate our great day, isn't it?" Bill said.

"It is, darling, but there's more than that.  I have good news and bad news.
Which do you want first?" Janice replied.

"How about the good news?"

"Darling, we're going to have a baby.  And because of Jean Dawson, it's
going to be an odd pregnancy.  And that's part of the bad news."

Bill was utterly stunned.  He was in a state of shock.  Then slowly he rose
from his chair, went to his wife and kissed her passionately.  Janice
returned his kiss with at least as much enthusiasm.  He eased away but
remained at her side on the sofa.  "Now what's the bad news."

With her eyes wide, Janice said, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, my darling,
but..."

"But what?" Bill exclaimed, obviously starting to worry.

"You're going to miss all the fun of pregnancy," Janice said softly.  "The
joys of cleaning up after your wife vomits all over the place with morning
sickness, watching my ankles get puffy, seeing me stagger around trying to
balance a beach-ball belly..."

_"What?"_ Bill exclaimed.  "What are you saying?"

"And... and... you're not even going to see my nipples turn brown, either,"
Janice concluded with her face glum but with her eyes glistening with humor.

"Why not?" Bill demanded.

"Because Jean has a different way of getting pregnant is why, and she gave
it to me... along with the hairdo thing that you love.  There will be only
two things you'll see:  First, my nipples will get a little larger.  Second,
after I deliver my belly will be pretty concave for a week or so," Janice
said.  "Oh!  And there won't be those lovely abdominal stress lines, either.
Now aren't you sad?"

The two locked in another embrace, so I picked up on something Janice had
said.  Indeed, she was correct about Jean's nipples.  They were still the
same lovely pink they had always been.  But I asked, "I thought a woman
didn't get pregnant when she was nursing an infant.  But you sure did.  How
come?"

"I certainly don't know," Jean replied, "but I have a theory: Most women go
through all sorts of internal changes as a byproduct of childbirth, but we
don't seem to.  So... since there aren't any significant changes other than
lactation, we're back in action much faster.  And besides," she said with a
sniff, "since I've decided to become a baby factory, this is more efficient.
It won't even have to be a year between children.  Ten months seems to be
about right."

By this time Janice and Bill had eased apart.  Bill asked, "The bad news?
Aside from missing the joys of cleaning up your vomit, that is...?"

"Are you ready?" Janice asked.  "You had better really brace yourself,
darling."

Bill was 99% certain Janice was jerking his chain, but there was the
remaining 1%.  He just looked at her and waited.

"I'll give you the lesser one first," Janice said.  Then she took a deep
breath and looking very sad announced, "You won't be able to have a brandy
Alexander warm and fresh from my tit."  Her eyes were wide and there were
even tears at the corners of her eyes.  "You'll have to have it in a glass.
Isn't that just awful?"

"I can live with that," Bill announced judiciously.  "Yes, it's a high price
to pay but I suppose I can make do."  He looked at her and added, "But from
the look on your face, there's more to it than that."

"That's true," Janice conceded.  "It seems that our infant and my tits
become sealed off from the rest of me somehow.  That's why I could drink a
gallon of brandy, but there would be no trace of it in my milk.  Similarly,
regardless of what I eat or drink, our infant develops in splendid
isolation.  So that means..."  Her voice tailed off.

"Means _what?"_ Bill asked impatiently.

"I'm so sorry, darling!" Janice apologized.  "It means you'll still have to
ply me with liquor to get me into your bed.  After all," she said with her
nose in the air, "that's about the only way you ever get between my
thighs..."

"Yeah...  Sure it is!" Bill said, rolling his eyes.  Then, while scarcely
able to control his grin he continued, "You said there were two things.
What's the other?"

"The very worst...! for you," Janice said.  "You'll get no time off.  None
at all.  You'll have to keep fucking me right up to the day I deliver.  Now
what do you think about that?"

"Oh, shit!" Bill exclaimed.  "You mean...  You mean I don't get three or
four months off?"

"No, my darling.  And I'm truly sorry, too," Janice replied with her eyes
dancing.  Then she continued, "Jim had Jean in about an hour-long orgasm --
can you believe it? -- only about two hours before she delivered."  Then
with a grin she added, "She knew it was time, and she almost delivered at
the same time Jim withdrew.  Wouldn't that have been a hoot?  The father's
cock withdraws and the infant follows it out."

_"Janice Page!"_ Jean almost screamed.  "You promised!"

"Oops!  I did, didn't I?  Sorry about that."

"And what did Janice promise?" I asked Jean with my eyebrow raised.

"Not to mention what she just did," Jean replied.  "I think it's a neat
idea, and I'm going to try it... sometime."  Then with a grin she added, "It
might be with our second... or third... or fourth..."

At that Janice said, "Incidentally, Bill, since Jean is pregnant again now,
too, there are two upcoming births we can celebrate tonight."

And celebrate we did.  The six of us had another incredibly fine dinner on
Fisherman's Wharf and then returned to the hotel.  Although it was ten
o'clock, our bodies were still essentially operating on Central time so it
felt much earlier.

We returned to our suite where Jean announced, "Now we get to the 'stuff'.
We're going to teach Bill how to fuck a pregnant woman."  Then turning she
said, "Girls?"

With lovely smiles the girls first stripped off their clothes and then
undressed Jean.  Janice was sitting on the sofa, while Bill and I were still
standing.  He was agape at the revealed beauty.  (Since the girls were
facing him, he hadn't noticed their brands.)  With my women now revealed in
their nakedness, Susie came to Bill while Sandy went to Janice.

As soon as Sandy's back was to him, Bill gasped.  "My God!  What's that?"

"Oh, that's one of Sandy's brands," Susie replied while still stripping him.
"She has two, while I only have one.  See?" she said, as she turned
sideways.

The man was utterly shocked.  Quickly Susie explained their captivity and
what had happened.  She concluded by saying, "My sister offered her life to
save mine..."  Then with a small sob she added, "'Greater love hath no man
than he who lays down his life for a friend.'  That's what my beautiful
sister did.  She sacrificed herself for me."

Bill, now almost completely stripped except for his jockeys and loafers,
took Susie in his arms and hugged her.  With tears in her eyes she added,
"Maybe I helped her -- at least a little bit -- by branding myself and
taking a long time to do it..."

