by Ani Keating
I freeze on the spot, my breath leaving for England already. My knees lock for impact and something like an ice bath trickles from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. The person walking through the door is none other than my Mr. Hale. Not his grandpa, not his father. Him, in all his perfection. Oh, bloody hell! How am I supposed to look at him and keep a straight head? And why did I title my thesis “Does This Protein Make My Mass Look Big?”
Ever erect, he scans the room with keen vigilance. He spots me, and his impassive face registers surprise. His gaze is controlled but I think I see the ghost of appraisal in his eyes. The same way he looked at me at Feign Art. I blush the color of rubidium when I think of my paintings hanging on his wall. He starts walking toward me with precise steps. His eyes are lighter than the first time I saw him—almost turquoise, like my dreams. Not like the color has changed but like a light is shining underneath. I take some shallow breaths so he can’t see the havoc he is wreaking.
“You must be Miss Snow.” He extends a long hand to me. I register vaguely that his voice is not as cold as I remember it. It’s equally polite and hypnotic but now, it has a soft after-sound. I have to make an effort not to close my eyes.
“I’m Aiden Hale. It’s nice to meet you.” He looks at me intensely for a moment, as if he is trying to say something else. Maybe trying to assess whether he should mention that he has seen me before?
“Mr. Hale, a pleasure to meet you too,” I manage, but my voice sounds softer than usual. I reach for his hand, expecting it to be cold. But it isn’t. It’s warm and his long fingers wrap almost above my wrist. A jolt of electricity runs through me at the touch. The good news is that it brings me back to the here and now. The bad news is that it lingers on my skin even after he has withdrawn his hand, which does not help the prospects of my presentation.
Luckily, Denton is here. He shakes Mr. Hale’s hand, looking perfectly electricity-free. Mr. Hale steps backward into the seat closest to the wall, as though he knows the precise distance. Then he picks up my packet of materials from the desk and starts flipping through it quickly. His shoulders never release their tension.
The door opens again and a second man comes in. He introduces himself as Daniel Samson, marketing director at HH. He has ginger curls and an avuncular air that makes you think of family get-togethers. I teeter to the podium and notice the same Shaquille O’Neal-sized man who was at Feign Art, standing outside the door. He must be Mr. Hale’s bodyguard. Why would he need a bodyguard on a college campus? Oh, right, because the all-women dorm might kidnap him, tie him to a chair in the basement and ogle him shamelessly 24/7. Much like I am right now. I try to focus anywhere else. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium, 4.003—
“Miss Snow, Arthur Denton has been quite complimentary of your thesis project. At your convenience, I’d like to hear about it,” Mr. Hale says in that same measured tone that’s a few degrees warmer than it was in the gallery but still very formal.
As I think more about the gallery, the gratitude I have felt toward this stranger all week for getting me through hell makes a welcome appearance. It’s enough to give me some clarity, and some volume. Years of British gentility are triggered in my brain.
“Of course, sir.” I pick up the PowerPoint remote control in one hand, my paperclip in the other, and start going through my slides.
The moment my project design comes on the screen, I gain more confidence. I have lived and breathed this material every day over the last year, and even before. I try not to focus on Mr. Hale, but the few times that our eyes meet, he is watching me intently, just as he does in my dreams. I think he seems mildly impressed but it’s hard to tell with his well-controlled mien. He must be an excellent chess player. Denton gives me several small encouraging smiles, and Daniel is writing down various things. Mr. Hale takes no notes. Finally, I’m through my last slide. Resisting the urge to do a cartwheel, I set down the remote control and take a sip of water.
“Are there any questions?” I ask, praying to every higher power I can think of that there aren’t any. Apparently my prayer is not entirely wasted because the first one to break the silence is Daniel, not Mr. Hale.
“Miss Snow, this is very impressive indeed. Aside from its inherent protein, can the formula support add-on medication?”
“Yes, Mr. Samson. Drugs can be incorporated in powder form. There would need to be an adjustment for taste, but chemically, it’s possible.” I look from Daniel to Mr. Hale and speak without thinking.
“Would you like a taste?” Even I hear the excitement in my voice.
A warm tingle darts up my spine as Mr. Hale nods and answers, “I would.”
I try to walk—and not wobble—to the podium where I have a handful of the protein candy, wrapped in glossy recyclable paper.
“Sorry, I only have them in pink for now,” I mumble. I hear a low chuckle from Hale’s direction.
I open my hand and all three reach simultaneously for the candy. I watch only Mr. Hale’s fingers as they graze my palm. The electric tingle jolts down my arm and nestles at the spot he touched.
“So, are these safe to eat? Have they been tested?” asks Daniel.
Denton jumps in, bouncing on his seat. “Oh, yes. I eat them every day, especially when I forget lunch. Poor Isa has had to make extra just to account for me alone.”
But I want to be scrupulously open, and I don’t want to upset Mr. Hale. “Technically, Mr. Samson, they have not been approved by the FDA yet.”
The male gender is apparently eager to try anything previously untested for safety. They open the wrappers and pop the little candy in their mouths. I know it will start melting on their tongues instantly. I avoid looking at Mr. Hale as much as possible because his lips are puckered around the candy in a way that should be illegal.
