Beginning, Section II

Prologue

Posted on Monday, 15 January 2007

Date: November 23, 2005
From: Isabella R Woodhouse (irw@ckg.org)
To: Gregory P Knightley (gpknightley@gmail.com)
Subject: re: Thanksgiving in Mountain View

Greg! So good to hear from you! Of course you can join us! I checked with Mom and she's ecstatic. We have a guest room all ready for you!

We live on 342 Park Lane. Thanksgiving dinner at our home starts at 3 pm. Don't be late; we may not leave anything for you!!!

Isabella

What did I calculate before for that metal-oxygen bond energy, again?

She was lost in words, bond lengths, activation energies and calculations. Her thoughts were everywhere and she was beside herself trying to commit them all to her hard drive. There were five text editor windows opened, each with bulleted lists. She had to get it down before she forgot any of it. With her fingers dancing furiously on the keyboard, she couldn't waste time to worry whether or not she was catching it all.

While she was flying high in the zone, things just fit. All her conclusions and observations rang with truth and accuracy. Her sentences wrote themselves. She loved this part about the paper-writing process.

She was on her thirteenth paragraph, the one discussing why the yields were so poor on the coupling reaction, when she was physically pulled from her work into reality.

"Emma. You coming downstairs or not?"

Emma Woodhouse blinked once. Twice. Her eyes focused on the hand on her shoulder, the person trying to get her attention. "Karen," she said, dumbly.

She slowly became aware of her surroundings. Her toes were vaguely cold, and curled into her worn blue slippers. Her butt was sore from sitting for the past few hours in the folding chair. Her muscles were cramped from being held in the same position for so long. And despite the fact that they'd been exercised extensively, her fingers were freezing!

It was late afternoon on a Wednesday in late November, the day before Thanksgiving. She was in Mountain View, California, sitting in the room in which she'd grown up. And her stepmother was trying to tell her something.

"Isabella and her fiancé are here," Karen was saying.

"Oh," Emma said, eyes focusing on the soft features of the older woman's face.

"You should come down."

"I'll be down in a second," she nodded.

Karen moved to the door, but once at the doorway turned back.

"Don’t worry; I just have to jot some things down," Emma said as she took out a pad of paper and noted some of her lingering thoughts before they completely dissipated. Glancing at the list, she winced. She was pretty sure she was forgetting some things. She just had to trust that she'd covered them in her other lists.

Slowly, other elements of the real world, other than the cold, started to seep into her senses. Spicy, savory aromas from the kitchen. The dim lighting in the room due to the lateness of the hour and her own lameness in not bothering to do something about it. And the grumbles and rumbles of talking from the lower floor. Lots of it.

The Woodhouses, Emma excluded, were talkers. There was always a story, an opinion, a joke to tell. Ha! One? Try many. In fact, there were so many that it was an all-out battle to try to get even one of your two cents in. With the constant interruptions, the living room, the dining room, the family room: they were all combat zones, topics and stories zinging all over the place. More than once, Emma had wished she could have her notepad to track conversation threads. It was exhausting to keep apace.

Emma blew on her frozen fingers and rubbed them together as she turned to the mirror to check her appearance. Isabella was always on her case about the dark circles under her eyes, so this time, Emma had consciously tried to sleep more than six hours for the past week. She looked well-rested: she ought to have, she was well-rested. She was dressed warmly in her jeans and three layers on top. Even given that, her face was pale with the cold. She pinched her cheeks. Lame trick. She tried a few relaxed practice smiles, but it all felt retarded.

"Emma!" she could hear her stepmother calling up the stairs for her again.

Emma took her reading glasses off and left them on top of her desk with the piles of references and drafts. She exited her room quickly and rushed down the hallway.

While Emma loved many things about the house she'd grown up in, she hated that her father kept it at a steady 60 Fahrenheit. Emma shivered as she contemplated going back to her room and getting on another layer. Hearing her name called yet again made her abandon the idea.

She arrived in the foyer in time to catch a fragment of Isabella's diatribe against air travel on the night before Thanksgiving. She gave a small smile to the man standing by her sister.

Isabella was already in rare form. Her strong strident lawyer's voice was carrying on at nearly twenty words a second. She barely paused for breath or break as she took off her wool coat to reveal her neat, elegant gray cashmere sweater and dress pants. Freed of her coat, she was now able to punctuate her comments with vicious pointing and gestures.

Emma couldn't squeeze in an appropriate condolence, but really, it didn't look like Isabella needed one. She would have gotten closer to hug her, but she was afraid of getting caught in the tangle of gestures and having her eye poked out. Now this would have been a handy situation to have her safety glasses. She smiled to herself quietly, and waited indulgently to greet her sister.

"Are you going to hug me or not?" Isabella interrupted herself to ask.

"Yes, of course," Emma said with a grin, coming close to embrace her sister and kiss her on the cheek.

"Let me introduce you to my fiancé. Emma, this is John," Isabella said with happy pride.

"Very wonderful to meet you," John offered his hand.

And here she was, for the first time face to face with the man whom her sister had been dating for the past two years, to whom she'd been engaged for the past six months.

British, from the sound of his rich voice. For lack of a better description, she noted he was tall, dark, and handsome. That didn't surprise Emma at all. Isabella always had excellent taste in clothes. It made perfect sense that her taste would run to men.

To boot, his handshake was strong, steady, and very smooth. Emma strongly believed that you could tell a lot from a person's handshake. "It's nice to finally meet you," she said.

"It's about time, really," Isabella began. "I brought him home earlier this year-"

And John earned Emma's undying gratitude and respect by interrupting and steering Isabella's attention to other matters: "Darling, didn't you say that some of your high school friends were going to join us some time this visit?"

Emma smiled widely at this unexpected ally and made a quick getaway into the kitchen, where she could be useful without looking like she was avoiding conversation and people in general.

Knowing how Karen Woodhouse cooked, Emma paused outside the door and mentally prepared herself.

Like chemists, cooks also had their own standards of cleanliness for working conditions. Some people happened to be neater than others. And, as Emma's labmates were wont to remind her, she was just a lot more anal than other people. Taking a deep breath, she entered what passed for a kitchen ~65% of the time. The other 35 it was just absolute chaos.

The counters were littered with empty food containers, plastic wrap, soaked and dirty paper towels, dirty utensils (just sitting there on the surface, not a spoon rest or napkin in sight!), abandoned vegetable peelings, and sauce splatters. The floors were crowded with discarded grocery bags. It looked like a huge giant turkey had thrown up all over the island counter. In the middle of it all, working with an intensity reserved for neurosurgeons, stood Karen. It was almost enough to scare Emma off, but working in the war zone of the kitchen was still a better prospect than going in and trying to keep up with conversation in the family room. Besides, as messy as it was, the room was the warmest in the whole house, and it smelled absolutely wonderful.

Karen looked up from her position of mashing together the ingredients for the stuffing. "Do you need help?" Emma asked.

Karen shook her head with a warm smile. "No, things are shaping up just fine."

It didn't look like it, but Emma kept her words to herself. "But I'd really like to help," she persisted. If, as Emma had promised herself, she was actually going to stay downstairs for the entirety of the holiday this year, she had to pace herself with regards to the full-on conversation football in the family room. And that meant finding places downstairs to be useful.

Karen turned to her in surprise. It was one of those situations that should have happened in the past, but actually hadn't. For that reason, neither Karen nor Emma really knew how to act. "Well, um, you can wash those potatoes over there before we boil them," Karen gestured to the four-pound bag of potatoes.

Washing potatoes wasn't much, but Emma took it.

She rolled the sleeves of her sweater up her arms and unbuttoned the cuffs of the blouse she wore beneath. Taking the apron off the peg that Karen had gestured to, she examined her work area. There was already a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. With a surreptitious glance to make sure that Karen wouldn't be insulted, and a quick check to see if the drying rack could take them, Emma cleared the pile out of the sink first.

And while washing dishes didn't take more than a brain cell or two, Emma threw everything she had in it. Emma liked to cook. It was a lot like lab work, only edible. Because of the similarity, she exhibited the same behavior in both environments. She did not like to talk while she chemmed, and she did not like to talk while she cooked. Or washed dishes. Or potatoes. It was too distracting. There was just too much a likelihood of forgetting what one was doing.

But Karen wasn't of that mindset. Emma bit back a laugh when, not a full minute after they began working, Karen asked, "So how have things been?"

"Fine. And for you?"

"Oh good. My students are learning about the letter W now."

"Do they learn their letters in order, or do you just teach them whatever you feel like?"

And somehow, that just sounded absolutely terrible in her ears. Terrible and lame. And just wrong.

"Well, I teach them certain letters first. Then the others I kind of take as a whim. Until I get to all twenty-six, of course," Karen said wryly.

Of all people to be in a room with, Karen was unfortunately the courteous Woodhouse; while Isabella and her father both could go on hours without a prompt, Karen liked to ask questions and be asked questions. Emma had forgotten that when she'd opted to come in here.

"What happens after twenty-six?" Emma asked, curious.

"Well, then we go and learn them all in lower case."

"Oh." That sounded like hell to Emma. Slow hell.

"So how have things been in the lab, Emma?"

"They've been going pretty well."

"Are you making what you want?"