"Can you imagine such a thing?" Sandy demanded with tears in her eyes as she
turned away from Janice.  "I was close to death when Susie branded herself.
She stalled to give me time to recover.  But a tiny seven-year-old branding
herself?  That's what my sister did for me!"

"Close to death?" Bill gasped.  "How?"

"I had been pussy whipped to the point that my whole crotch was bleeding and
then raped by about a dozen men in a row.  I really don't know how many.  I
was pretty out of it after the first six or so...  But they just kept coming
until Susie did what she did."

Then she forced a smile and said, "But that's not what we're here for.
Susan, what are you doing?  You're taking forever!"

"I'm just admiring the scenery," Susie replied blithely as she lowered
Bill's jockey's revealing his cock in full erection.  "Mmm... and it's
lovely scenery, too."

Janice had slid forward on the sofa so that her butt was on the edge.  Her
legs were spread wide to welcome her husband.

"What in hell are you doing?" Jean demanded.

"The idea is for me to get fucked," Janice replied.  "What the hell do you
think I'm doing?"

"You're going to do it right, damn it!" Jean retorted.  "Now, Bill, get over
here and sit on the sofa beside your wife."

"Yes, ma'am!  Right away, ma'am," he replied with a grin as he sat beside
his wife.  Only then did he look down and see that Janice's pussy had been
shaved in a fashion similar to the way my women had plucked their pubic
hair.  "What did you do?" he asked as he gently stroked her now-bare slit.

"I... I... Sandy shaved me," Janice choked out.  "It'll grow back in no
time, my darling..."

"My wife has a gorgeous cunt!" Bill whispered.  "And this is the first time
I've ever really seen it."

"You... You like it?" Janice stammered.

"Utterly perfect!" Bill exclaimed.

Janice relaxed and just beamed with pleasure.  Then he took her in his arms
and melted his lips to hers.

Jean then proceeded to direct the proceedings.  First she had Bill kiss
Janice's face, nibble on her ear lobes, kiss her neck and move down to her
tits.  She had a beautiful pair of breasts, larger than Jean's or the
girls' -- probably a C-cup or larger.  Jean continued, instructing him to
nibble on one nipple while gently fondling the other breast and pulling on
its nipple.

By this time Janice was writhing on the sofa.  "It's time, Bill," she
gasped.  "Now fuck me!"

"Don't you dare!" Jean exclaimed.  "Janice isn't nearly ready yet."

"Not ready? _Not ready?"_ she nearly screamed.  "I'm about to start a flood
in the damned hotel!  What do you mean, I'm not ready?"

"Patience, dear Janice," Jean explained, sticking out the tip of her tongue.
"It will only get better..."  Then she cocked her head and appeared pensive.
Then she added, "...or worse, depending on one's point of view."

Finally, Jean conceded that Bill had done enough on Janice's upper body.
"Now kneel on the floor, Bill, between your wife's legs.  It's time you
learned how to eat a woman's cunt."

While he moved into position, Jean motioned to the girls.  Their role was
two-fold I later learned.  First, they were to keep Janice good and hot, but
second, they were there to keep her in position while Bill worked on her
cunt.  Sandy kissed her and worked on her face while Susie worked on her
luscious tits.

Jean told Bill how to put his wife's legs in position over his shoulders
bringing her cunt to his face.  Then he began to lick.  "Umm!  Good!" he
exclaimed as he first tasted his wife's juices.  Then he was told to run his
tongue up the length of Janice's slit and over her now-aroused clitoris.
When he did, she was taken by her first orgasm.  Bill held her legs tightly
as her pelvis convulsed, then resumed his eating, now tasting his wife's
cum.

Following Jean's instructions he brought her to a second, then a third, and
then a fourth orgasm, each coming faster than the last.  Janice's arousal
was so great by this time that Susan delighted in triggering an orgasm
merely by lightly teasing the woman's erect nipple.  Janice's nipples were
now as hard as pencil erasers and were sticking out half-an-inch or more.

She had been screaming for Bill to fuck her, but that had changed to, "Eat
me! Eat me!..."  The words had finally dissolved into inchoate screams of
passion, but as the number of orgasms continued to mount, it was as if her
joints were becoming disconnected as her body began to flop loosely, only
being held in position by the girls.

Finally, Jean conceded that Janice was fully warmed up and ready to be
fucked.  She waited a few minutes to give both a chance to recover and then
had Bill reposition Janice's legs so her cunt was lined up with his raging
cock.  Normally, Janice was very tight and his entry was usually painful for
her, but not then.  He easily slid all the way in to his root and began
slowly stroking, following Jean's instructions.

This time, he quickly took Janice to her crest but kept her there in
response to Jean's instructions.  After minutes at her crest, but unable to
go over or go back, Janice was screaming, "Take me over, Bill Page!  Let me
cum this instant!"  When he just held her where she was, the poor girl began
to cry.  "Please, Bill!  I'm begging you!  Let me cum!  I'll do anything for
you if you do.  You can do anything to me, but please..."

Bill had learned that the changes in tempo enabled him to keep from shooting
off, but there was a limit.  Finally he yelled, "Cum with me, Jan! _Cum with
me!"_

He went off and Janice went like a rocket.  I am certain she never in her
life had an orgasm like that one.  Finally everything shorted out and she
lost consciousness, her head just falling back against the sofa, while Bill
fell forward on top of her.

Finally he rolled off her and was about to be seated on the sofa when I
reminded him, "You're not finished yet."

"Huh?" he said.  (See?  I'm not the only one.  And I hope you've noticed
that I haven't said 'huh' nearly as often as I used to.)

"Bill," I said as if explaining the obvious to a small boy, 'this is the era
of recycling.  'Waste not, want not,' they say.  Now there's lots of nice
cum still nice and warm in Janice's cunt for you to recycle..."

"Oh,"he mumbled.  Getting down on his knees, he moved between Janice's still
sprawled-out thighs, and put her legs on his shoulders the way he had done
earlier.  He began to lick and suck and an expression of pleased surprise
appeared on his face.  "Hey!  This is really good!"

When he had licked and sucked all he could, he moved to the sofa and kissed
Janice who had regained consciousness by then, although she still wasn't
completely with it.  But her eyes widened, too, as she realized that Bill's
mouth was full of their mixed cum.  They just kissed and caressed each other
lovingly.  It was really beautiful.

When they finally parted, Jean tapped Janice on the shoulder and said,
"You're not finished, either.  There's a cleaning job for you to do, too."

