by Ann Macela
“Stefan and I are fine, thank you. He’s off at a physics department meeting. I have an appointment with a possible new assistant professor here in economics in a little while, but have some free time. Are you busy?”
“No, I’m free at the moment,” he said. He could picture her at her precisely organized desk in her office at the university in Massachusetts where both his parents were on the faculty. She’d be sitting upright—”No slouching, Marcus, it’s so common,” was her mantra—and look more like a business executive than a professor in her crisp suit with her hair neatly coiffed and her fingernails polished a muted pink. He looked down at himself and could almost hear her telling him to put on a tie and look more professional.
“I read the articles in W2 about your formula and the reception it received down there in Austin. At the Boston HeatherRidge last Saturday, that’s all they were talking about.”
“Oh, really? What are they saying?” Good, some reports from the outlying regions instead of Ed’s correspondents. Although not totally unbiased, his mother was an astute observer.
“Practitioners who are more, shall I say, ‘mathematically or numerically inclined’ are trying your equation in their casting. They say they need more precise instructions and calibrations, but believe it shows promise. Those who are not ‘talented’ in that manner don’t want to try it or associate with those who favor it. I must admit, some of the former have been rather impolite, even indelicate, in their statements about the latter. A few of those against it have responded in kind, I’m afraid.”
“Have the discussions gotten out of hand?” he asked, remembering how quickly the arguments had escalated at the so-called debate.
“No, everyone has been exquisitely civil in public. Of course, rumors are flying privately about who is no longer speaking with whom because of their discussions.”
“Has anyone spoken one way or the other directly to you or Stefan?”
“Only those who favor the equation. They’ve praised you for the excellent work, as is certainly your due.”
“Thank you, Judith.” He knew her statement was the highest accolade she’d give him. He’d never discussed the equation or its development in depth with either of them, although he knew they’d read his articles. Stefan had said only, “Good job,” his most effusive praise. Marcus could count on his fingers the times his father had said those words to him.
“But that’s not the reason I called,” she said. “Not the primary reason. I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel or postpone our usual Fourth of July gathering on Cape Cod this summer.”
“Oh?” he said, while a feeling very close to relief flowed through him.
“Yes, the conference I usually attend in Helsinki has been moved to the end of June. Stefan wants to visit with some of his German colleagues, and we thought we’d see them during the first week in July.”
“I’m sorry we can’t make the Cape in July,” Marcus said, infusing his tone with as much sorrow as he could. Which wasn’t much, given the fact that the four or five days they spent together annually had grown more and more difficult for him over the years. They had almost nothing in common. It had reached the point where, outside of academic subjects and current events, they had little to talk about. He’d begged off visiting over the Christmas and New Year holidays for the last three years; they hadn’t pushed him to reconsider.
“Would you like to meet us in, say, Berlin, instead? I’m sure Stefan’s colleagues could make some appointments with mathematicians for you.”
He blinked at the tone in her voice. She sounded almost … wistful. He must be hearing things. His mother was never wistful. He pulled his thoughts back to his situation and said, “As it turns out, I’m not certain what my own schedule will be. The editor of W2 wants to take the debate across the country, hold meetings in a number of cities so everyone can participate. Dr. Morgan and I would be the main speakers.”
“Will that keep you from your regular research and writing? It’s important you produce another article or two. Aren’t you working on a book also? A real book, not that science fiction—”
“We’ll only travel on the weekends, and I’m making good progress on my mathematical theory book and my fiction,” he said quickly. He didn’t want to discuss his other calling—his “hobby,” as his parents called it. “I’ve already polished and submitted the articles I wrote in California.”
“Good. You may have made full professor at an even earlier age than either myself or Stefan, but you can’t rest on your laurels. You may want to leave the University of Texas someday and come back East. The more established you are in your field, the more attractive you’ll be.”
“Yes, Judith,” Marcus said, indulging himself by rolling his eyes. Neither she nor Stefan would be thoroughly approving until he was on the faculty of Harvard or MIT. They never understood how he could be happy in Texas, of all places.
“Let me know your schedule when you have it, and I’ll send you ours. We might go to the Cape after we return. If you have a few days, you could still join us.” He heard some commotion on her end, then her voice continued, “Oh, it looks like my appointment is here.”
“I’ll see what the calendar permits. Give my best to Stefan.”
“I will. Good-bye, Marcus.” She hung up before he could even answer.
He closed the phone and looked at the dog. “No Cape Cod,” he said.
Samson yawned, walked to the door, and looked pointedly back at him.
“Okay, let me change and we’ll go for a walk.” He had to laugh as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Sometimes he wondered who had trained whom in this household.
On the walk, Marcus paid no attention to the houses or the view from the hills overlooking the Colorado River while Samson pulled on the leash until an intriguing smell distracted him. Instead Marcus thought about his mother’s phone call.
What was that old saying about dark clouds and silver linings? At least he didn’t have to spend time on Cape Cod with his parents, hearing their opinions about his career, his place of employment, or his other, non-sanctioned activities. His alter ego Frederik Russell was doing fine, thank you, with six novels published to critical acclaim and good sales.