"Yes," Emma said succinctly. "It's coming along great." So that wasn't completely true. But she wasn't going to go into the past absolutely hellish days of trying to separate her two diastereomers with her stepmother. And it wasn't the response Karen was looking for anyhow. And in the end, well, she was making what she wanted. She just wasn't making it pure.

But what if she just didn't bother with the purification? Wouldn't the subsequent reaction select for the more reactive diastereomer anyway? Emma grabbed an armload of potatoes as she contemplated the possible transition states.

"Mom, are there anymore of those yummy snickerdoodles?"

Emma turned to the door of the kitchen, annoyed at the interruption of her thoughts. And chastised herself for once again forgetting herself. And dropping another conversation.

"You're going to spoil your dinner," Karen warned her older stepdaughter, all the same gesturing to the cheerful fat yellow cookie jar by the refrigerator.

"Speaking of which, do you know what you want? John and I are going to go in the next fifteen minutes," Isabella said, attacking the jar.

The Woodhouses traditionally ate In-N-Out the night before Thanksgiving. They didn't like to spoil their appetites for the following day, nor did Karen want to deal with the hassle of preparing yet another meal. And who didn't love freshly prepared, cheap hamburgers?

"I'm fine with a number one, animal style. And a chocolate shake instead of coke. Emma?" Karen said, as she loaded the empty plate Isabella held with another dozen cookies.

"Same. But with the coke. Thank you."

Isabella gave Emma a curious look, but turned to leave the kitchen.

Emma continued to wash the potatoes quietly.

Well, in the R,S-diastereomer, the t-butyl group would be in the equatorial position.

"I think this is the first time that you've met John."

Emma bit back a protest and turned her attention to the conversation again. "Yes, it is. I understand you and Dad met him in London this past summer?"

"Yes! On our big summer vacation!"

And then…perfection. Travel monologues were the best. "Where did you go, again? Dad sent me the itinerary, but I didn't quite catch it all. It was a very…long…list," she said lamely. Ok, so maybe she just didn’t really distinguish the names of towns from each other.

"Well, first we flew into Heathrow, which was an absolute nightmare. Then we had to wait for a whole hour and a half to get our luggage. (I was so upset. I thought they'd lost our luggage completely!) Well, I was worn out from the traveling! Flying from San Francisco direct to London is simply exhausting. And of course I wasn't feeling very well; you know how travel always makes me so nervous…"

Emma grunted her sympathy.

And if you used the S,S diastereomer, the t-butyl group would be in the axial. That was worth more than a few kcals in terms of stability in the transition state…

322. 328. 336. Where's the number on this one?

Things might have been a little bit better if he'd actually been searching for the house in daylight.

346. Ok. The one without the number was probably 342.

Greg pulled his rental car by the curb and put down the parking brake. Taking a look at the scrap of paper in his hand, he checked one more time: 342. Greg squinted and looked out into the dark evening. It got dark so early now. Scanning the house of the unknown address, he saw something that looked like numbers above the garage door. He couldn’t make them out. He'd have to get out of the car.

The air was much cooler than he'd expected. Certainly cooler than it had been in Los Angeles. But then again, most places were colder than Los Angeles this time of year. He pulled the leather jacket out of the backseat and put it on. Taking a few steps towards the garage, he made out the numbers: this was the place.

It was one in dozens of cozy homes in suburban legoland. The houses were neatly lined up, one after one in a polite line. Warmth radiated in the yellow glow from the windows. A few eager neighbors had already gotten their Christmas lights up.

Greg went back to the car and grabbed his travel bag. He and John did not have what would be considered a normal upbringing, so he'd grown up intensely curious about what happened behind those normal bright windows, inside those brick walls. When he was younger, he wished he lived in it. Now: well, he turned out fine growing up in his British country estate and London townhouse, so who was complaining?

Greg ambled up the driveway and red tile walkway to the front door. He could hear the muffled sounds of a football game and an enthusiastic fan. And something smelled absolutely incredible. It made him feel warmer immediately. He pressed the doorbell.

Turning around to look over the plants on the porch, he concluded that someone in this household had a knack for gardening. The dim porch light wasn't much of an aid in that regard, but it all seemed very neat and pleasant. He didn't recognize what the plants were, only that they were leafy and probably green.

When a minute had gone by and his ring had gone unanswered, he tried again.

This time he could hear the yelling. And it was loud, even through the door. He laughed.

"Dennis! Can you get the door?" It sounded like Karen, Isabella's stepmother.

"There are twenty seconds left in this game! The Raiders are down by two and are going for a field goal! Emma! You get it!"

There was silence, so Greg assumed that Emma had been dispatched. Emma. Isabella's younger sister, he recalled.

He heard the quick light patter of feet on hardwood floor approach the door. There was a bit of fidgeting and bumping on the other side of the knob, and then a torrent of words that Greg hoped for her sake neither the Woodhouse parents heard. "I'll be back in a second!" he heard through the door.

Well.

Greg heard the patter of feet grow distant. He leaned against the doorjamb, trying to remember what he'd learned of Isabella's younger sister. There wasn't much to go on. Busy. Smart. A scientist of some sort. Not very good at keeping in touch.

Before he could recall more, the door in front of him was being thrown open and before him stood a sweaty, exasperated woman. Her green eyes were exquisitely brilliant with irritation, triumph, and apology. Her entire body radiated energy; her cheeks were a brilliant scarlet. A few loose blond strands fell on her face, stuck to her lips. She batted at them uncomfortably and ineffectually. As her gaze focused on his, recognition dawned on her face as her just-a-bit-too-wide pink mouth fell open into a perfect "O". After a pause, she closed her mouth, and reached up once more to tuck her errant strands behind her ear. "Can I help you?" she asked, confusion injecting a hint of chipmunk squeak into her voice.

"YES!!!!!!!" Dennis Woodhouse's victorious growl shook the entire house.

"I guess the Raiders won," Greg smiled conversationally. "You must be Emma," he offered his hand.

"My hands are wet. I had to wash my hands to open the door," she said with the flop of her wrist for show.

"I won't melt," he grinned, and took her hand in his.

Her hand was not only wet but also surprisingly cold. Overall, it was unpleasant to hold it. He was surprised, though. Despite her harried appearance, and the fact that she was wrapped in a disgusting apron that should have been thrown away a few Thanksgivings ago, hm. He felt the attraction; logic and reasoning behind this magnetism did not follow, so he was left to figure it out on his own. "I'm Greg, John's younger brother."

She withdrew her hand as soon as she could and considered him for a second owlishly.

"Emma? Who is-Gregmaboy! John said that we were to expect you tomorrow!" Dennis Woodhouse boomed from behind his daughter.

"We finished earlier today and I saw no reason to wait," Greg said, taking control of the situation and coming into the house on his own. Emma stepped aside at the last minute, turning to look at her father.

"I don't think Emma knew I was coming here at all," Greg said with an apologetic but playful smile.

Emma, at this point, had obviously recovered, because she glossed over the apology without hesitation. "Isabella was a bit hazy on details. Can I take that jacket?" she offered helpfully.

She took his jacket to the open closet door. He liked how she moved; her actions were infused with graceful efficiency.

"Your brother and Isabella are out fetching us dinner," Dennis said.

"No problem."

"Maybe we should call and tell them what Greg wants to eat?" Emma asked her father, without a glance towards Greg.

Given that he was easily recognizable, Greg was used to all sorts of reactions, so Emma's surprise and subsequent refusal to look at him didn't really unnerve him. It was rather annoying, of course, but it was only natural. It certainly made it a lot more difficult to get to know a person. Or decide if it was even worth it.

"We're having burgers for dinner," Dennis announced.

"Sounds good."

"I'll just call Isabella and tell her to order another double-double combo," Dennis said to Emma as he moved into the family room.

Greg noted the look of desperation and annoyance that flashed in her eyes as she watched her father leave the hallway. She turned back to him with a smile so fake it actually made him wince internally.

"Why don't you take a seat in the family room? I have to go," she gestured towards the back of the house. "I was in the middle." She paused. "Of something."

And faster than he could blink, she'd gone out of the hall completely.

"Who was that, Emma?"

Emma cleared her throat as she washed her hands in the sink again. "Oh, it was John's brother."

"Greg! But he wasn't due here until tomorrow!" Karen started to straighten up her appearance, at the same time combing stuffing into her hair. "I'll just pop over to the family room and say hi."

Oh, so everybody knew Greg. Emma didn't know why, but it bothered her that her whole family was chummy with the man and hadn't even warned her that he'd be coming to Thanksgiving dinner. "Um!"

Karen turned to Emma, question in her eyes.

"You have stuffing in your bangs."

Karen gave a bark of laughter. "I better use a mirror to check my appearance first!"

Left alone in the kitchen, Emma allowed herself to slump against the fridge for a second. Well. Turning on the faucet, she splashed some cold water on her overheated face. She shook her head, trying to process the situation. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples soothingly. Ok. A few minutes ago, she'd been holding a turkey's legs wide apart while her stepmother shoved stuffing up its butt. And now, well, something surreal had happened.

When she opened the door, she didn't really have any sort of expectation for who was going to be on the other side. Maybe Isabella, having forgotten her wallet. Or neighbors with some favor to ask or other. Or maybe a kid with a school fundraiser.