Then Jean proceeded to give Janice the advanced course in cocksucking.  It
was easy at the beginning because Bill was still pretty soft.  But he didn't
remain that way for long.  Jean even provided tips on overcoming the gag
reflex, enabling Janice to take Bill in to the root even when he regained
his full erection.

Janice did to Bill what he had been doing to her while eating her cunt.  She
brought him to his crest, but wouldn't allow him to go over.  He was
screaming and pounding on the sofa with both fists, crying for relief.
Finally the forces of nature overcame Janice's new-found skill.  He
exploded.  But just before he did, Jean told her to pull his cock out so
only the tip was in her mouth.  It made it easier to swallow and permitted
her to enjoy the taste.  Which she sure did!

When it was finally over, she sat beside him on the sofa and gave him back
some of his cum from her mouth.  Again the two just kissed, caressed and
sighed lovingly.  Finally they both sank back against the cushions, utterly
satiated and exhausted.

"And that's how you make love to a pregnant woman, Bill," Jean declared.
"Isn't it fun?"

The two didn't have the strength left even to stick out their tongues.  But
they tried.  They also spent the night in our second bedroom.  I think Jamey
could have screamed loud enough to wake the dead that night -- he didn't cry
at all; he never does -- but it wouldn't have awakened them if he had.

* * *

The next day the girls were going to spend the day at the local Tiffany's.
I had managed to arrange a couple of more sales calls in the morning, so I
said I would meet Jean at Tiffany's in the afternoon.

My still-developing hearing -- now being joined, apparently, with something
approximating the girls' fantastic data-base memory -- proved to be
invaluable.  The result was I closed two more sales for Callaway, each worth
more than $10 million.  I felt I had earned my pay for the day.

It was two o'clock when I reached Tiffany's and I couldn't believe my eyes.
There was a mob scene on the sidewalk in front that was so large I couldn't
even see the store.  Rather than trying to fight my way through, I
remembered Jean telling me of an employees' entrance on the side.  I went
around to it, opened the door and found myself facing two armed security
guards.

I identified myself, and one of the guards called for the store manager who
came running.  The guy really looked frazzled.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"This whole thing is utterly incredible!" John Tompkins, the manager,
replied.  "Before today, I was really concerned.  Never have we had the
inventory levels we had this morning.  But we've already received two
emergency air shipments; it's only two o'clock, and I'm afraid we may not
have anything to sell by five!  _Anything at all!"_

He took my hand and said, "Mr. Dawson, you'll just have to see for yourself
what your wife and daughters are doing to me!"

He led me out on the sales floor and my jaw dropped.  There were my three
girls split evenly around the U-shaped counter -- Jean was in the middle,
with Sandy to her left and Susie to her right -- conducting a seminar in
jewelry sales for the store's staff.  It was utterly hilarious!  There
appeared to be three store salespeople with each of them.  One was full-time
scurrying back and forth to the vault while the other two were handling the
paperwork.  If this were still the old days of ringing cash registers, the
ringing would never have stopped.

I shifted my eyes to Sandy.  The girl was incredible.  She greeted each
customer in line with a warm handshake, studied the woman carefully, then
whispered a product code in the ear of the gofer.  In moments, back would
come the gofer with the item which Sandy presented in all its splendor on
white velvet.  Then she would hook it around the woman's neck and produce a
mirror.  Inevitably, the result was the same: "It's perfect!" the woman
would scream, and one of the other salespeople would write up the sale.

There were two more emergency deliveries before the store closed its doors
at five.  At that point, it took another hour to satisfy the customers that
were already in the store, and police to handle the disgruntled potential
customers who had been unable to make it into the store in time.

When the last customer was let out of the store, the Tiffany's employees
collapsed on the floor and just sat there.  My girls?  They were utterly
ecstatic!

"Jim, I've never had so much fun in my life!" Jean enthused.  "It was just
so neat!  And it's so easy to sell fine jewelry and giftware, too!"

At that comment, the Tiffany's people just glared at her.  But I don't think
she noticed.

* * *

That evening we flew down to Los Angeles, then to Dallas, then...  But you
really don't care, do you?  Anyway, we ended up in Atlanta and on the last
night we were scheduled to have dinner at a fine restaurant with Jack
Thompson.

The day -- a selling day -- was like all the others: a madhouse.  But, as
usual, my girls loved every minute.  To our surprise, Jack had engaged a
private room for our party of only five.

His first words took the girls aback: "Why do you hate us so?"

"Huh?" Jean stammered.  (See?  I'm not the only one.  Even my gorgeous wife
does it sometimes.)

"Let's sit down and I'll explain," Jack replied.

The girls looked fearful, but I knew better.  In fact, I had an idea what
was coming, and I wasn't disappointed.

The room was really lovely.  In addition to the table set slightly to the
side, it was furnished with a sofa, two lounge chairs and a couple of side
chairs with a coffee table in the center of the arrangement.  My girls sat
side by side on the sofa, Jack took a lounge chair, and I took the one
facing him.

"Let's ignore the devastation you've created over the last two weeks in six
of my very best stores," he began.  "Instead, let's go back to last fall
when you spent a day in our New York store."  He reached into his attache
case and brought out a thick stack of paper.

Looking at Jean he asked, "Are these yours?"  He handed her a stack of
copies of letters, some of which were handwritten while others had come from
a laser printer.

Jean quickly skimmed through them and then, with her head high, but with
tears forming in the corner of her eyes, replied, "Yes, I wrote them."

"Do you know how I happen to have these copies?" Jack asked.

"No, sir."

"Because the individuals to whom you sent them had them in their hands when
they came in to buy the items you recommended, is how!" Jack nearly
screamed.  "Good grief, woman!  Have you no conscience?  Do you realize the
trouble you created for our staff?  I mean...  Really!  You did include our
item number of course, but they had to find the item all by themselves!
It's... it's inhuman is what it is."

"Oh," Jean said dejectedly.  Then she asked, "Did you keep a count?  How
many people with letters came in?"

Jack looked through some other papers he had and then replied, "Six-hundred
sixty-nine."

"Gee...  Isn't that a pretty good response?" Jean asked.  "I only mailed
1,000."

"Young lady," Jack replied, "in direct mail, six percent -- _six
percent!_ -- is considered outstanding.  Seventy percent is unheard of.
Does that answer your question?"

