Deceptions (6 page)

Stephanie Hartwell.' She fit her slender hand to his long, thin one. A musician, she thought. Or an artist.

'What work?' Dena asked. 'Research,' he answered briefly and invited them to the lobby for a drink. He wondered why Dena asked all the questions. Did she always ask, and was Stephanie always silent? Or was Stephanie not interested?

As they drank their wine, Ganh answered Dena's questions, telling them he was a molecular biologist, a professor at Columbia University, a researcher. 'In what?' Dena asked, but he said it was too complicated for intermission talk. That

was true, but he never talked about his work to strangers, fearing they would turn away, bored and uncomprehending. He didn't want to talk about himself, anyway; he wanted to ask his own questions about Stephanie Hartwell.

In the crowded lobby, reverberating with high-pitched laughter and rapid tongues, she was a quiet island, her body very still, her movements small and controlled. As Garth talked, he memorized her deep blue eyes, the delicate lines of her cheekbones and her wonderftil mouth, wide and generous, surprisingly vulnerable, asking for protection.

Dena watched him, but not with jealousy. She was pleased he was interested in Stephanie because it was clear that Stephanie was interested in him. Lucky Stephanie, Garth thought, to have such a friend. And at the final curtain he asked if he could take them home. 'We have a limousine,' said Dena. She looked up suddenly, as if remembering. 'Stephanie, I promised I'd call Mother before we left for home. I'll be right back.'

When they were alone. Garth met Stephanie's smile with his own. 'A nice thing to do.'

'Dena is always doing nice things.*

'I want to see you. Tomorrow?' She shook her head. 'Then the next day.'

'No. I'm sorry.' Her eyts were clear and honest. 'I'd like to. But I'm staying with Dena's family for the holidays and they've made plans for us. They're so wonderful to me that I can't just disappear and leave them with tickets and schedules. I'm sorry.'

'And after the holidays?'

'I go back to Biyn Mawr.*

'To graduate?'

She laughed. 'Hardly. I'm in my second year.'

He frowned. 'You look... how old are you?'

'Nineteen.'

• You look older. •

'Isn't nineteen old enough?'

*I wouldn't have thought so,' he mused. 'But it will have to be.'

Dena came back and they gathered their coats from the back of the box, friendly in their goodbyes. Garth stood in the

shadows, feeling like a bumpkin at the side of the road as the royal carriage passed by. They had wealth, sophistication, style and all the world waiting for them. He looked at the opera stage where three hours of passion had just been sung and saw a vulnerable mouth and clear, honest eyes. He pulled on his coat and smiled to himself. This bumpkin was going to follow the carnage all the way to the castle.

Bryn Mawr College is tucked amid the hills and leafy splendor of Pennsylvania, an hour's train ride from New York. Stephanie had barely arrived and begun unpacking when Garth called.

'I'm going to be in your neighborhood this weekend,' he said casually. 'I thought I might drop by, if you'll be home.'

She laughed. 'What will you be doing in my neighborhood?'

'Spending the day with you.'

They met at Pembroke Arch, the campus rendezvous, and shook hands formally. 'Where are you taking me?' he asked, as they began to walk.

'I have to stop at the library for a few minutes and then I thought we'd have breakfast at Wyndham House. If that's all right? It's so early, I thought—'

'Too early for you?'

'No, I'm glad you're here.' Snow had fallen during the night and they walked on shoveled paths, the dark lines bisecting sparkling white expanses dotted with gray, Gothic stone buildings.

Garth followed Stephanie through the library and down a staircase to the basement loading dock. 'No one else could be here today,' she said, 'and they're delivering some furniture for the antique auction upstairs. As soon as I sign for it, we can leave.'

A truck was backed up to the wide doorway and Garth watched as Stephanie talked to the driver. In a minute she came to him with a gesture of uncertainty. 'He says his forklift won't work so he can't unload the crates. Do you want to go to breakfast while I hunt up a maintenance man? I don't know how long I'll be.'

*I grew up with forklifts/ Garth said. 'Shall I have a look?'

She tilted her head to look at him. 'Do scientists do research with forklifts?'