He also, however, did not want to spend time running around the country with Ed and his touring zoo. They hadn’t determined even a tentative schedule for the meetings, although they had come up with a list of possible cities. Ed was going to check availability of the ballrooms in the HeatherRidges and propose a plan.
Bad idea. If he let Ed set the agenda, he’d lose control of the situation. Ed wouldn’t stop at six weeks and six cities—not when they had identified twelve in their preliminary list. Not if the debates became hotter, and more people got involved. Swords notwithstanding, there would be more and greater fireworks with Prick and the Horners egging each other on. Of course, the excitement would create more demand. Result? Ed would run Morgan and him all over the country all summer. Perhaps even into the fall.
To accomplish his work, he needed calm and structure in his day-to-day activities. The fewer interruptions the better. He had been looking forward to long summer days of reading, thinking, and writing.
If the present was an indication, he’d have no peace. He’d already received a number of e-mails about his formula and that ridiculous debate. He’d refused to be drawn into arguments and had developed a standard answer referring the letter-senders to W2. Once they started traveling, however, he could only expect the number of messages and demands on his time to double or triple. Hell, if he had time left for walking the dog, it would be a miracle.
Control. That’s what he needed. Control of his own schedule, his own life. He’d dance to no one’s tune.
Samson went still for a moment and stared at something next to a curve in the road. Marcus gripped the leash tighter. When the hound assumed that posture, he’d usually spotted an animal to chase. Sure enough, a cat emerged from behind a gatepost and started to cross the stree
t.
The dog lunged against the chain. Marcus braced himself, held on with two hands, and said, “No, Samson!” At the sound of his voice, the cat took off running for the house across the road.
“Damn it, Samson! No! You are not hunting the neighbor’s cat.” Marcus hauled on the leash and used it to pull himself close to the hound, who was still trying to follow his supposed prey. For a relatively small dog, a basenji packed a lot of power, and Marcus held on tightly until the cat had disappeared.
“Come on, boy, let’s go back.” He tugged on the leash. Samson looked after the cat once more, back up at him, and gave an audible sigh, but he followed readily enough. In a few strides, he was out in front again.
“Control,” Marcus said. Samson only flicked an ear back and forth at the word.
Marcus shook his head. Samson was usually obedient, except when he spotted live, furry prey. Then his instincts and genes took over, and discipline was left by the wayside.
“Control,” Marcus said again, returning to his thoughts before the cat incident. He needed to gain dominance, leadership of the situation, and reduce the tour to a minimum number of cities. Facing Ed by himself, however, might not give him the desired result. Ed was a manipulator par excellence. Look at how he’d played them today with those last two letters. He wouldn’t give in easily.
Besides, the discussion was significant to the whole practitioner community and to the future of magic. Marcus couldn’t back out entirely, and he certainly didn’t want to be considered an obstructionist. Truth be told, he was proud of his equation and to be making a meaningful contribution to spell-casting. How could he arrange matters for his good but still see that his formula received the fair hearing and subsequent research it deserved?
What if he and Morgan approached Ed with a united front? After all, they were in the same boat. Both had obligations and plans important to their careers. She didn’t want to traipse all over the country, either. If the two of them stood up to Ed with an agreed-upon plan, they should be able to push it through.
Yes, that idea offered distinct possibilities—and a chance of success. Smiling, he picked up the pace homeward. He had to arrange a meeting with Morgan. No matter his attraction to the woman and her lack of the same for him. He could control his body and his mind. He’d worry about his subconscious later. The little itch over his magic center returned, and he ignored it again. First he had to find the folder Ed had given them with the contact information.
Although he called Morgan’s office and left messages Thursday night and off and on the next day, Marcus wasn’t able to get her on the phone. On Friday afternoon he called Ed to see if the editor had her personal numbers since she wasn’t listed in the phone book. Ed supplied several numbers—a cell phone, a number in Austin for her condo, and another number for her farm phone.
Farm phone? Where did the woman live?
“Idiot, you should have done this earlier,” he muttered to himself as he sat down at his computer and signed on to the private practitioner Web site. A banner headline on the home page told him to click on the button for the latest in the discussion over spell-casting. Not what he needed to read. He went straight to the registry.
There she was: Gloriana Violet Morgan, twelfth level, associate professor, botanist, biological scientist, with all her degrees and achievements. A color photo showed off her curly dark-chocolate hair and emerald green eyes. He stared at the picture for a few seconds, then read her impressive curriculum vitae.
“You might be a level greater than I am,” he couldn’t help saying to the picture, “but I made professor first.” The knowledge brought him scant pleasure. He clicked on the contact-information button. The displayed data included the Austin condo address and phone number and the same for the Morgan Plant and Herb Farm. She must spend part of the week in the city and the rest on the farm. Probably did some research there also.