"Do you have the breakdown between handwritten and computer produced?" Jean
continued.

"Yeah.  It was about even."

"Wonderful!" Jean exclaimed.  "That means it doesn't make a difference.
Boy!  Will that ever be a time-saver."

Jack just shook his head, but there was a warm grin on his face.  Then he
turned to Susie and said, "As for you, young lady!..."

"What did I do...? Sir?" she asked fearfully.

"Did you send a little boy a Steiff teddy bear?"

"Yes, sir," Susie admitted.

"Why?"

"Because his grandmother said he was sick," Susan replied with her head high
as she glared at Thompson.  "I thought it might cheer him up."

"Yeah...  Thanks," Jack replied sarcastically.  "That woman came back to the
store along with her grandson -- clutching his teddy bear for dear life, I
might add -- and spent almost $100,000 on jewelry and gifts."  Glaring at
Susan he said, "We examined your expense account carefully and couldn't find
a Steiff teddy bear.  Where is it?"

"It's my money!" Susie responded, glaring right back.  "I'll spend it any
way I darn well feel like!"

Jack just held out his arms and Susie jumped up and ran to him.  He enfolded
her and just kissed her gently.  But that wasn't what Susie had in mind at
all.  She really turned up the power and put Thompson out, but easily held
him up as she gently set his head back against the chair.

When he recovered consciousness, Jack shook his head a couple of times to
clear it and then muttered, "Wow!"  Susie was still standing before him as
he said, "People are so damned concerned about firearms.  Susan Dawson, your
lips should be registered as lethal weapons!"

Then he grinned and added, "Susie, you're just the greatest girl alive in
the world today.  And that grandmother is hoping that someday you might be
interested in her grandson.  He's a very good-looking young man, I should
add."  He paused for a moment and then continued, "As far as Tiffany &
Company is concerned, for that kind of return, you can send out thousands of
those teddy bears."

Susie just grinned and returned to her seat beside her mother.

Thompson then turned to Sandy and said, "As for you...  Young lady, do you
know what you've done?"

Sandy was sitting up ramrod-straight on the sofa and looked directly into
Thompson's eyes.  "No, sir.  What have I done?"

Jack reached back into his attache case and pulled out another thick stack
of papers.  Passing them over to Sandy he asked, "Did you do these?"

Each was a sketch of a woman -- a different woman each time -- along with a
piece of jewelry, usually around her neck.  For each one, there was a
second: a detailed rendering of the item.

Sandy thumbed through the stack and replied, "Yes, sir.  I did these."

"Have you had any training in jewelry design?  What can be done, and what
can't be?"

"No, sir."

"Well... neither did George Westinghouse when he designed the railroad
airbrake.  Because he didn't know enough to know it couldn't be done, he did
it.  And so did you!" Thompson said with a grin.

"What did I do?" Sandy asked.

"In one of your detailed sketches you solved a problem considered to be
unsolvable  by design professionals for years... if not for centuries.
That's what you've done, young lady."  Then he changed tacks.  "How many of
these sketches did you send out?"

"About 200."

"About?"

"Two-hundred and five."

"Damn!" Thompson exclaimed.  "Only 190 came back as orders.  That's not even
a 95% return on your work, Sandy."

"But it's better than Mom's, isn't it?" she asked with a grin.

Jack Thompson didn't respond directly.  Instead he asked, "How much are we
paying you girls for this... assignment?"

"One-hundred thousand dollars," Jean replied.  "But it's much too much..."

She was interrupted by Jack Thompson's gales of laughter.  Finally he
regained control and exclaimed, "Too much!  My dear woman, it's not nearly
enough!

"Do you know what you've done?  All three of you?  Let's go backwards,
starting with Sandy.  The hottest thing in jewelry today is 'A Dawson
Design'.  That's you, Sandy.  The finest craftspeople we employ vie with one
another to be able to do a Dawson Design.  They look at your detailed
sketches and drool.  _Drool!_  Can you believe it? Overtime?
Forget-about-it!  They love your work so much, they would work for
_nothing!"_

Then Jack took a blank sheet of paper from his case and put it in front of
Sandy.  "You sometimes use a special pen to write calligraphy, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have it with you?"

Sandy produced it from her purse and just looked at him, puzzled.

"How many letters did you send out in total again, Sandy?"

"There were 205," Sandy replied with a wry smile.  "I know because it was a
punishment assignment from my mother."

"Punishment?" Jack asked.  "For what?"

"For becoming sloppy with my handwriting," Sandy admitted.  "And Mom was
right, of course.  I was.  I guess it really taught me a lesson, though.
She carefully examined every single letter.  And if one wasn't absolutely
perfect, I had to do the whole thing over.  And when I say perfect, I mean
_perfect!_  If a word was misspelled or a comma misplaced, I had to do it
over."

Jack just grinned and slowly shook his head.  Then he said, "Would you
please use your magic pen and write 'A Dawson Design'?  Do it three times,
please."

Sandy looked at him strangely but did as he asked.  Then she slid the paper
over to him.

He looked at it, nodded his head once and very carefully slipped it into a
large envelope that already contained cardboard to prevent bending.

Sandy was really puzzled by his behavior; we all were.  "What's that for?"
she finally asked.

With a broad smile he replied, "That's our new logo for A Dawson Design.
What else could it be?  And the logo, like everything else, was created by
Sandra Dawson."

Then he looked at Jean and said, "As for you, Jean Dawson, it's all your
fault.  You're the mother.  You should know better.  And we're paying you
$100,000 plus expenses.  Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Jean replied fearfully.

"That deal's dead," Jack announced.

Jean was crestfallen.

"The new deal is $1 million, plus 10% of Tiffany & Company.  The board of
directors unanimously approved the issuance of new stock this afternoon.
Congratulations, girls.  You are now Tiffany's largest shareholders, and as
such, Jean Dawson, you've been elected a director of the corporation."

Jean sat there for a moment, utterly stunned.  Then with fire in her eyes,
she screamed, _"No!  You can't do that!_  You just can't.  We... we did it
for fun..."

"You may have done it for fun, but Tiffany & Company sure as hell did not!
We did it for the money, and you're minting it for us.  So that subject is
closed.

"New subject."  He glared at Jean and said, "It has come to my attention
that Jean Dawson is not registered at Tiffany & Company.  Why not?"