Daniel laughs. “It tastes like cinnamon.” He smacks his lips.
“Yes. This batch does.”
“You’ve tried them in other flavors?”
“Yes. Peppermint and chocolate. Oh, and steak once because Professor Denton thought that would go well with men. I don’t recommend it.” I wrinkle my nose. Denton laughs, Daniel with him. Mr. Hale gives that same low chuckle again. I wonder if he ever truly laughs. His eyes are dancing with amusement and a dimple forms in his cheek—an innocent trait at odds with the sinful face and the savage scar. How did he get that scar?
“How did you come up with the idea?” Mr. Hale asks his first question.
It’s the most basic of questions but the tingles evaporate because of the memories it triggers. “It’s something that my father originally came up with when I was young. I have continued his work.” I try to control the emotion in my voice.
Mr. Hale’s eyes narrow a little. Denton knows this is a touchy issue so he jumps in. “Isa is being too modest. Her father formulated the idea of a tiny candy packing as much nutrition as a healthy meal but the protein, the content, the taste and the process are all hers,” he tells Mr. Hale, who continues to regard me intently.
“Has your father helped you during this project?” he asks. I swallow hard. I wish he had.
“No, Mr. Hale,” I say softly, finally making full eye contact. Please don’t push it, I beg him. He nods once as if he can hear my thoughts.
“And how far are you in the process of finishing and obtaining FDA approval?”
“I have one last stage of testing. Preservation, shelf life, that sort of thing. That should take about six months. Then, the product would be ready for FDA approval and patenting. I understand the process for that can take a while.”
“Who owns the supplement legally?”
“I do, sir. Reed has a minor share but it’s assigning it to me upon graduation.”
“And you’re graduating next week?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, what happens to the supplement then?”
Denton interjects. “Ideally, we
would work on the last stage together. That way, Reed would attract more funding and Isa would supervise the project.”
“That’s the ideal outcome but what is the actual plan?” Mr. Hale’s brow furrows slightly.
“Well, due to circumstances outside of our control, she will work on the last stage alone, although I’ll continue to advise her to the best of my ability.” Denton looks at me uncertainly for the first time. I smile and hope that it conceals the devastation I feel inside.
“What circumstances?” Mr. Hale looks at me now, as if he has had enough of Denton.
I think Denton notices it too, because he looks at me expectantly. After all, it’s my problem to tell, not his. Bloody hell, Hale is nosy. But for some reason, I don’t want to tell him that I’m leaving forever.
“Private reasons, Mr. Hale,” I say with as much volume as possible.
He does not like my answer, that much is obvious. His resolutely impassive face does not change but for a very slight, almost imperceptible flexing of his sculpted jaw. Suddenly, I am worried he will not renew the funding for the department.
“Mr. Hale, there’s no reason to doubt the department’s ability to accomplish tremendous other projects. I have full confidence in Professor Denton. It was his mentorship that made it possible for me to create the supplement. Please, don’t alter the financial support.”
Mr. Hale’s eyebrows arch as if he is surprised by my little rant but his eyes soften.
“I will not pull the funding, Miss Snow. There’s no reason for your concern. But at the moment I’m focusing on your invention. Surely, you need assistance with the last stage?”
I smile as I realize his frustration may actually be kindness. But unfortunately, his investment in my project would not keep me here. Only my own investment of a million dollars to an existing American business would.
“Professor Denton and I will continue to collaborate. Someday it will be finished, Mr. Hale. You have my word.”
He smiles at the last sentence. “What are your plans after you graduate?” he asks, tenting his long fingers.
“No plans at the moment.”
Immediately, his eyes harden, no doubt because of my secretive answer. There is something sentient about them, as though they have thoughts and feelings of their own.
“You may have your reasons for guarding this supplement closely, Miss Snow. However, I would advise you to think practically. You could profit from this.” His words are careful, almost a warning. As though he is telling me I have my priorities wrong. But priorities imply options, and I only have one.
“Well, if you want to buy it for a million dollars net of taxes, I would sell it to you today,” I offer because I already know the answer.
He chuckles. “A million dollars for an unfinished invention? That’s a steep price, considering that I do nothing with science. No offense to your accomplishments, of course.”
“None taken, Mr. Hale. How much would you sell your dreams for?”
He stops smiling. “I’m a venture capitalist, Miss Snow. I don’t have dreams. I have goals.”
Life without dreams… “That sounds very safe, Mr. Hale.” Maybe I should have followed that philosophy. If I had, perhaps this end would not hurt so much. “Are there any other questions I can answer for you?” I smile.
Daniel smiles too. “I don’t think so, Miss Snow. Your materials are very clear and I have this handy packet, which I’ll study in detail. I do thank you for making time for this when you’re wrapping up your final year here.”
I nod and look down at my hands. He has no idea how literal his words are.
Daniel stands, and so does Denton. Mr. Hale doesn’t stand until Daniel shakes my hand and walks with Denton to the door. The tension in Mr. Hale’s posture remains palpable. I reach for his hand, half-scared, half-curious to see if the same electricity will jolt through me again. It does, the instant our hands touch.