The man who'd starred in that absolutely terrible period romance that her roommate Annie had dragged her to last weekend. That's who was there. Emma didn't watch a lot of movies, but you didn't have to watch a lot to know of Gregory Knightley. He was a staple in period romances and modern rom coms. It was understandable, considering he had a smile that could make marshmallow of a woman's brains and an undeniably appealing British accent that dissolved knees. Emma couldn't remember a time when she could turn on the TV and not catch one of his efforts from the 90s, or a trailer for one of his movies coming out in a matter of weeks.

And there he was, leaning against the doorframe, friendly, smiling, and saying her name like he'd already known her for years.

How could she not be making this up?

Maybe he wasn't really the Gregory Knightley. After all, he hadn't said that he was an actor outright. Maybe he just had the same name. And the same accent. Her hands trembled as she tried to recall what the movie star's face looked like, and if the man in her family room-What? She wrung her hands in disgust with a quick, frustrated intake of breath.

What was there to tremble about? He was the brother of her sister's fiancé. Just a person. Sure, it would have been nice if John had been so polite as to mention if he had a brother beforehand, so that Emma wasn't so completely floored when she saw the man.

Oh god. She couldn't remember what she'd said. She was an idiot, wasn't she? She hated talking to strangers. Emma grabbed the big pot out of the pantry and got to work filling it up with water.

She never struck herself as the kind of person to get nervous around famous people. Ok, so maybe she was a little nervous the first time she had to give group meeting in the Shakespeare group. And the time she had to tell Tom Hardy about her work. They were famous. And intelligent. And very much able to take all her work and toss it out the window with some insightful zinger. She had true reason to fear there.

But a movie actor? Really? She couldn’t understand it. "I'll just not think about it."

It certainly wasn't because he was handsome. She lived in Southern California! There were beautiful people everywhere! She pushed her cart past them in the grocery aisle, stopped her car at intersections to let them cross in front of her. And while Greg Knightley did seem to possess that certain element that er, drew her, it wasn't something she hadn't experienced before.

"Not thinking about it," she muttered to herself as she halved the potatoes.

And it wasn't as if she didn't know how to handle it. You know: attraction. She'd had wise and unwise feelings in the past. Sometimes she acted on them. And sometimes she didn't. And in the end she was just fine. So there was nothing to be nervous or agitated about.

"Nothing," she stated once more, as she unceremoniously plopped the potato halves into the pot.

And no, she concluded, recalling the smile that churned her stomach. She wasn't, definitely wasn't going to act on it.

Chapter One

Posted on Monday, 22 January 2007

Date: August 1, 2006
From: Elinor Dashwood (dashwood@caltech.edu)
To: Austen Group (austen@caltech.edu)
Subject: New Safety Officer and LAB CLEANUP

Greetings Austen Group!!

As Louisa Hurst has obtained her PhD and moved on to bigger and better things, I have taken over the position of safety officer. As it is the start of a new safety era, I’d like to remind you of the lab safety rules, which I've attached to this e-mail. Louisa may have let a few things slide, but I assure you that I will not. Please adhere to the policies outlined.

In other news, the lab is terrifyingly messy. We must have lab cleanup. I have talked this over with Jane and it is scheduled for August 10. Be dressed for a mess. All lab work must be done by midnight August 8. I’ll be swinging by everybody’s benches on the evening of August 9 at 10:00 pm. Everybody’s bench must be clean to my standards; the violators will not be allowed to do chemistry until I am satisfied that their work area is clean. And I will supervise the subsequent cleanings, so don’t even try to use this stipulation as an excuse to go to the OutKast Concert, Henry!

You will be working with your bay mate:

• Will and Liz: You will clean the cold room and the cryocools. Take particular caution in the disposal of abandoned needles.
  
• Fran and Edmund: You will straighten up the conference room, computer room, and the kitchen. PCs Hartfield and Pemberley have a virus; I think it’s the same one. Take care of it. Also, please set up Northanger Abbey; we ordered it from Apple last week and it should get in by then.
  
• Henry and Catherine: You will do maintenance on all the GCs, HPLCs, and the LCMS. You will also straighten up the instrument room.
  
• Emma and Harriet: You will clean up the blue glove box. There is a very sticky patch by Henry’s bin that you may want to pay particular attention to.
  
• Annie and Jane E: You will clean up the green glove box. The oil in the pump is in severe need of changing.
  
• Edward and me: We will take care of the chemical stockroom and the solvent stills.

If there are any concerns, please e-mail me.

It’s a new day, folks! Help me keep your work area safe and clean!

All the best,
Elinor

The girl was in shock.

With a sigh, Greg took off his aviator sunglasses, revealing his startlingly blue eyes. And sent her the intense, questioning look that had skyrocketed his face and career into the multimillion-dollar spotlight.

The girl sighed.

Running a hand through his thick brown hair, he contemplated his surroundings while he waited for the young woman to get her grip.

The lab itself looked very busy, though at this moment, it seemed that only he and the girl were standing in it all. Bottles, glass bulbs of strange shapes, and a variety of different scary-looking machines whose function he could not begin to fathom surrounded him. Coldplay and Etta James were at war above the constant hum and whir of productivity. It made his headache worse.

He was jet-lagged, tired and hungry. He hated to fly and though the trip from London to Los Angeles had been smooth and uneventful, he was still worn out from travel. Beyond that, it had been a difficult morning of meetings. All he really wanted to do now was run off to his hotel room, order in, and sleep.

Instead, he was standing in the labs of Professor Jane Austen on the California Institute of Technology campus, waiting for a freckled, nervous girl to regain her ability of speech so that he could ask her where he might find Dr. Emma Woodhouse.

“Y-you should be wearing safety glasses…” the girl said weakly.

He turned to the girl once more, this time with thinly veiled impatience. He was, by nature, a patient man. Weariness made him terse and tense.

She blushed and looked at her shoes, wringing her hands in confusion.

“Harriet, there you are.”

Greg turned with relief to the man who’d laughing asked the question.

He was tall, lean, and blonde. Maybe a handful of years short of Greg’s thirty-two. His smiling green eyes reflected good humor and intense curiosity. “Well, well,” he drawled. Greg pegged him for a Texan.

“I’m looking for Emma Woodhouse. I understand that she works here.”

“And he’s not wearing safety glasses,” the girl, Harriet, observed somberly.

The blonde laughed. “Harriet, you're a piece of work. Food in the conference room in five minutes," he told the girl. "I’ll take care of this one,” he said, turning back to their guest. “Henry Tilney,” he introduced himself with a wave of his glove-covered hand to the man he recognized from the romantic comedy his date had dragged him to the week before. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Knightley.”

“Call me Greg.”

Henry took the gloves off, quickly scrubbing his hands in the sink, and then gestured towards the door from which Greg had come in. “Emma's on food detail. She'll be back in a few minutes. Why don't I take you to the conference room? We're settling in for lunch." Noting that the undergrad still had not moved from her spot, Henry spoke to her again. "Harriet, come on. Let's go,” he nodded towards the door.

Harriet opened her mouth. Shut it. "Ok," she said.

Greg followed the man and the girl through the maze of hallways, relieved to be away from the drone of the machines. His headache eased and he relaxed a bit.

Henry Tilney was watching him curiously, but Greg was used to it and held on to the belief that his business with Dr. Woodhouse was not of anybody else’s concern. The last thing he wanted was to explain himself multiple times.

"Do you all normally eat together?" Greg asked conversationally.

Henry gave a loud laugh. "No way. You've caught us on a special occasion of sorts. It's Lab Cleanup Day," he explained, as he opened a door.

The room was lined with windows on one side and cluttered, diagram-spattered chalkboards on the other. There was a large, heavy-looking table in the center that had obviously seen years of use and abuse. Chairs of a garish orange color surrounded the table, and another line of chairs lined both walls.

And seated in those chairs were an enthusiastic, loud group of people.

"And they've been tanking! They'll never make it to October."

"…so then I figured, why not run the reaction in THF?"

"The Fitzgerald group is such a fraternity. I don't know how Daisy Buchanan can stand it there."

"And I wish, just once, they'd actually look at the problem set before coming to office hours."

"Wait, Love Gives, Love Takes? Was that the one where Janette Fairfax with big hair, strange blue eye shadow thing?"

Slowly, as awareness trickled into the room, conversation seeped out. The room became silent and all eyes were on Greg. "Good afternoon," he said, for lack of anything else.

"He's here to see Emma," Henry explained, with a gleeful smile.

Again, Greg found himself amidst a cloud of speculation. The curiosity in their steady unflinching gazes compelled him to explain himself. It must have been a trick that scientists had to promote and facilitate discussion.

"Emma works here?" he asked politely, stupidly.

"Yes. She's a post-doc. She works with Harriet. Her undergrad. Who's standing right by Henry over there. She's smart. Emma, that is. Er, Harriet is smart as well," one of the women stuttered out.

Greg smiled and readied an appropriately grateful response, but was saved the effort when the door was thrown open. "Someone go down and help Emma."

A handful of people shuffled out of the room, not without one last curious look at Greg, and a hint of regret that they were obviously missing out on something exciting.

Henry stayed put, grinning.

Greg wasn't going to be a jerk. "Let me help you get that on the table," he approached the woman who'd entered.