"Registered?  For what?" Jean responded, utterly baffled.

"My dear woman!" Thompson chided.  "For your china pattern, flatware,
stemware... all that good stuff.  I repeat: Why not?"

"Because... because we got married rather quickly.  And... and with school
for Susan, the baby...  We've been using our everyday stuff."

Thompson turned to Sandy and asked, "Did you bring the computer?"

I guess notebook computers really have been shrinking.  Indeed, Sandy had
brought one that she carried with her purse.  I hadn't noticed it.

"Have you given any thought to patterns for your family, young lady?"

"Yes, sir," she replied diffidently.  Then she straightened up and looked
Jack straight in the eye.  "I don't really think anything you're carrying is
quite right for our family."

"What would be right?" he asked.

"I hope you realize you're being very unfair, sir," Sandy declared.  "I've
never shown these to anyone -- not even to Susie.  And she knows absolutely
everything I do."

"May I see them?" Jack persisted.

What followed was the most stunning presentation I've ever seen in my life.
Not only did Sandy have designs for china, flatware and stemware, behind
each piece were the manufacturing specifications and engineering drawings.
The china used gold and cobalt-blue on the rim along with a center pattern
in gold on each piece.  No two were the same, yet they were all
geometrically related.  She even had a very complex set of equations that
would produce endless variations, yet every piece would remain in the
family.  Astounding!

The same was true of the flatware.  The stemware was even carefully sized
and shaped to conform to loading requirements of a standard automatic
dishwasher.

"It's utterly beautiful, sweetie," Jean declared.  "And it's perfect!  It's
absolutely perfect for us and our family."  She paused and asked, "Who makes
it?  Where can I buy it?  And how much does it cost?"

"That's the problem, Mommy," Sandy said, crestfallen.  "Nobody makes it.
And until this minute, no one has ever seen it except me."

"That's not completely true, either," Thompson said.  "The china is
manufactured by Copeland/Spode, the flatware by Tiffany & Company, and the
stemware by Baccarat.  The pattern -- all of the patterns -- carries the
name, Dawson's Own.  And it's available exclusively from Tiffany & Company,
all branches.  Or will be within a month or two.  And of course the Dawson
family will have the very first complete set."

He shook his head and continued, "I really have to pat myself on the back.
I thought that you three women would be fabulous models for our company's
advertising... and you certainly have been.  But as a byproduct, what do we
get?  We get a free course in how to sell fine jewelry and giftware.  Is
that all?  From the Dawsons?  Hah!  Now we get the first truly new designs
in jewelry in centuries, and utterly perfect classic designs for our china,
flatware, and so forth.  You've taken us kicking and screaming into the 21st
century!"

Turning to Sandy he said, "And you, young lady, get a 10% royalty on every
piece of A Dawson Design we sell!"  With a broad grin he added, "And it's
really such a shame, too, that the only places in the world that can sell
Dawson Designs have Tiffany & Company on their storefronts."

Then he smiled warmly at Sandy and added, "I know you're a wealthy young
lady already.  Well, we're going to make you far wealthier.  And you know
what else?  It couldn't happen to a finer person."

* * *

Our trip to San Francisco for the premier performance of Dawson's First
Symphony was extended a bit.  Again we went out in the same Executive
Aviation G-5 with the Pages again at the controls.  But this time when we
boarded, the engines weren't running and the Pages were both standing at the
top of the stairs locked in a passionate embrace.  Janice looked simply
gorgeous!

When Bill squeezed one of her buns, she just wriggled her body even closer
to his and said, "I thought I took good care of you less than two hours
ago?"

"But, darling," Bill protested, "I'm only doing my homework.  Jean says I
have to keep practicing making love to a pregnant woman."

When they moved apart to greet us, they both looked simply marvelous.
Janice was glowing with beauty.  Pretending to glare at Jean she said, "I
hope you're satisfied!  This is all your fault, you know.  Before meeting
you people, I only had to tolerate an assault on my womanhood a couple of
times a month.  But now?  Good grief!  It's two or three times a day, _every
day!_  There's... there's just no let up!"

"You poor thing!" Jean said sympathetically but with her eyes dancing.
"It's easy to see how beat up and abused you are, too."  Then she grinned
and added, "Now why don't we get this show on the road?  I've got to get my
Mile High Club ticket punched again."

Oh, yeah.  I guess I forgot to mention something.  That night in Atlanta
ended with a big argument between Jack Thompson and me over who would pay
for the expenses of our trip, Tiffany or Callaway.  He insisted that it was
Tiffany's trip, but I pointed out that I had generated hundreds of millions
in sales for Callaway.  The argument ended in no decision that night, but
was settled in a phone call from Jack a few days later.

He glumly reported that the answer was neither of us were paying; Executive
Aviation refused to submit a bill.  They claimed that the trip resulted in
them selling four Gulfstreams and six huge transportation contracts.  (Yeah,
I guess there were a few more little executive side trips that I didn't
mention either.)

Not only would there be no bill, but the Dawsons had free lifetime passes
with the company.  We whistle and a jet appears.

Anyway, we were again off to the Left Coast.  And Jean used me as a
demonstration vehicle for the advanced course in fucking a pregnant woman.
Janice Page watched it in awe.

* * *

We flew out to San Francisco two days before the concert.  Tim and Gwen
Madison were at the airport to greet us.  We had learned that both were on
the symphony's board of directors, and Gwen was president.  (She looked
stunning, by the way, having lost over 30 pounds in the meantime.)  A
limousine took us all to Symphony Hall where Gwen and Tim proudly introduced
Susan to Michael Tilson Thomas, the symphony's music director, who in turn
introduced her to the orchestra.  They had been rehearsing the symphony, but
this was their first meeting with the composer-conductor.

Susie was utterly adorable.  She was wearing Levi short-shorts and one of
those ratty shirts that Jean loved so much with the sleeves torn off and the
shirttails tied under where someday her tits would be.  But my little girl
was stunningly beautiful.  There was a large box on the podium for her to
stand on.

Thomas handed her a baton and she tapped it on her music stand.  Instantly
the orchestra took their starting positions.  Her arms came up and the
symphony began.

Led by Thomas, the rest of us had taken seats several rows back in the hall
to listen.  I confess, I was astounded.  There was my little girl
controlling a world-class symphony orchestra.  Not that I knew -- or know --
a damned thing about conducting, but she certainly seemed to.  Everything
seemed to work perfectly.  But what do I know?