He laughed and went through the loading door to the flatbed of the truck. 'Minnesota farm boys use forklifts. And fix them regularly.' He conferred briefly with the driver, who found a toolbox in the cab of the truck, and then turned to Stephanie. 'How long is breakfast served?'

'For three hours.'

Til have an impressive appetite.' He bent over the motor, working quickly and easily. 'Try it,' he said to the driver after a few minutes, and when the engine started he walked back, smiling, to Stephanie. 'Science is wonderful.'

'So are Minnesota farm boys.* Reaching up, she ran her finger along his forehead and brought it away covered with grease.

He smiled ruefully and spread his blackened hands. 'I never could work on an engine without carrying away half its grease. My mother used to comment on that. Where can I wash up?'

'Through there and down the hall.*

'Don't go away.'

•I won't.'

He went off with long strides, still feeling her touch. And when he returned, he found her in the same place, signing the delivery slip.

For breakfast, Stephanie had gotten permission to take Garth to the dining room of Wyndham House, the best on campus, usually reserved, with the upstairs bedrooms, for visiting alunmae and parents. As they studied their menus beside a large window overlooking the campus, she snatched glimpses of him, taking pleasure in the strong lines of his face. His brown eyes were deep-set above prominent cheekbones, his mouth was wide, his strong chin marked with a cleft. When he smiled, fine lines radiated firom the comers of his eyts, disappearing into his thick black hair. Everything about him was clearly defined; nothing was blurred or soft. Even his voice, deep and resonant, could reach the back of the largest lecture hall without straining.

'Do you still have your farm?' she asked when they had ordered.

'No. I gave it to my sister and her husband.' Now that she was asking the questions, he talked easily, telling her about the farm carved out by his grandfather - wheat glistening gold beneath the sun, the feel of the earth when he worked it, the solitary hours he spent as a boy, dreaming of being a famous scientist, and the hours of close companionship with his father, learning all he knew so that when he retired, Garth could manage the farm.

'A peaceful, secure childhood,' he told Stephanie as the waitress brought pancakes and sausages and filled their coffee cups. 'A loving one. Everything in its place; no doubts about the future.'

'But it all changed?' she asked when he fell silent.

'It all changed.' He paused, remembering. 'When I was eighteen I had a scholarship to college -1 would have been the first of our clan to go. But I had to give it up to manage the farm when my parents were killed in an automobile accident.'

Stephanie drew in her breath. 'You say it so calmly—'

'I didn't at the time. It destroyed almost everything I believed in. But it was eight years ago,' he added gently.

Eight years ago, she thought. He was eighteen, his parents were dead and he was running a farm. No wonder he thought I was young; I haven't done anything. 'Did you run the farm?' she asked.

'For a year. My sister was still in high school, and I stayed with her; I was the only family she had. When she married right after graduation, I gave her the farm as a wedding present.' He paused again, looking out at the snow-covered campus. 'And then I came to New York, looking for another world where everything was in its place and there was a chance of predicting the future.'

'Science,' Stephanie ventured.

He nodded, smiling at her. She listened so carefully he thought she might hear all the unspoken words - about his poverty in New York, and his isolation, so different from that on the farm. He had no time for friends, holding three jobs while taking extra courses so he could graduate early and

begin to teach. And lately, when he could go out, he didn't, because he was afraid of taking time from research, from preparation for his lectures, from anything that might slow down his progress in his field. Except for an occasional evening with a few close friends, he never went anywhere.

Until now.

He finished his coffee and sat back. 'My turn. I don't know anything about you.'

*But you haven't finished. Did you find a world where everything was in its place?'

'Almost everything. Where are you from? I can't place your accent.'

'I grew up in Europe. But what is it you find? I don't know what a molecular biologist does.'

Garth laughed, discovering the pleasure of having a beautiful woman insist that he talk about himself. 'All right,' he said. 'We study the structure and behavior of molecules in living things. I specialize in the structure of genes and how we might alter them to eliminate genetic diseases.'

Stephanie rested her chin oh her hand, watching his eyes and his mouth. 'If you change the structure of genes,' she said hesitantly, 'aren't you changing life?'

He looked at her curiously, like her professors when she asked a good question. 'What does that mean?'