Her arms were loaded with heavy plastic bags. She smiled warmly at him in relief and he liked her immediately. She stood at 5'3", with dark wavy hair pulled into a haphazard hairdo that was even at this moment falling out of its confines. Her dark blue eyes glowed happily and her cheeks were warm and rosy with humor. "Why hello there, Greg Knightley," she greeted him, as if she was used to seeing him.

"Hello," he said, as he started taking cartons of what smelled like really good Chinese food out of the plastic bags.

"Thanks for your help. I'm Annie. Were you hoping to speak with one of my lab mates, or are you just nerding out today?" she asked.

"As a matter of fact, I was looking for Emma."

Annie's eyes widened fractionally and she made a glance over to Henry. He gave an innocent shrug. "She's unloading and parking the car," Annie explained, as she opened up some of the cartons. "As the post docs, we're responsible for food foraging on Lab Cleanup Day."

"So you're a post-doctoral fellow as well?"

"Yes. Actually," the chatty, amiable woman went on, "Emma and I go way back. We met when we were undergrads and have been together ever since."

Although he was very interested in pumping Annie for more information about his mysterious future relative, Greg was interrupted by the buzzing of his cell phone. Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he took a glance and grimaced at the name the caller ID gave.

Anal Amy.

He considered ignoring his assistant's call, but he'd already ignored the previous two, and he knew from experience that if she couldn't reach him the third time, she'd either quit and/or try to kill him.

"Will you please excuse me?"

Greg stepped into the hall before answering. "Yes, Amy?"

"Victor has been calling me all day. Did you have a chance to look over the script on the plane ride over?"

"Ah yes. No, I haven't."

Amy groaned. His assistant's disappointment and frustration was tangible, even across an ocean with bad reception. It was almost enough for him to confess that he had read the screenplay and had no idea what do about it. But he was too tired to deal with an argument or any sort of long discussion right now. He ran his hand through his hair. "Look, I'll deal with Victor. Relax."

"Are you checked in at the hotel yet?"

"Not yet."

"You've been traveling for over seven hours, you're jet-lagged, and you've just had three hours of meetings. Get checked in."

"You're still in England and it's after 8 p.m. And I'll bet you haven't eaten lunch or dinner yet today."

"Gr-"

"Good night, Amy."

Snapping the phone shut, Greg reluctantly contemplated calling his agent and dealing with the wheedling and whining, but looked up to see Emma coming down the hall towards him, deep in conversation with her companion.

"Are you serious? You might as well say the transition state is a tetramolecular complex. That's the biggest load of crap I've ever heard," she motored off with a shake of her head.

She carried herself differently in the academic setting. Looking at her now, he could see a lot more of the similarities between the Woodhouse sisters than he had during his visit last year to Mountain View.

In appearance, she hadn't changed a bit. Still the same sensible loafers with likewise sensible but neat clothes. But she exuded an entirely different personality. Gone was the taciturn, conversationally-challenged girl with nothing to say and no presence or character to speak of. This was a steady, confident woman with an opinion, a strong one at that.

It was good to be Queen of the Nerds. It showed.

"Ok, so maybe Tenant's paper was a bit sketchy with the mechanistic work," Emma's companion admitted.

"Putting it mildly. If I-" Emma never got to elaborate on what she'd do, had she been put in the situation, because she realized that the person standing outside the conference room was not one of the many chemists on campus, though he had a familiar face. She stiffened. "Will, we'll have to talk about this later. Why don't you go on in and start eating? I'll join you guys in a second." Her lips pressed into a contemplative line.

With one more glance to their unexpected guest and Emma's stiff posture, Will gave a nod and opened the door. The brief flash of sound rushed from the door before it shut again. The noise dissipated quickly into the air.

"Greg," she said, smiling as she came forward, offering her hand.

"Emma," he said, taking her hand in his. Looking down, he was surprised to find a key ring smack against his palm.

Emma looked down and laughed. "Sorry about that. Haven't put them away yet," she said, as she tucked them into the pocket of her khakis. "Are you in town for business?"

"Of sorts."

"Of course!" she pressed on overenthusiastically. "Los Angeles, Hollywood and all," she said. "Isabella didn't mention that you'd be in town."

"Well, this was a somewhat unexpected opportunity. Jeremy Northam has had to opt out because he got injured while filming another project. I'm taking his place."

"Oh. And are you meeting with…people here?" Emma's brow wrinkled in concentration. "Writers!" Her eyes lit up. "Writers and producers?"

Greg hid his amusement. "As a matter of fact, I am, but we're going to start filming next week."

"So is this a local project?"

"As a matter of fact, extremely local," Greg looked around the hallway. "I'll be filming here at Caltech."

"Here at Caltech?" It was not unheard of. Television shows and movies routinely came to film on the picturesque campus. They appeared rather suddenly and then for days, trailers lined Wilson Avenue and camera crews disrupted parking on campus.

"Yes," Greg said. Hesitating only a second, he elaborated. "It's a biopic on Richard Feynman."

Emma's eyes lit up in interest. Richard Feynman was a Caltech legend, a man known for his staggering intelligence and quirky personality, as well as his important role in history: not only was he one of the premier physicists of his day, he was involved with the building of the atom bomb. "That's incredible," she smiled genuinely.

Greg exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. It was the first time he thought of the role with any sort of positive light. "Yes, it's working out all right," he said quickly. "Anyhow, I figured that since I was in the area, perhaps we could get a meal together."

Something flickered in her eyes, and there was a quick, tense pursing of her lips. He could feel the reluctance even as he heard her overeager response. "That's a fantastic idea! I think it'll be great."

If anything else was fantastic, her enthusiasm would most likely kill her. Greg pressed on quickly for her health and safety. "Perhaps lunch or dinner?" he asked, trying to hide the hint of impatience.

Emma turned and looked down the hall desperately. "If you'd excuse me, could I get my planner?" she gestured.

Greg bit the inside of his cheek as his fatigue once again insisted he finish with the encounter as soon as possible. "I'll go with you," he said, falling into step. It was interesting to see how her hospitality and friendliness were disappearing by the second. Within another ten minutes, he was sure that she'd simply just stop talking and stare at him until he left.

At the door, Emma grabbed two pairs of safety glasses from the bin by the door and handed one to Greg before unlocking the door marked "338". The resurgence of whirring and hissing instantly had his nerves on edge again.

The scary glassware and strange instruments hovered about most of the room threateningly, save for one length of wall, which a line of desks spanned. Walking by them, Greg noted that most of the desks were cluttered in messes of papers, textbooks, pens, and binders, open and closed, stacked upon each other. Smiling faces peered out of the photos tacked onto the walls and a bumper sticker proudly proclaimed that “Free radicals have revolutionized chemistry!” A few comic strips were pinned up, but the small text challenged Greg’s tired eyes too much. Undoubtedly, nerd humor would be the order of the day. Emma led Greg to a glaringly clean desk.

Textbooks lined the bookshelves neatly. Binders were numbered with typed labels and set on the shelf above in order. The laptop on the desk was tidily closed and locked, and even the power cord was tucked away. No pictures. No knickknacks. Not even a tasteful paperweight. Simply a 10-ounce can of Staples’s Air Duster and a half-full one-liter Nalgene bottle of water.

Why was he not surprised? Emma reached for the leather-bound planner that sat at the right end of the bookshelf. "Lunch or dinner?"

"Either works well for me, though I think that we'd have-"

"Lunch, then," she said, before he got stupid and pressed for dinner. "Things are a bit hectic these next few days, but Friday looks all right. Friday at 11:30. What do you think?"

"Friday sounds fine," he shrugged.

Emma pulled out a desk drawer, snatched up a pen, and noted the engagement in the grid of appointments and to-do lists. Dropping the pen back in the tray, she closed the desk drawer and placed the planner back on the shelf. "So…" she said, turning to him.

He considered staying just to see what would happen next, but his sleepy brain was begging for a break. "So, I guess that's it. I'll see you Friday."

"Friday," she nodded.

With a smile, Greg turned on his heel and went out the door. "Take care with your reactions," he said gallantly.

She was trying to¸ she frowned after him.

She knew that she ought to stop. The words weren't even seeping into her mind now. Simply dancing before her on the screen, teasing her. Emma sat back in her chair and took off her reading glasses, rubbing at her eyes. She reached for the cup of coffee at her right wrist. A sip of the now tepid liquid had her cringing, but after the first swallow it wasn't so bad. She slammed back the rest of it as quickly as possible.

Ugh. All the same, the bitter liquid contained caffeine. She closed her eyes, hoping that she could feel the chemical soak into her blood, carrying artificial energy into her limbs, her eyes, her brain. When she opened her eyes, she felt more alert; imagined or real? It didn't matter. All she wanted was to be able to focus another half hour. Just long enough to finish up her teaching statement.

I care about the future. I care about giving people a good example. I care about teaching others and I believe I can change the future.

I am so full of myself.

Emma nearly closed the window out of disgust, but she didn't have that luxury; the statement was due in a matter of weeks and she'd gotten Jane to agree to read it through before she sent it out. More, she wouldn't have much time to work on the statement in the next few days. Emma groaned in frustration and exhaustion.

"When I get to the point where you look like you're at, I'm usually positive that whatever I'm typing won't be coherent."

"Elinor."

"How are the applications going?" the fourth year entered the room, leaning against the sink of the eye wash station.