I know that when the first full performance ended, Susie just stood there
and, while turning the pages of her conductor's score, reviewed every
mistake any member of the orchestra had made.  When she got to percussion,
she noted that the drummer was about a quarter-beat behind the orchestra.
Taking her score, she jumped down from her box and went to him.  She found
what she had expected to find: about three-quarters of the way into the
score, the printer had fouled up.  The rest of the drummer's score was
behind the orchestra.  He was dismayed, but she pointed out with a warm
smile that it certainly wasn't his fault; he played the score as it appeared
to him.

She returned to her box and completed her review.  At its conclusion the
concertmaster rose from his chair and said, "Maestro, on behalf of the
entire orchestra, I want to congratulate you.  That was the best first
performance I have ever witnessed and the most thorough critique.  You may
be very young and inexperienced, but I can assure you, you are one of the
very best in the world _right now!"_  The orchestra members tapped on their
instruments applauding the concertmaster's words.

I glanced over at Michael Thomas who was sitting next to me.  Tears were
rolling down his cheeks as he murmured, "Such incredible talent and ability!
I've been rehearsing the orchestra for over a week now and have been doing
this for years, but I only picked up about 10% of the errors Susan did.
That girl is unreal!  And so beautiful, too."  Regarding her critique he
said, "And the way she did it!  She's utterly perfect.  Never does she put
down a performer.  She merely points out how to make the next performance
better.  Magnificent!"

* * *

The night of the performance, Susan appeared before me looking nervous.
Knowing her, it was her appearance she was concerned about not the
performance.  She was wearing a man-tailored dinner jacket that ended at her
waist with a pleated shirt with a wing collar and a white bow tie.  She wore
a full-length straight black skirt with black ballet slippers.  Her mother
had worked on her face and her hair and she looked exquisite.  I told her
so.  She beamed and rushed into my arms.

"My lovely daughter," I whispered.  "I love you so, Susan.  Your whole
family does!"  With that I melted my lips to hers.

Later we were all seated in the president's box at the symphony when Michael
Thomas came out to introduce the featured work of the evening.  He took
great pride in introducing Susan to the audience, and the entire orchestra
was on their feet to greet her as she went to the podium.

The performance was utterly devastating.  I thought the first run-through
had been good but the performance was simply perfect.  Susan was dazzling.
Sandy, sitting beside me whispered, "Dad, she's simply wonderful!  Aren't
you happy for her?"  I assured her that I certainly was.

The first movement was in a minor key, filled with sadness, misery and
foreboding.  The second introduced a note of hope that grew as the movement
developed.  The third, in a major key, developed the hope into the sounds of
unrestrained joy.  Utterly magnificent!

As the last notes died away, Susie turned on the podium to face the audience
to the sound of... silence.  I could see her eyes widen and then pandemonium
broke loose.  The audience had been in stunned amazement and it had taken a
few moments for them to recover.  The orchestra rose from their seats to
continue the ovation.  Thomas came out carrying a bouquet of two dozen
long-stemmed red roses that he presented to her, to even greater applause.
Susie took her bows and then scampered offstage.

But the pandemonium continued.  She came back for a second bow, and then a
third.  The orchestra members were still on their feet.  Finally, she
returned to the podium and said, "Thank you all so very much.  As many of
you know, I really don't know very much about music.  But I have heard that
if an audience really applauds, the conductor is supposed to give them
something more.  This is a little piece I'm calling 'Variations on Themes
from Childhood.'  I hope you like it."

I noticed that the musicians looked somewhat puzzled as they positioned the
music on their stands.

What Susie had done was to take children's music -- Three Blind Mice, London
Bridge, and a number of others, and merge, then develop them.  It opened
with the strings playing a simple background while various groups of
instruments introduced each of the children's songs.  As the piece
developed, Susan wove the various songs together in truly beguiling and
increasingly complex patterns.  It closed in full symphonic form.  Again
there was silence followed by screams -- and I really mean screams -- from
the audience.  This wasn't applause, it was wild cheering.  And they were
all cheering my adorable little girl.

Moreover, the members of the orchestra were on their feet, first applauding
and then literally cheering their conductor.  Unreal!

"What was that incredible piece Susie just performed?" Tim asked.

"I have no idea," I replied.  "I was hearing it for the first time, too.
But it's pretty neat, isn't it?"

"Neat isn't the word for your daughter's ability.  The only person who comes
to mind is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.  But Susan is better than he was at the
same age, and he had already had years of professional training.  Jim, you
have a true musical genius on your hands."

At that point Michael Thomas came out on the stage again, went to a
microphone and held up both hands for silence.  As he did he was slowly
shaking his head in -- I learned later -- utter disbelief.  Finally the
audience quieted and sat down again.  Still shaking his head, Thomas said,
"Ladies and gentlemen, what you have just heard is without precedent as far
as I know.  Not only was this the first public performance of 'Variations on
Themes from Childhood', it was the first performance... _ever!_  If you had
been looking closely, you might have seen some of our orchestra members
looking puzzled.  They were.

"Why?  Because none of them had ever seen the music before, is why.  I
learned just a few minutes ago that Miss Dawson came in this evening with
stacks of scores and placed them herself on all the appropriate stands."

Thomas then moved his microphone over to the podium where Susie was still
standing.  "Why, Susan?" he asked.  "Why did you do it?"

"Well, sir," she said slowly, "I've always thought that a composer should
also be an arranger, and I wasn't able to do the full arrangement on my own
symphony.  This was sort of an experiment."

"But there was no rehearsal...  None of the orchestra had ever even seen the
score!"

"Mr. Thomas, over the last few days I've learned what marvelous musicians
you've assembled here in the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra.  I was
certain they would have no trouble with it, and they didn't."  Turning to
the orchestra she said, "Thank you for a wonderful performance."

Again the orchestra members rose to their feet and gave her a standing
ovation.  Then one of the male members yelled, "Three cheers for Susan!
Hip, hip..."

"Hooray!" screamed the members.

That was followed by two more as Susie just stood there blushing as red as a
beet with embarrassment.

Michael Thomas continued, "Folks, this young woman is unbelievable!  At an
age -- she's only eight years old -- when children her age are singing these
songs, she's weaving them into an increasingly complex arrangement yet with
each component song maintaining its identity.  I really don't know how she
managed, but she certainly did."