'Wouldn't you be tampering with - what makes life?'

'Well, I don't call it tampering; that sounds as if I'm screwing up the works. Look, those antiques you signed for; didn't craftsmen change the wood in making them? Doesn't a sculptor change marble?'

'But artists don't have power. A marble statue can't change the world. But you could, couldn't you, by changing genes?'

'Possibly.'

'Well, somebody ought to control that.'

'Who?'

She looked at him over her coffee cup. 'The government?'

'Petty, untrustworthy, plodding, narrow-minded, no vision.*

'Scientists, then.*

'Probably just as bad. Most of us are a little crazy. The faa is, you can't limit research; it pops up every time you try to cut it down.'

•I guess I have to think about rhat. What do you want out of your research?'

Back to the personal, he thought, admiring her tenacity. But the answer would take too long for today. He put it off. To make a pile of money by inventing a boysenberry syrup for eternal youth.'

She laughed. 'What's wrong with cheny?'

•Run of the mill. No drama.'

'Garth, you don't really want to make a pile of money.'

•Oh, don't I?'

•But do you expect to?'

'Oh, if you put it that way, no. Not in university research. Private companies pay well, but they're not my style.'

She looked a question.

'I don't like conmiercial pressure. In a university, no one peers over my shoulder to see how close I am to discovering something that will make a profit. I like research for its own sake, being free to follow leads that might help—'

'Humanity.'

'Something like that. You're right, though. It's unlikely I'll ever be able to afford you. Are we leaving?'

'Yes.' Stephanie was taking bills from her wallet. 'That is the silliest remark I've ever heard. I think it's wonderful that you care about research, about people, that you're willing to earn less so you can do what you believe in. That was a silly remark.'

He caught her arm as she stood up. 'Wait. Now wait a minute. First, I'm paying for breakfast.'

'You're my guest. I invited you.'

'I invited myself for the day. I may be only a lowly assistant professor who cares about humanity, but I can afford to take my friends to breakfast. Aside from my silly remark, why are we leaving?'

'I have to get back to the library to see if they need help setting up for the auction. It's less than a week away, and so many people have been sick that we're behind schedule.

Tm Sony, because I promised you the whole day, but I have to do it - it's my job.'

Tour job/

*I work for the art department and we run the auction/

*Why do you work for the art department?'

To earn money/

'I thought—'

'Yes, I know you did/

Garth had paid for breakfast, and as they walked across campus he felt suddenly lighthearted, filled with energy. She doesn't live in a castle, he said to himself and, packing a snowball, threw an exuberant pitch at a gnarled tree, where it climg like a white star to the black trunk. He looked at Stephanie's bright face. Tell me about the antique show. Do you know, I've always had a secret desire to fondle a nude statue. Could, this be my chance? Will you have any nude statues?'

Stephanie laughed. What a wonderful day they were going to have. *We will have statues of nudes. If you want nude statues, you will have to undress them.' It was his turn to laugh, and he took her hand securely in his as they walked up ^e steps of the libraiy.

Garth had plenty of time to ponder the contradictions in Stephanie Hartwell before she visited his laboratory in New York. He spent nine Saturdays in Biyn Mawr through the winter and spring and learned about her twin sister and the break between them, still unhealed, and about her parents in Algeria, who would soon move to Washington when her father took up his new position as Under Secretary of State for European Affairs. He heard all about her posh, ridiculously expensive Swiss school, and he learned that her sophistication came in patches from a cra2y upbringing that taught her enough about Europe to fill an encyclopedia but not enough about sex or men to fill one page of a diary. He knew about her quick intelligence, her quiet beauty and friends like Dena who cluster«l around her, offering places to stay over vacations; everyone wanted to give Stephanie a home. And so did Garth. Because he had fallen in love with her.

'1*11 meetyou atyour office/ Stephanie said when he called her at the Cardozos* apartment. 'It's silly for you to pick me up. How do I get there?' He gave her directions and she skipped to her room to dress. Spring vacation in New York: a whole week with Garth, since the Cardozos knew about him and hadn't made plans for her. A week with Garth. She sang it to herself on the subway.