He clicked on the link for the farm. The home page introduction told him he was viewing the practitioner version; for customers with non-practitioner needs, he could click on another link. He perused the magic information. The Morgans grew certain plants to meet the exacting needs of their clients—for potions, salves, and certain spell requirements. They also offered a line of herbs, both fresh and dried, for chefs. He looked at the prices. They seemed steep to him, but what did he know about making potions? Or cooking, for that matter?
He looked at his watch. Six o’clock. Maybe he could catch her before dinner. He flipped open his phone and punched the numbers for her cell.
“Hello?” she answered, with a lot of noise in the background.
“This is Marcus Forscher,” he said.
“Who? Oh, wait a minute.” The noise got louder and sounded like the evening news, then faded. “Sorry about that. I had to turn the TV down. Who is this?”
“Marcus Forscher,” he repeated.
“Oh. Yes. What can I do for you?” Her voice went flat with the question. She didn’t seem pleased that he was her caller.
“I’ve been thinking about our situation with regard to Ed’s plans,” he stated. “From your expression yesterday, I gather you aren’t looking forward to the crazy circus either.”
He heard her sigh. “No, I’m not. I have research plans for the summer, and I’m sure you have the same. But I don’t see how we can call off the debates. The subject matter is too important.”
“I agree. However, I’d like to minimize the impact on us and exert some control over the process.”
“How can we do that?”
“Let’s meet tomorrow, come up with our own schedule, and present Ed with a fait accompli.”
“We can certainly try. Where do you want to meet? I’m out at the farm and wasn’t planning on coming back to Austin until Monday morning.”
She didn’t sound too happy about his suggestion—or it could simply be the idea of coming back to town. He could be accommodating—especially if it would influence her decision his way. “That’s okay,” he said, “I could come there.”
“Here?” Her voice went up as though she didn’t believe he’d come.
He heard another voice asking, “Who is that, Glori?”
“Hold on,” she said. She must have put her hand over the phone, but he could still hear what they were saying.
“It’s Marcus Forscher, Mother. He wants to come out here tomorrow to talk about Ed’s plans.”
“That’s a good idea. Ask him to lunch.”
“What?”
“You heard me, ask the man to lunch.”
After several seconds of silence, Morgan came back on the phone. “Look, why don’t you get here about eleven. We can talk and have lunch with my parents. They will want to hear our plans and might have some good recommendations.” She sounded more resigned than pleased to be making the invitation.
“Thank you. I’ll look forward to seeing your parents again.” He was going to ask for directions when Samson’s whining and glances from him to the door and back took his thoughts in another direction. Oh, what the hell, he might as well ask. “By the way, would it be all right if I brought my dog? He could use the fresh air.”
“Fine. Do you have a pencil? Here’s the directions.” She gave him explicit instructions and timing. “Oh, and one more thing? We dress very casually here.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Good-bye,” he said and hung up. Her last comment struck him as curious. Sure, his parents had taught him how to dress. “Looking like an ivory tower bum is not the way to instill confidence in business donors,” his father had said. His mother made sure he understood fine tailoring. What did Morgan think he wore on the weekend in the country? A suit and tie?
Gloriana hung up the phone and couldn’t help wiggling when a shiver ran up and down her back. She looked down at her arms. Goose bumps. She rubbed them vigorously.
What was it with her reaction to that man? Hearing his low, deep voice had been the last thing she expected when she answered the phone. She could still feel his w
ords reverberating in her skull. They seemed to set off little zings of energy right in her magic center. She switched from rubbing her arms to rubbing her breastbone; it helped only marginally.
So, he wanted them to make their plans for the debate. Certainly a united front was a good idea. Ed would steamroller them if he could.
What would it be like to have Forscher visit the farm? Mr. Perfect on her turf? Staring at her with those icy blue eyes, studying her like she was a mathematical problem he was trying to solve.
She’d have to watch herself and not play those female games she despised—where the woman tried to jolly the guy out of his grim demeanor, tried to coax a smile, as if having a pleasant face would change the attitude behind it. Not that she did that normally, of course. No, he was going to have to take her as she was. If they were going to debate, they’d do it as equals.
Even though, except for his “cauldron-stirring, potion-making” crack, she had no complaints about his treatment of her, she’d still be on guard. The man was an academic in a predominantly male field, and she’d met plenty of others in that situation who clearly thought they were beings of a higher order. He might revert to type if she let him get away with it.
What kind of dog would he have? A man who obviously prized control would have an exceedingly well-trained animal, probably a German shepherd or maybe a Lab. What about a Border collie—no, too exuberant, too happy a personality. She looked over at Delilah lounging on the floor by the door. Certainly not a basenji with their unpredictability, mischievousness, and definitely minds of their own.
It would be interesting to have him here, she decided. See what lurked under his shell. Maybe she could get beneath that hard surface, loosen him up, see if he was all grim and unrelentingly hard or not so bad once he relaxed. See if she could melt the look in his eyes.
Although … why on earth would she want to do that? They didn’t have to be friends to work together. She wasn’t attracted to him, was she? How could she be?