He paused for a moment and then continued, "This girl has tonight made a
significant addition to Western culture.  And she will rank, I believe, as
possibly the greatest American composer of all time, certainly ranking with
John Phillip Sousa."

At that point Susan whispered in Thomas's ear.  My hearing hadn't yet
developed the necessary range for me to hear what she was whispering.  But
he grinned, nodded and raced off the stage.  In a matter of minutes,
backstage personnel were distributing music scores to all the racks, finally
putting a score on Susie's podium.

To the audience she said, "With a bow to the Boston Pops, I would like to
conclude tonight's program with John Phillip Sousa's greatest composition,
'Stars & Stripes Forever'!"

What a conductor!  She had the entire brass section standing as the trumpets
blared out.  Then she motioned to the piccolo player to move to the
soloist's spot where she played the marvelous high trills that soared over
the entire orchestra.  But through it all, not only did she have the whole
orchestra under perfect control, she was having fun!

Finally it ended and the audience cheered.  And I mean cheered!  It wasn't
applause, it was as if the Forty-niner's had won another Super Bowl.  The
whole concert hall rocked.

It ended with Susie standing holding the hand of the piccolo player.  She
said, "I think this is a perfect ending.  Standing beside me is the
symphony's piccolo player, Mai Lin, whose perfect notes soared out over the
entire orchestra.  I think that piece had particular meaning for her.  You
see, just this week, Mai Lin, a native of Shanghai, was naturalized as an
American citizen."  Turning to the girl, she said, "Thank you for your
magnificent performance."

Tears of happiness were streaming down the girl's cheeks as she took Susie
in her arms and melted her with a kiss.  Then to the audience she said, "On
behalf of my fellow orchestra members, I would like to thank Miss Dawson for
selecting us as the orchestra to debut her musical genius.  And on a
personal level, I can't thank her enough.  You see, we've only known Susan
for a couple of days, but we've all come to love her... and respect her.
She's the finest conductor we've ever been privileged to work with.  But
then for me to be able to play 'Stars & Stripes Forever' this week..."  She
could say no more, but fled back to her seat.

* * *

Following the performance, there was a private reception.  Tim pointed out
that the music critics of the two San Francisco papers were present which
meant their reviews, prepared after their having attended the dress
rehearsal, would be favorable.

Susie was standing beside me when they came up and introduced themselves.
They asked about the origin of the symphony.

"The work is dedicated to my parents, Jean and Jim Dawson, and to my sister,
Sandy.  Without my parents I wouldn't be here; without Sandy, I would be
dead," Susie said softly.  On a strict off-the-record basis I explained what
Susan had meant.  Susie asked Sandy who was wearing the same black-silk gown
slit to the hip on both sides to show the critics her brands.  "I can't with
this skirt, sis," Susie explained.

When Sandy exposed her flank, Susan said quietly, "That's one of a pair; I
have only one.  Anyway, that's the first movement.  The second movement is
when we rediscover our parents."

"There are undertones of fear and sadness there, too," the _Herald-Examiner_
critic said.  "Can you explain?"

With a small smile Susie replied, "That was during Mom's stubborn period.
She almost ruined it all for everyone."  With a little smile she added,
"That's all I'm going to say about that."

"And the last movement?" the _Chronicle_ critic asked.

"That's right now," Susie replied.  "There's no way I could be happier than
I am.  I'm a member of the finest family on the face of the earth.  My
parents are the best who have ever lived.  What can I say?  I have it all
and want the whole world to know how joyful I feel."

"Have you given any thought to adding a fourth movement?" _Herald-Examiner_
asked.

"Like 'Ode to Joy', the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth?" she asked
with a grin.

"Exactly!" he replied.  "Do you sing, by the way?"

Susie swallowed hard and replied, "A very little.  But only with my family."

"Could you sing for us tonight?" _Chronicle_ asked.

The result was a replay of our impromptu concert at Casco, but with a
significant difference.  Virtually the entire orchestra membership was
attending the reception and many had their priceless instruments with them.
One after another took out his or her instrument, found a seat beside where
we were standing and picked up the music.  By the time we finished, all we
were missing was full percussion, but it was a lot of fun.

_Ave Maria_ was utterly enchanting.  I couldn't believe the notes my women
so easily reached and maintained with perfect clarity and purity of sound.
By the time we reached _The Battle Hymn of the Republic,_ Susan was in front
conducting the impromptu orchestra and doing it with authority and skill.
The last stanza just thundered out.  I thought it sounded wonderful.  We
concluded with _The Star Spangled Banner._  When it was over, I looked at
the two critics and saw tears running down both sets of cheeks.

What a strange reaction, I thought.

While Susan, Jean and Sandy were thanking the orchestra members, I rejoined
the critics.  "Is it true that Susan has had no music training of any kind,
formal or otherwise?" _Chronicle_ asked.

"That's true," I replied.  "My wife home-schools her, and I really don't
know all they do, but I do know my wife has never had formal music training,
either.  However, I understand there's a pretty strong link between
mathematical ability and musical ability.  Susan's math ability is
phenomenal.  Less than six months ago she did a complete break-even analysis
of a $200 million piece of business in her head.  Her mental answer was
within a couple of dollars of the computer's solution later."  With a grin I
added, "And I think it took the computer longer to solve the problem than
Susie did."

At that point someone appeared with stacks of copies of the first editions
of both papers.  The reviews -- no surprise -- were raves.  "Not since
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart..." _Chronicle_ raved.  "A return to the greats:
Mozart, Bach, Brahms, and Beethoven,"  _Herald-Examiner_ wrote.  "In its
technical perfection, Dawson's First ranks with -- and is conceivably
superior to -- Beethoven's Fifth, the symphony so perfect in its form it
virtually destroyed the form itself.  No one could compete... until Susan
Dawson, age eight!"

_Chronicle_ pretended to be annoyed.  "That's what I get for writing a
review ahead of the performance.  There's no mention of 'Variations.'" He
shook his head and continued, "I really want to see the score for that one!
What your daughter did truly blows the mind.  How many songs did she use?
Six?  Eight?  Ten?  I didn't count, but I guess I should have.  Somehow she
managed to weave them all together while still maintaining the identity of
each one."