“Thank you for your support of the department, Mr. Hale.”
“My pleasure, Miss Snow. I’m very impressed with your project,” he says politely.
I feel suddenly giddy at his praise, like I did when I got my very first A. I thank him, cursing the bloody blush again. Mr. Hale looks slightly amused and sweeps out of the door last.
I stand there, staring after him even when the door closes. What better way to illustrate what I’ll be missing than sending an impossibly handsome man who can mess with my head just by blinking. Something warm—like an ember—heats up between my lungs as if his electrical charge nested there. I watch my skin, mesmerized. There’s no physical evidence of change but something inside feels…new.
Chapter Eight
La Virgen
I rush through Feign Art as fast as I can. In the few seconds it takes me to dash through reception, I notice my painting is gone. The mere idea that it’s already in Mr. Hale’s home makes me trip twice.
Javier is in the back as always. He stares blankly out of the window but when he sees me, he smiles.
“How did your presentation go?” he asks as I change behind the screen.
“I didn’t throw up once, so that means it went fine. And you’ll never guess whom it was for. The same bloke who bought all your paintings.” I peek around the screen to look at his expression. He’s gaping.
“Same guy? That’s a coincidence.”
“Yes, I know. Aiden Hale.” Ridiculously, as I say his name out loud, I shiver. “Apparently, he’s a major donor for Reed.”
“Hmm, small world. Good thing he has no clue you’re the muse for his art.”
I laugh my first laugh in days. Only Javier would call me a muse. “More like a dummy than a muse, I think. But that’s okay. It helps you. Although I think you should ask Feign for more money. It’s robbery, Javier.”
He snorts. “Yeah, and then he’ll turn me over to ICE for being an illegal alien.”
“No, he won’t. Because you can expose his fraud,” I insist, resisting the urge to stomp my foot. He never agrees with me here. To his defense, Immigration and Customs Enforcement is the dread behind most immigrants’ nightmares.
“Isa, please, we’ve talked about this. He can do it anonymously. And even if he did it under his real name, no one will believe the illegal immigrant over the established artist.”
“Sure they would. Just give Feign a paintbrush and ask him to paint a smiley face. The truth will be out in seconds.”
“Stop this, please. We have so little time left.” Javier’s voice is muted and almost staccato. I secure the last clothespin on my sheet and come out. I want to comfort him but what is there to say? Plus, I can’t touch him when I’m wrapped up in a sheet.
Javier shuffles to the easel. “C’mon, let’s finish this painting. I’ll be here all night. Fancy Hale has asked that it be delivered to him this weekend and Feign said if he catches me so much as taking a piss, he won’t pay me for it. Dickless asshole. Anyway, can you believe Hale doubled the price to have this so soon?” Javier’s eyes are wide.
“No, not really. But it just goes to prove your talent, Javier. I wish there were a way for the world to know it.”
Javier snorts. “You wonder what he’ll do with these paintings, Isa? Who knows what other fancy-pants will go to his house and say ‘wow, she really has a lovely waist’, ‘wish I knew who she was’, ‘Wish I could see a little lower’?”
I laugh. He smirks and picks up his palette. I sit in my regular position while he starts painting. Instinctively, like responding to some internal command, my mind drifts back to the way Mr. Hale’s mouth looked when he tasted my candy. A flash of heat runs through me and goose bumps erupt on my bare skin. I replay the image to hold on to the feeling a little longer.
Eventually, Javier releases me. “Well, that’s your last pose. I sketched the outline so you don’t need to stay here all night.”
“Are yo
u sure? I don’t mind.”
“No need for both of us to lose sleep, Isa. You don’t have six mouths to feed.”
I might as well. They’re my mouths too. I fist my hands, wishing for a magic wand. Javier’s parents came here so he could have a better life. But he’s never had a life of his own. And his dream of painting will always stay within the mundane confines of a clandestine job when it should soar to the heights of passion and acclaim.
“What will you call this series?” I ask as I pad behind the screen to put on my clothes. He usually calls his series something stereotypically American. His last one was called Give Me Your Poor, and I think his first was called Pursuit of Happiness. At least Feign allows him that luxury, probably because the idiot can’t come up with anything creative himself.
“I already named it today and sent it to Feign. He called Hale on the spot because Fancy-Pants demanded the name of the series, probably for his private museum somewhere.”
I almost trip while sliding on Reagan’s pumps, and stumble out from behind the screen. “So what’s the name?”
Javier looks at me and his eyes turn soft. “La Virgen.”
The word hangs fluid in the air. It takes a moment for me to process it. Javier never uses Spanish in his art.
“The Virgin? In Spanish?”
He nods. “It seemed like the right time for a little bit of truth.”
Chapter Nine
Unconventional Proposal
I tiptoe through the dark corridor to the main lobby and pause to listen before turning the corner to make sure Feign is not there. But when I hear a cool voice that I now know in my cells, I flatten my back against the hallway wall and eavesdrop shamelessly.