Emma stretched and let a long low yawn out. "They're coming along." She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, rubbing at them gently. "The labs are very clean now."

Elinor grinned as she made a delighted twirl in the clean work area. "Aren't they? It's so sad that they'll be back to unorganized and dirty by this time tomorrow," she groaned.

Emma nodded and the women fell into a comfortable silence. Sensing that the post-doc wanted to be left in peace, Elinor stood straight and reached for the door knob. "Night, Emma."

"Good night, Elinor."

The door clicked shut behind Elinor. Emma turned back to the computer screen. Disgusted, she palmed her cheek with one hand and impatiently tapped on the desk with the other. Inspiration wouldn’t come.

She found her mind drifting. She had three reactions to set up in the morning tomorrow and a rather demanding column that would eat up her afternoon. There was that interesting Forster review that she'd printed up today in the "to be read" inbox. And there was that thing. With her future brother-in-law, of sorts. On Friday. At 11:30.

Emma groaned. She'd ignored the speculative looks and loaded comments all afternoon. She'd shrugged it off and refused to talk or think about it. And she'd been successful at putting it aside, thinking about other things.

But now, when she finally had time to work on that teaching statement, her mind wandered to him.

It was evident that she just craved a distraction.

Resigned, she opened a web browser and googled Greg Knightley. IMDB gave her his vital stats as well as a somewhat impressive list of movies. Because she was curious, she clicked on the trivia link.

Greg and John Knightley were the sons of retired MP Edgar Knightley and world-renowned chef Terra Fayroin. Both sons had been educated at Eton and Oxford. Greg had studied literature. There were a few lines about a rather active lovelife and a few lines about his favorite color, his favorite location, and the other boring details that defined him.

And because she was already at it, she googled her future brother-in-law.

Isabella had said he was an investor of sorts. That he liked dogs and egg whites only in his omelet.

John Knightley, Marquess of Douglas and Clydesdale, was the eldest son of the eleventh Duke of Surrey. Furthermore, she found that the seat of the Duke of Surrey was Donwell Abbey, located in a town called Highbury, which was 16 miles outside of London.

Charming. Emma sighed, sinking into her seat, finally coming to terms with the stories and plans Isabella had been tossing out for months: her big sister, the hot-shot lawyer, was giving up her lucrative position and elegant apartment in Philadelphia to move across the Atlantic Ocean and take up the name Lady Knightley, Marchioness of whatever and crap, in line to be the Twelfth Duchess of Somewhere. In a house built for Medieval Barbie, no less.

Well, she mused on the picture. Maybe not medieval. Regency.

It was none of her business, Emma reminded herself as she closed the browser window. Isabella was a mature, grown woman who made her own decisions. But Emma had assumed that upon thinking the situation over, Isabella was going to change her mind. But the one-and-a-half-year long engagement was coming to an end. There was going to be a wedding and Isabella was going to actually follow through. And Emma was just going to stand at the side of the altar and smile while this happened, as if she sanctioned the whole thing.

As if she was happy for Isabella.

Emma groaned as she rubbed her eyes one more time. Suddenly feeling extremely tired, Emma got up and grabbed her purse from her hiding spot. She couldn’t think anymore tonight.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your hot date?”

Not many would have gotten much aside from a glare, but William Darcy hadn’t spent three years at Harvard working with Emma Woodhouse to earn so prosaic a response. “You know better than that, Will...” she looked up from the balance she was seated before.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t ask,” he smiled back, leaning against the countertop of her lab bench. “Hey Harriet.”

Next to her, Harriet Smith, Emma’s red-haired, freckled undergraduate advisee, wrung her hands uncomfortably in gloves too large for her, scrunching her nose every once in a while, futilely attempting to use the motion to push the safety glasses up her nose. Harriet flushed and smiled waveringly at the handsome second year graduate student.

“Don’t you have a hydrogenation to optimize or something?” Emma muttered as she weighed out her catalyst.

Date discussions were not in Will and Emma’s usual conversation repertoire. Since the time William Darcy had come under her guidance as an undergraduate in Bill Shakespeare’s lab, Emma had always given him advice on reactions, when to use the NMR, graduate school choices, career choices, and the like. Occasionally a useful tidbit on what he ought to have for lunch so that he could get a short yet nutritious break but be back in time to take another measurement.

Graduate school had obviously made Will complacent. He grinned back.

“What do you want, Will?” she asked, exasperatedly. She grabbed her weighed catalyst and added it into the clean, oven-dried round bottom flask.

“Catalyst, the R,S.”

“I just gave you three grams of it a month ago. You’re a black hole of chemistry,” she muttered, as she took up 0.4 mL toluene into her syringe.

“I’m just that efficient a worker...” he smiled charmingly. Harriet giggled in her delighted agreement.

“Or you are just that wasteful. Didn’t I teach you to run small-scale reactions? Check the desiccator. Make sure that at least two grams stay for me to use,” she gestured vaguely as she added the toluene to her round bottom.

“The Ball and Chain was asking after you, Will,” Henry teased from the entrance of the bench area.

Emma rolled her eyes and wondered how her bench had become a coffee shop counter. She added her stir bar and stoppered her flask with a rubber septum.

“We’re not married,” Will scowled darkly as he took the vial out of the desiccator.

“Living under one roof? Fighting all the time? Could have fooled me,” Henry smiled.

“I’ll be back with what’s left over, Emma,” Will ignored Henry’s remark and moved out of the bench.

“You’re boyfriend’s out in the hall, Emma,” Henry grinned.

“You’re enjoying yourself far too much today, aren’t you, Henry?” she muttered.

The attention she’d received from her lab mates the past few days had been almost unbearable. She was glad to get the dreaded event over with. He'd go his way, and she'd go on with hers, without the speculation and gossip.

“You can write down that we started the reaction at 11:25, Harriet. I’ll be gone for about an hour and half for lunch. Let’s start up again at 1:00. We’ll TLC for separation conditions and do a column on the 164 product then.”

Harriet nodded.

Methodically, Emma pulled down her hood sash, disposed of her gloves, took off and hung up her lab coat, and washed her hands. Checking her reflection in the glass of the safety shield, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and put her safety glasses back on her desk.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Harriet asked, as she quickly toweled her own hands off.

Emma looked down at her khakis and loose but tucked in boatneck peach T-shirt. “Yes. Is there a problem with it?”

“Um, no, just that he’s probably used to being around people dressed a bit more fashionably...” Harriet began carefully.

“Well, I’m not,” Emma replied succinctly. “I hardly think it matters,” she turned the doorknob and stepped out of the lab.

He was leaning against the wall opposite the door, carrying on a conversation with a blushing Elizabeth Bennet and glowing Becky Sharp. He smiled handsomely. Emma's stomach flipped. From hunger. She was overcome with petty superficiality and a sense of hypocrisy as she noted that those jeans that he was wearing most likely cost more than the entirety of her ensemble.

What was she doing with him?

With a resigned air, she walked to the happily conversing trio and cleared her throat. Liz, in her usual confident air, turned to Emma and smiled. “Hey Emma. Becky wanted to get an autograph for her sister and I figured since he’d be around here today...” she began.

“That’s fine, Liz,” Emma said dismissingly. “Anything else?”

And that was most definitely the end of the conversation.

Some women would have assumed that Emma was being possessive, but Liz knew better: Emma was on a schedule. Liz and Becky smiled in a secret joke as they wished Greg a good lunch and went on the mission of finding their own.

“Shall we go?” Emma looked directly at Greg.

“All right, then,” he smiled. “Mmm...” he sighed as she walked past him towards the stairs.

“What?” Emma stopped and turned to him, hiding the strange loud hop her heart had taken.

“You smell sweet.”

Emma methodically went down the list of chemicals she’d worked with that morning and assessed which ones had sweet smells, which ones had the strongest smells, and whether or not there was any situation where she might have gotten some on herself without her realizing it. “Maybe it was the vanillin, but I don’t think I spilled any on me...”

He chuckled, and moved closer to smell again. “I think it’s your hair,” he said, head bent to hers.

Emma met this sudden intimacy with as much indifference as she could muster. “Then it’s Annie’s shampoo. I ran out this morning. Mediterranean or sushi?” she continued to walk down the hall.

“Sushi sounds good.”

Chapter Two

Posted on Monday, 29 January 2007

Date: August 11, 2007
From: Donna L. Sheridan (dls@uchicago.edu)
To: Emma M. Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
Subject: re: Teaching Statement

Hello Emma!

I've looked over the statement and put in a few notes. If you have any questions, feel free to e-mail or call. As it stands, it's wonderful! I think your conviction and honesty really come through.

In other news, I'll be giving a lecture at UC Santa Barbara in a month. Perhaps we'd like to meet up after I fly in and before I drive out? I'll be getting in on September 20.

Love,
Mom

Donna L. Sheridan
Leo Tolstoy Professor of Physics
Department of Astronomy & Astrophysics
Department of Physics
Enrico Fermi Institute, University of Chicago

She berated herself for not remembering to sign up earlier; the NMR was always booked up for a steady three to four hours in the afternoon. Setting up that deprotection had taken much more time than she'd initially guessed, and by the time they'd finished, she'd been out the door without a thought to NMRs.

"Are you anybody?"