_Herald-Examiner_ chimed in, "I think Michael Tilson Thomas is absolutely
right: Susan Dawson is already a composer ranking with the greatest of all
time.  And you heard the Chinese girl.  I really don't think she was just
being nice.  Susan has perfect control of that whole orchestra.  She's
hearing every instrument individually.  What a future!"

A messenger came in with stacks of telegrams which he gave to Michael Tilson
Thomas.  "Susan," he announced, "you've made the big time.  Included in this
stack are invitations for you to perform your symphony with the Chicago
Symphony, the Boston Symphony, the New York Philharmonic and the
Philadelphia Symphony.  And this is only a start.  What do you say?"

"What can I say?" my lovely girl replied.  "I'm utterly overwhelmed.  As I
explained to the gentlemen of the press, I wrote this to try to express my
gratitude to my parents, Jean and James Dawson, and particularly to my
sister, Sandy.  What Sandy did for me, I will never forget, nor can I ever
repay.  All I can say is that she offered her life to save mine."

At that Susie broke down in tears and ran to her big sister.  The kiss those
two exchanged right then would have powered California for a year and ended
its energy crisis on the spot.

Oh, yes... Susie did add a fourth chorale movement.  Magnificent!

* * *

Susan's concert was on Saturday night.  We stayed over, and on Sunday to her
surprise -- but not to mine -- the orchestra and Susie assembled in a
recording studio rented on an emergency basis by Columbia Records.  They
recorded her symphony and her Variations, along with the Dawson family
singing.  This time we had the full orchestral backup... and I learned that
Jean and I could both play the guitar, which we did when we all sang
"Shenandoah."

Monday we drove down to the Big Sur country in a BMW supplied by the local
dealer under orders from the company.  The day was perfect, and we had a
marvelous time.  By then even tiny Jamey was beginning to take an interest
in his new world; he was discovering there was more to life than sleeping
and nursing at his mother's luscious tit.  I couldn't even begin to catalog
his assortment of happy sounds.  He was in the center of the back seat with
his sisters on each side playing with him.  Wonderful!

We were late returning to the hotel and found first editions of Monday's
papers at our door.  Suspecting -- knowing! -- that their appearance wasn't
an accident, we started to go through them.

First, we found a full-page ad from Columbia Records announcing the release
of not one, but two Dawson CD albums.  The first was Susan's symphony while
the second had Variations and our songs.  The only surprising element was
the listing, along with all the major local record stores, of Tiffany &
Company as a dealer.

On the next page was a Tiffany ad like no other I've ever seen.  It was
headlined, "A tribute to a truly remarkable family..."  At the top was a
family photo -- all five of us -- that had been taken only about a week
earlier.  I could not have been more proud of my beautiful family.

But running down the left side of the page were five photos.  The first was
me.  I don't know who took it, when, or where, but there I was making a
presentation of some kind to someone.  And I was even wearing a suit and
tie.  How about that?  It identified me as executive vice president of
Callaway Industries and the designer of the most powerful computer operating
system in the world.

Below me was a beauty shot of Jean wearing a white bikini.  (I don't know if
they managed to get her into one or if they created it with an airbrush on
her normally nude body.)  The opening statement by her name was, "Possibly
the most beautiful woman in the world..."  I certainly wouldn't argue with
that line.  It went on to describe her as the creator of the finest computer
front-end in existence and the mother of two of the most talented young
women in the world.

The next picture was one of Sandy.  She was wearing her brand-new
cheerleader's uniform (although finishing the 9th grade, she had been
selected as a member of the cheerleaders' squad for the following year.)  It
showed her with one arm straight up with her feet well up off the ground.
Her skirt was up and her blue bikini -- following in the wake of Samantha
Callaway and her sister, Stephanie -- showed perfectly as did her perfect
legs.  I think they probably airbrushed out her golden pubic hair that was
certainly showing over the top of the bikini.  (How do I know?  Because her
mother worked on it very carefully to make certain that it did.)  Her
picture was captioned, "The creator of A Dawson Design..."  It went on to
mention that she was only 14 years old and going into the 10th grade.  It
also had thumbnail pictures of one of her jewelry pieces and A Dawson Design
dinner plate.

Susan's photo showed her taking a bow after the premier performance of her
symphony.  Its caption began, "America's Mozart?"  The caption stressed the
fact that she was only 8 years old.  It incorporated some of the purple
prose from the reviews and featured a statement that Susan may have
revived -- rescued? -- classical music.

Finally, there was an adorable picture of Jamey waving one hand in the air
and smiling happily.  Its caption read only, "James Russell Dawson, Jr."  It
went on to point out that even though he was nearly three months old, he
hadn't done anything of note.  He hadn't even composed a simple sonata.
"But," it went on, "he is the most handsome, happiest baby we've ever seen.
So maybe he can get by on his looks."

Jean howled with laughter at that one.

The next day was again spent at Tiffany's.  Again, I made some calls, seeing
Tim Madison at Casco to fill out their order, and then went to the store.
In spite of all sorts of advance precautions -- what seemed to be a
battalion of police out front -- it was an utter madhouse.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, but I found Jack Thompson there.
He was just shaking his head in amazement.  (He informed me that that was
about all he'd been doing from the time the store first opened and the mob
descended.)  "My people have been telling me about the store scenes when
your women are present," he said, "but it's not the same thing as actually
seeing it in person.  Nothing close!"

He told me that Sandy had been engaged to develop three more complete
giftware lines.  "That girl is unreal!" he whispered.  "Everything she does
has so much class, it reeks!  And, needless to say, there's no way we can
produce the original Dawson Design items fast enough."

Susan was utterly mobbed.  She was busily autographing copies of her CD for
buyers who couldn't wait to pay $50 for a signed copy.  Only then did I
realize that her music -- and ours -- was playing on the store's sound
system.

Jean?  She was just being Jean.  The woman just exudes grace and charm.  And
class.  "To the manor born" says it all.  That's Jean Dawson, my wife and my
lover.  And no man in history ever had a better one.

(Oh, yes.  The "goodies" the girls bought on our first trip to San
Francisco?  That's material for another story.)

The End

* * *

Comments and constructive criticism are sincerely welcome.  Let me hear from
you.  morg105829@aol.com

* * *

"Jean & Jim."  Copyright   2001 by Morgan.  <morg105829@aol.com>

All rights reserved.  No part may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any electronic means, including photocopying, recording or by any
information and retrieval system, without the written permission of the
author.

* * *

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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