The teenage girl had a dry-cleaning receipt and a pen prepared.

Emma looked surreptitiously across the table at the small crowd of fans encircling Greg. Bit the inside of her lip. Wouldn't do to deliver a scathing set-down. The fidgety thing looked like she'd simply keep trembling until she sonicated herself away completely.

Being deliberately obtuse Emma smiled graciously, grabbed the receipt and signed while replying. "Sure. I'm Emma. Who are you?"

As if she just realized her blunder, the girl blushed and turned hesitatingly towards her friends, unsure of what to say. Emma glanced down at her fingertips, clearly showing her own overwhelming eagerness in pursuing further conversation.

Was she anybody. I had two first-author papers before I'd even graduated from college. I had a Hertz Fellowship through grad school. I was first author on the first paper that reported the total synthesis of Diazonamide A.

Emma took another peek across the table at Greg. If she wasn't mistaken, he met her eyes through the crowd and winked at her before posing for another photograph.

Emma frowned as she continued to contemplate her fingernails. The skin was a bit dry and somewhat cracked on the inside of her thumb; she was running low on hand cream. A replacement tube would have to be found soon before the cracked skin started bleeding instead of just being an eyesore.

Which just served to remind her that she'd been wanting to buy a few more pairs of dressy socks. And a sweater or two that didn't have holes chemically burned in them across the waist and on the cuffs. When was she supposed to make time for the annoying task? She was planning on running those small scale test runs over the next few days, and then experiment III-172 still needed to be purified, if she ever found the correct conditions…

"Have a good day, ladies."

The tap on her foot had her looking up from her hands and into Greg's smiling eyes. "Sorry about that."

Emma shrugged. "I needed the time to think something over anyway." Emma glanced down at her watch. And thus had passed fifteen minutes that she wouldn't have known what to do with anyway.

"You like to sit back and think a lot, don't you?"

"I guess I do," Emma said half-guiltily, as she took a sip of her water.

Seeing as she wasn't offering any more information, Greg leaned back in his seat and took a healthy gulp of his own water.

He had a very pronounced Adam's apple. Emma tried to keep her gaze focused on his eyes, but they drifted to his strong shoulders, the base of his neck. When she managed to look up, she flushed when she saw that he was watching her. Not willing to go there and not wanting to be considered any sort of strange light, Emma smiled too brightly. Trying to hide her embarrassment, Emma took two healthy gulps from her ice cold water. As she tried to place the glass back down on the table, her tight fingers slipped on the condensation on the surface. Oh dear. She caught the glass before a serious spill but ended up with a big healthy wet splotch smack over the middle of her chest.

Oh dear.

Before she could decide on how to get out of this embarrassing situation, Greg said pleasantly, "I guess we should be glad it's a glass of water and not one of your carcinogenic chemicals." He got up, slipped the open button-down shirt off those troublesome T-shirt-clad shoulders, and gallantly offered it to her.

Emma took the shirt and slipped it over her shoulders, dragging the ends together. Embraced in left-over body heat, cologne, and sunshine, Emma suppressed the disturbing instinct to wrap the shirt tighter and just hug herself. What was wrong with her? "Thank you," she said, shaken.

She awkwardly dabbed at the small watery puddle on the table in front of her with her napkin, thinking about what she could say now. I'm not normally this clumsy. Right, all he wanted to hear was how yet another woman completely lost her equilibrium around him. "So how's your day?"

How insipid.

"It's going all right, though I have to admit a bit slowly," he admitted.

"Long day?" Emma noted the slight crease between his eyebrows, the tired shadows under his eyes.

"A bit. We've got a pretty full schedule while at Caltech."

"And how long will you be filming on campus?"

"Another three weeks or so."

Emma nodded.

"And you? How's your day?" he asked politely.

Emma considered the question. And III-172. "I'd have to say it's going pretty slowly as well," she admitted with a tired smile.

"Isabella mentioned that you are currently applying for jobs. In industry or academia?"

"I'm applying for academic positions," Emma shrugged. "Or trying to," she said, as she played with her chopsticks.

"I take it that the attempt is also making time move slowly?" Greg smiled at the unobtrusive waitress who appeared and deposited plates on the table.

"Part of it, yes." And though the words had weighed on her mind, Emma couldn't help but grin with glee at the arrival of the food. Five colorful plates with assorted sushi pieces and elegantly posited cut rolls gleamed at her. Slowly, she ate the beautiful setup with her eyes first, running her tongue over her teeth in anticipation.

The delight in her eyes tickled him with surprise. "An impressive layout," he said succinctly.

Hesitant to disrupt the beauty but hungry enough to eat her arm off, Emma stalled by reaching for the soy sauce. "I love the sushi here. The presentation is amazing and it all tastes excellent. They also do very good udon for those especially chilly nights."

Greg readied his own mixture of wasabi and soy sauce. "Especially chilly nights?" he said dubiously with another glance out the windows into the bright summer day.

Emma shrugged defensively. "They're rare but they happen, even here," Emma said wryly. "My apartment doesn't have a working heater and the insulation isn't very good," Emma went on to explain. "You go first," she gestured.

Greg thought about insisting, but she looked so reluctant to make the mess first. Selecting a piece of the spicy tuna roll, he dipped the piece in his sauce and took a bite. And smiled. "Very good."

Emma grinned, clearly pleased with her choice of restaurant and menu. "I know!" She happily selected her own bulky piece of a spider roll.

"I imagine a non-functional heater really isn't normally much of a problem here, is it?"

"No, not really. As you so ingeniously pointed out, it doesn't get cold that often here." After another blissful bite, she continued. "Even given that, Annie and I don’t spend enough time at home to really get annoyed at the lack of heat for more than fifteen minutes a day."

"Ah. Annie of the fragrant shampoo. Is this roommate the post-doc Annie I met in the conference room on Monday?"

"Yes. Annie Elliot. We're good friends."

"She said that you've known each other since college."

Emma took another large greedy bite, gestured to him that he ought to keep up if he was serious about actually getting an equal portion. After another sip of water, she recited the story that she'd told several times in the past: "We started in the same lab group back in our freshman year. Later, we both were in the Boston area for grad school, so we moved in together. Though I finished first, we both ended up working for Jane here at Caltech."

"It must be very comforting to have someone who knows you so well so close to you, especially considering college and grad schools are not easy endeavors."

Emma hadn't thought of it that way, but it was true. Usually the story garnered suck-up "Wow, so much intelligence under one roof" comments or the typical "oh, so that explains it" head-nod. "We're close," she said, gruffly.

"John and I were pretty close growing up, even though he's more than four years older than I am. It's harder to keep in touch these days, but I always try to see him when I'm in London." Greg said quietly.

Having done many interviews before, some breezy, some intrusive, he found it strange that this reticent woman quickly drew such personal information out of him. What's more, she wasn't anything similar to the loquacious, witty women with whom he'd enjoyed long luxurious conversation-filled evenings in the past. His need to show himself to her was somewhat alarming, especially given that she appeared not to have much interest in actually drawing out any of the information that he'd so willingly offered.

Hesitant to say more, Greg took a few more bites. She seemed perfectly content with the silence, which frustrated him. After five minutes, he couldn't stand it anymore. "It's very good food," Greg stated. And because he felt redundant and somewhat sheepish, he continued. "There's a small Japanese restaurant around the corner from my home back in London. It's jam-packed every night of the week, even though they often forget to add noodles to their udon dishes. It's the place where I go on chilly nights."

"Surely they wouldn’t forget your noodles."

Greg gave a rueful chuckle. "Along with death, the noodle lady is also a great equalizer of men. Either that or she completely abhors my acting."

Emma gave a delighted bark of laughter. Oddly enough, Greg bristled; was she laughing at his equalizer joke, or did she, too, abhor his acting?

That split-second of irritation must have showed, because the laughter in her eyes was suddenly quenched. As if catching herself in an act of extreme embarrassment, she just shrunk into herself. Then reemerged a completely different person. Greg watched it all through those expressive eyes. "Must be the former," she said quietly, stiffly.

When he was around her, he felt both nervous and tired. She didn't sit still. And even if she physically sat, you could see that her mind was pacing the room, bouncing off the walls, trying to explode outdoors. Maybe fly back to lab. Her sanctuary. It made him constantly want to tap on the shoulder and try to weigh her down. Tell her that it was rude. But that would have only made her even more withdrawn, he was sure.

Though her eyes were currently devouring the last lone piece of octopus, she gestured politely for him to have it.

Just take it. It was that trick of self-consciousness again, the one that constantly hounded her that last Thanksgiving in Mountain View. Constantly wondering if she was polite enough, non-chemistry enough, mature enough. Back in Mountain View, the insecurity drove him from the room to just get away from the pain of watching. Here, it provoked him to want to do something about it.

She failed at discretely checking her watch.

To actually spend more time with this person who didn’t want to be around him any longer than she had to, when there were plenty of people out there who were crawling over each other to get him to even glance at them?

Now that was just messed up.

Greg hid his irritation in a smile as he took the last piece of octopus. Messed up, and not going to happen, he promised himself.

"And did you check the website for the possible floral arrangements?"

From a long surreal lunch with a movie star to a discussion of floral arrangements with her sister. She wasn't going to get anything done today. A few feet away, Harriet stared into space as she contemplated something or another. Emma bit the inside of her cheek and wrapped the phone cord around her hand a few times. Tugged at it softly in irritation.

It was just as well that she hadn't gotten NMR time after lunch. It wasn't as if she could be taking one right now, what with Isabella in wedding blitz mode.

"Not yet. I've been caught up in things," Emma said, as the twining cords got so tight around her wrists that they made the veins on the top of her right hand pop out in desperation. Emma quickly untangled herself.

"Emma, I know you're busy, but as a member of my bridal party, you have responsibilities."

Emma groaned in frustration. It wasn't as if she'd been deliberately ignoring Isabella's requests for input. She'd been busy. And Isabella's e-mails were trickily worded: "If you have the time…" or "At your convenience" were shelved far down Emma's priority list. Emma did not like to shirk responsibilities. It made me angry with herself that she'd once again let her sister's requests get drowned out in lab noise.

But really, it certainly hadn't been her idea to be chosen as one of the bridesmaids. Ok, so she understood how it would have looked if she hadn't been involved in the wedding. Overall, it was a lose-lose situation. Be considered an outsider and estranged from her sister, or be nagged because she was completely failing at her job.

And, she reminded herself, it also could have been worse: there'd been that horrid two minutes when Isabella thought to have Emma as the maid of honor. That honor had gone to Taylor Weston, who so obviously deserved and cared more about the title than Emma did.

"I promise I'll check the website later this afternoon and I'll e-mail," Emma said, as she grabbed her planner, wrote the item down on her to-do list, and circled it violently to draw attention to it. "But you know I don't really know the first thing about flowers…"

"Just tell me if you think they're pretty or not."

Emma bit back her groan. Of course they were going to be pretty. They were flowers. Flowers were pretty by nature. That was their function in the world, as well as feeding insects.

"I also came up with a tentative guest list. I'm sending it to you in an e-mail as we speak. Can you look it over and tell me if we're forgetting anyone?"

"I don't know if relying on my memory of our personal acquaintance is-"

"I'm asking everybody to look it over: Dad, Mom, all my bridesmaids."

"Fine, fine." Emma picked at the frayed edge of the button-down shirt. She frowned when she realized that she'd forgotten to give it back to Greg. She stopped fidgeting with the sleeve.

The guest list, Emma, she reminded herself. She'd have to think of all the people who completely adored her sister and would be mortally offended if they'd been overlooked. It was not an easy task; everybody adored Isabella. Then there was that nagging thought. Emma opened her mouth but the question got stuck. It was none of her business.

"Spit it out." Isabella said, as if she was in the same room and saw the pinch between Emma's eyebrows.

"Is Mom invited?" Emma blurted out.

Isabella didn't bother to pretend she didn't understand. Without a beat of hesitation she replied. "Of course Donna's invited."

"I didn't know," Emma shrugged. "It's just-"

"Water under the bridge. We all grow up and have to face…stuff," Isabella prattled off.

The impatience buzzed over the line. Sensing that Isabella didn't want to go into the gory details of how she got over her teenage resentment of their birth mother, Emma happily accepted the terse answer and let things be. "I'll look the list over."

"Good. And get back to me on the flower arrangements."

"Ok."

"And get yourself measured. You're the only one who hasn't gotten measured yet. I sent you the address of that boutique over three weeks ago."

"I will."

"Good. I think that's it. Have a good day, Em."

"You too, Isabella."

Her freshly dry-cleaned lab coat was buttoned up. She’d double-gloved in nitrile gloves so that she could ensure that none of the smelly and hazardous pyridine she was working with got through to her skin and body. Through her safety glasses, her gaze was steady and focused on the task before her. Anybody watching would have thought that measuring out those ten and a half milliliters of pyridine was the focus of Emma Woodhouse’s existence.

It was obvious to Annie, however, that something was wrong; Emma did not often show her frustrations in lab, but Annie noticed the way Emma would put down her glassware with just a decibel more gusto. The extra split-second she needed to remember where she put things.

Of course, more evident than anything else was the fact that Emma had set out, after all, to measure out only ten milliliters of pyridine.

As the extra half mil wouldn’t hurt the large-scale reaction her friend was setting up, Annie saved her breath for the more arduous task before her. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, quietly.

"It’s stupid, really. Normal stuff. You don’t need to hear about it," Emma paused, putting down the syringe she’d drawn the pyridine into.

"You’re used to all that," Annie replied bluntly. And decided to push. "We haven’t had lunch lately. You don't have time for coffee and you’ve been getting home really late."

Emma finally turned from her reaction and met Annie’s earnest gaze. Annie inwardly sighed in relief as she watched Emma clamp the newly initiated reaction above the stirrer/hot plate and pull down the hood sash. "Fine. But you’re buying."

They made their way to Caltech’s Broad Café. The late summer sun embraced them in a dry heat, and Annie closed her eyes in pure enjoyment of this brief outdoor respite from the daily grind and gloom of lab benches. They bought their beverages and got situated at one of the tables outside. Annie shuddered as Emma took a sip of straight up Madison blend black. "You know I hate it when you do that."

"You’ve learned to live with it," Emma smiled.

Annie allowed Emma five minutes to settle back with her unadulterated coffee and talk about small inconsequential things. She was rewarded for her patience when Emma came to the meat of her problem of her own volition after a mini-diatribe against flighty undergrads in general and Harriet Smith in particular. "So you want to know what’s bothering me?"

Annie nodded. Addressing Emma’s past difficulties had involved half-hour discussions on all the experiments and data she’d accumulated. They'd been usually followed by a heavy brainstorming session on what was possibly going on and how to prove/disprove those hypotheses. Annie had brought a notepad and was ready to take notes.

After a slow deep breath and another indecisive scowl, Emma let it rip: "So you know I went to lunch with Greg Knightley a little while back."

Annie nearly choked on her orange juice. Well this was new.

It wasn't as if Emma hadn't ever dated. As Emma's roommate, Annie had a front-row seat to the events of Emma's life that Annie was sure her roommate would have preferred keeping completely private. Annie wasn't stupid or abusive with this privilege: she had never interrogated Emma over these past relationships, or even dropped a word of encouragement. She just observed and noted.

She soon realized that Emma didn't need guidance or support in the decisions she made with regards to her love life: the comings and goings of men in Emma Woodhouse's life didn't do much to Emma's personal equilibrium. Emma was more or less the same when she was in a relationship as she was when she was out of one. Emma didn't become starry-eyed or gushy, and when things didn't work out, she didn't mope or murp.

The woman was a rock. Annie despised her for it as much as she craved for the quality herself.

Nearly ten years of sustained equilibrium. And now, a frazzled confused expression in Emma's eyes due to a movie star. It seemed rather…pedestrian of Emma. And at the same time, Annie suspected, it was anything but.

Despite the frequent inquiries and teasing from their lab mates over the course of the last week, Emma had remained stubbornly tight-lipped about her lunch date, so Annie had assumed there'd been no lasting impression on either side. But something about it had obviously bothered her. Annie set the pen back down on the notepad. "Yes..."

Emma continued reluctantly. "Greg and I have been going to lunch together ever since. Well, not every day. But a lot."

Well. "Ah, how did this come about?"

"He picked up the check the first time and I had his shirt, so I thought it was only polite that I write him an e-mail of thanks and offer to return the shirt. And I politely mentioned that we ought to have lunch again some time. Not that I was serious." Emma paused to take another sip.

Typical Emma.

"But he took me up on it and we’ve just kept on going," Emma continued.

The words didn’t sink in. Annie could see no problem. "And your problem is?"

"I can’t get out of it."

Annie hid her incredulous giggle in a coughing fit. Emma raised an eyebrow in inquiry. Annie began diplomatically, "Well, Emma, he is going to be family soon…and you did invite him to a follow-up…it’s only natural…"

Emma gave her the "you’re not telling me anything I didn’t already think of" glare. Annie pushed forward. "You can't stop seeing him? This is really a problem?" It was kind of anti-climactic.

Sensing her friend's doubt, Emma's tone took a sterner, more urgent tone. "It sounds ridiculous, but Annie, I'm telling you. I can't shake him."

"Can't shake him?" Annie shook her head in disbelief. "How is it that you can’t get out of this? Have you just tried saying no?" Annie had been witness to many interactions where Emma had placidly and firmly dismissed the advances of intrigued men. It wasn't so hard.

Emma shifted uncomfortably. "It’s always something stupid. I got on his case for being late. So then he says he won’t be late the next day. And that’s how we end up having lunch the next day. Then he tells me that I don’t know what real Mexican food should taste like and that he knows a better place. So we have to go out again to see if he's right. (And he's wrong, in case you're wondering.) Things like that."

"Well, that's…different." Annie took another sip of her orange juice, trying to remain sympathetic to her friend. "But I still fail to see how this is a bad situation."

Emma made a low growl in her throat, obviously frustrated that she couldn’t convey the true gravity of the situation. She wondered if she'd gone completely insane. "He’s not doing this because we’re dying to get to know each other, Annie. He’s doing this to annoy me."

Annie heard the words with growing skepticism. "Emma, this is ridiculous."

"I know. He’s at least thirty. This is four-year-old behavior."

"No. I think...I think you’re paranoid," Annie replied with growing wonder.

Emma looked at her friend in exasperation and embarrassment. Annie returned the look with the calm placid curious one she always used when talking Emma through a chemistry problem. Emma sighed, fidgeting with her cup. "I don't understand. We have nothing to offer each other intellectually, really. Sometimes I think maybe it's just about ego. Maybe he likes to challenge himself by being around people who don't find him as fascinating as he thinks himself."

"Maybe."

"I'm telling you, Annie. I'm not trying hard at all when we go out. There are these long quiet interludes and he's looking at me like he wants me to contribute, and I just sit there. He can't stand it. There's this tick in his right eye." Emma caught herself before she continued even more. Rubbing her eyes, she berated herself for even letting him get to her so much she'd go running to her friend.

She'd already devoted way too much time trying to assess the situation. And the only thing that she'd gotten out of telling Annie about the stupid thing was that her friend found her completely insane.

Annie switched gears. "Well, do you enjoy lunch with him, at the very least?"

What kind of a question was that? "No," Emma answered promptly. But then she thought of rich decadent chocolate cheesecake they'd shared last time, the one that she'd never have ordered before but he'd insisted on sharing. "Most of the time, no." And before Annie could say anything, she rushed on. "That's beside the point. I’ve got to get this side product problem solved. I can’t be going to lunch everyday…"

"But you still need to eat, right?" Annie asked reasonably. "Is it the money? Does he expect you to splurge on lunch?"

Emma considered the question seriously. "No, it’s never too expensive. I just don’t want to be around him anymore."

"You don’t like him," Annie said.

"He’s not despicable," Emma replied quickly with awkward defensiveness and pure honesty. Ok, so the guy wasn't a prince either, constantly provoking her to speak more, daring her to call him on things. "Not always," she scowled.

"So you like him?"

Emma glared at her friend.

Annie smiled.

"I neither like nor dislike him, Annie," Emma said evasively.

"You’re being really helpful, Emma," Annie laughed with teasing sarcasm.

"This isn’t deliberate!" She saw the glimmer of humor in Annie’s eyes. "And it isn’t funny!" Emma gave a thoughtful sip of her coffee. "Ok, I understand that in the real world, I should be extremely flattered."

Annie grinned.

Emma sighed. "I’m not, though. I’m just…he’s just weird."

"You’re weird, Emma."

"Thanks for your vote of confidence."

"I try," Annie grinned. "What’s the big deal? You have lunch with people all the time."

"I have lunch with colleagues," and, when Annie looked affronted to be dismissed in the broad category, she consoled with "and you, Annie."

Annie turned to watch a couple walk past to the café doors. "You’re treating this like it’s the worst thing that could have ever happened to you. It’s just lunch."

"It was just lunch. Now he’s trying to turn it into something more."

Annie nearly dropped her bottle. "Has he said anything about making it something more?"

"No, but…I just don't like it. I know something's up," Emma said, weakly. She felt retarded.

Annie bit down her first response. After considering and swallowing another gulp of orange juice, Annie began again. "What’s so weird about him?"

For a bit, it seemed as if Emma wasn’t going to answer. "I’m trying to put it together. I can’t. He just makes me feel weird."

"He makes you feel weird."

Emma took another sip, nodding her head in confirmation.

Annie was tickled with suspense. "Weird as in he makes you feel like you’re odd, or he makes you feel odd, as in not yourself?"

"Both, I guess…" she toyed with the thermal sleeve around her coffee cup. "I guess he finds me strange. But not just strange. Strangely amusing. He's always laughing at me, grinning at me. And I can't stop it. It's exhausting. One minute I think I've got things under control, and then I'm blurting something else out that sends him into positive giggles," she uttered in disgust. "I don't know what I'm saying when I'm around him. I just say it."

Annie eyes widened in surprise.

"What?" Emma asked.

"No, just…is that what makes you feel odd?" Annie asked, curiously.

Emma paled, combed her fingers through her hair. "I don’t know. Maybe part of it."

"Emma," Annie grinned with pleasure. "I can’t believe it."

"Believe what?" Emma asked, gripping her now empty cup tightly. She braced herself for the diagnosis.

"You have a non-Chemistry friend! Honey, I’m so proud of you!"

Emma glared at her friend. Annie tried to calm her laughs down, but couldn’t help herself to a few more giggles. She shook her head in resignation.

Annie placed a hand on Emma's hand. "It doesn't sound like he's terrible to you."

"Might remind you that you started all this because you asked me why I didn't have time for coffee anymore? It's because I'm always with him. I have a lot of things on my plate right now, and he is getting in the way. He is all over the place. I can’t spend so much time with him."

"So much time or any time?" Annie wondered aloud.

Emma didn’t deign to answer, but pushed herself up from the table, ready to call the break over.

"Fine," Annie drank the last of her OJ and tossed the empty bottle into the recycle bin. It was as far as they were going to get today. Annie was content with it. "Well, if it matters so much, just put your foot down. Like really put it down. Don't lose your head."

"Easier said than done," Emma grumbled, following her friend back to Crellin.

"John said that you've been seeing Isabella’s sister..." Terra Fayroin Knightley’s gentle voice strummed across the line.

"Yes, I have."

"And...?"

"And what?" Greg asked laughingly.

"Don’t tease me, Greg. What’s she like? Do you like her?"

"She’s interesting."

"You don’t like her?" she asked, confused. "I was given the understanding that you've spent quite a bit of time with each other..."

"Lunch. And no, Mum, it’s not that I don’t like her."

"Lunch. Only lunch?"

"Nothing more," he smiled as he pictured the disappointed expression on his mother’s face.

Terra sighed.

"Be content enough that one of us is getting married," Greg smiled warmly.

"I try. But the success at getting one of you to come around to marriage has made me greedy. And you’re changing the subject. What’s wrong with Isabella’s sister?"

"Her name is Emma. And there’s nothing really wrong with her. Well, not extremely wrong. She’s just very different. Very...intense. Driven."

Terra laughed. "Has she given you whiplash?" she alluded to her son’s own very laid-back outlook on life.

"My slower pace has certainly been a point of contention," he recalled Emma’s last homily on the importance of promptness. Her pink lips were pressed into a tense line, and attractive sparkle made her face…memorable.

It’d only been twenty minutes, he’d argued. It’d been within the bounds of reason.

Fifteen minutes is within the bounds of reason, she’d lectured. Fifteen minutes can account for clocks that run slow, quick stops at the restroom, random encounters with people one hasn’t seen in a while, and a handful of autographs. Beyond fifteen means that you weren’t making any effort to be on time and hence were not giving my time any respect.

Strangely enough, instead of simply calling it off as he’d thought he would, he’d simply engaged her for the next day and showed up sixteen minutes late.

As quickly as he decided he couldn't stand her anymore, he'd become completely intrigued about another aspect of the woman. It'd gotten more and more interesting as Emma's walls of politeness started to wear thinner. Call him a masochist, but he loved it when she got tough on him. There was the fire, the excitement, the amusing diatribes of undiluted analness.

"I think I've found Anal Amy's long lost twin."

Terra gave a vocal shudder at the name of her son's keeper. "But you’re still meeting with her for lunch..." his mother observed with interest, slowly.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" she asked innocently.

"You’re wondering. And I hate it when you wonder."

"I’m just curious."

"Be curious about John instead."

His mother laughed. "All the mystery is gone from there! Come on! Tell me more about her. What do you talk about during lunch? Chemistry?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but he didn’t know where to begin. "Everything. She’s an incredibly intelligent woman."

"Wow," his mother observed. "I almost expected you to say nothing."

I did, too.

Because when he really thought about it, they didn’t have all that much in common. (Well, except for food: they both loved to eat.) Oddly, even if it wasn't about food, the talk was constant between them. But she wasn’t chatty. And heaven forbid he should be considered loquacious himself. Well, not normally. The tense air engendered strange topics, from the basics of the American government to the small essay on porcupine mating rituals that Emma had listened to on NPR earlier that day.

"I wish I could meet her."

Greg laughed. "No, because then you’d embarrass me."

"And why should you worry about being embarrassed in front of Emma?"

"Now you’re just twisting words. Mum, Emma’s…" he paused, temporarily at a loss for words. "Emma’s just Emma. I’m in Pasadena filming every day. I need to eat. I need to get away from the set. Emma’s going to be related to me by marriage. By the code of family conduct and ethics, she is obligated to show me around a bit. I can’t help it if she can’t get enough of me..." he sighed.

Terra laughed. "Greg you tease! The poor dear probably doesn’t even understand what’s going on!"

Greg highly doubted that Emma would have appreciated this denouncement of her intellect. And she certainly would have despised being called a "poor dear".

"All the same, I wish I could meet her. I’m so sorry I have to cancel on the premiere. I hope you will be able to find another escort. Though I’m sure if we put up my ticket on ebay..."

Greg laughed. "It’s all right, Mum. I understand. Stay at home and take care of Dad. I hope he gets better."

"I could arrange for-"

"It’s all right. I’ll take care of my own date," Greg insisted.

"Ok, then. I’ll let you get back to your business, then."

"All right. Take care, Mum. Say hello to Dad for me."

"Sure thing. Love you," she smiled.

"Love you too," he replied.

And, having finished his phone call, Greg reached for the remote and went about the task of finding which channel carried the most interesting Saturday morning cartoons.

Continued in Next Section