Emma Experiments ~ Section III

    By Crysty

    Beginning, Section III

    Chapter Six

    Posted on Monday, 19 March 2007

    Date: September 16, 2005
    From: Isabella R Woodhouse (irw@ckg.org)
    To: Emma Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
    Subject: Really?

    That clunky old purse with my beloved Prada!? Did I not send you that cute satin clutch!?

    Iz

    Date: September 16, 2005
    From: Donna L Sheridan (dls@uchicago.edu)
    To: Emma Woodhouse (woodhouse@caltech.edu)
    Subject: re: Visit

    All right, I understand. I'll see you the evening of the 25th, after my visit at Santa Barbara! I can't wait to see you!

    Mom

    "...and Magdalena called. Given the latest developments, she was, um, curious if you were going to opt out of Martinique next week." Amy's exasperation with the model was clear over the connection.

    Greg laughed as he paced the length of his suite. "Though not so elegantly worded, I'm guessing."

    "At least it wasn't all in English," Amy sighed. "Greg, I'm an assistant, not a therapist."

    "And Magdalena should know better than to read gossip rags."

    Amy remained silent. Greg could see her pressing her fingers to her temples and the irritation radiating from her ears. "What is it?" he said, checking out the window. It looked atrocious outside today; the dust and smog were so dense that the San Gabriel Mountains weren't visible.

    "She's not the only one who's called. You've never been involved with someone for this long," Amy stated reasonably. "There have been inquiries. Should I prepare a statement?"

    Greg shook his head as he went to throw himself back on the couch. "No. It's my business."

    "And hers. Did you ever stop to think what this publicity does for her?"

    No, but it wasn't because it hadn't occurred to him; he simply hadn't wanted to think about it. Trust Anal Amy to see every aspect of the situation. It was why he hired her. But sometimes, that uncanny attention to detail was annoying. "I have to go."

    "Greg! You-"

    "You're an assistant, not a therapist. Goodbye, Amy," he tossed her words back and snapped the phone shut.

    And because he was still feeling irritated and because she wasn't there, he glared at the phone.

    And was startled when it started vibrating and chirping in his hand. Resigned he flipped it open and started apologizing. "Look, I'm sorry I was short with you. Don't quit."

    "It's been nearly nine years and she hasn't quit yet. But I bet that another box of mochi will take care of it," Terra mused.

    "Mum."

    "Indeed, beloved offspring. It is your mother."

    Greg paced his way into the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. "And how are you doing? How's Dad?"

    "We're doing wonderfully. Your father has made another acquisition."

    "Oh?" He opened the fridge to grab his orange juice.

    "Meet the Beatles, signed by all of them, previously owned by Harrison's sister."

    Greg whistled at the price his father must have paid for the rare LP cover. "And he got on my case for getting a mere baseball signed by Sandy Koufax."

    "Don't even get me started on the strange hobbies you all have."

    "Right, because literally papering your office with rave restaurant reviews is perfectly normal," Greg said, as he poured himself a glass of juice. He drank it down immediately and poured himself another.

    "They're all fantastic, and they're all my restaurants. Don't get cheeky with me."

    "All right, all right."

    "So. How are you?"

    "Filming is bit behind schedule, so a few people are moody here and there, but all in all, things are going pretty well."

    "Behind schedule?"

    "Just a bit. You know how these things happen." They would have been finished here a week ago, had it not been for Emma and her stupid book. Ok, so neither Emma nor the book was actually to blame, per se, as they both were actually very helpful. He'd found a lot of the information and inspiration he'd been searching for.

    But the minute Patrick, the director, had realized that Greg was finally performing to standard, he'd opted to stay on another week at Caltech to redo scenes and "get it right".

    "Is there something wrong?" his mother asked.

    "No, things have been going great. In all honesty, I don't think I've ever done better."

    It was both great and completely frustrating to be performing at the level he was expected to. Because he knew what he could get, Patrick pushed Greg relentlessly now, take after take, scene after scene. Filming had been at times difficult before, but performing at this intensity all the time was exhausting and harrowing; he literally came back each night pretty sure he had no emotion, no thought left to give.

    Personally, it had become imperative to Greg that he portray Feynman correctly. While Emma's notes had been very useful in dissecting Feynman's views and thought processes, they had also revealed that she clearly held the man in high esteem. Greg now understood that he was not only portraying an intelligent, charming man, but that he was being held to high standards by those who knew him and knew of him. He'd never taken on such a responsibility before; apprehension and nerves formed a large, bulky, throbbing knot at the back of his neck. He'd thought that by now, he would have gotten used to it, but it was still there, throbbing away, reminding him of all the pressure.

    But of course, he wasn't really worried about everyone's opinion. He was worried about Emma's. He couldn't imagine not doing it well for her. Hence the added intensity and annoyingly perfectionist tack he'd taken towards his scenes the past week.

    He'd known the woman was trouble the first time she'd opened up that day planner.

    "Well, that's fantastic!"

    "Yes, it is," he tried to sound positive.

    Greg could sense his mother's concern, but Terra wisely held her inquiry back. "So, will you still finish in time for the Bond picture?"

    "Yes. I'll just have a shorter break in between." A fact that set him on edge: usually, filmings were exhausting enough to deal with, what with the hours, the people, the constant business. But he was positive that after concluding this particular project, he'd be hollowed out.

    "It sounds like you're set, then."

    "Set, if a little tired," he said.

    She got the hint, but wasn't ready to let him go yet. "Well, if you're going to remain in the Los Angeles area a bit longer, then that falls in with my plans perfectly. I was thinking of making a visit."

    "A visit," Greg said stupidly.

    "Yes, I was already making a stop in San Francisco next week for an opening. It wouldn't hurt to pop over and check on Beverly Hills."

    Greg saw straight through his mother's haphazardly constructed plan, but held himself back from blurting out a flat-out no. "We'll be finishing soon, so we're all operating on days' notice now."

    "Perhaps, but-"

    Greg rubbed his eyes. "I'd hate for you to get your hopes up and then be disappointed," he said.

    Terra considered her words carefully. "I'm betting she's perfectly marvelous," she replied.

    He didn't pretend to not know who she was talking about. "We're not dating."

    "That may or may not be the case, but all the same, my son is marrying her sister, and I'd like to get to know her. Especially considering she's such a close friend of yours."

    He couldn't deny any of it, but it was an added detail and complication that he was simply too tired to deal with and not at all ready for. "Now's not a good time for me," he said. Please.

    Something was wrong with her son. He was withdrawn, quiet, and sounded quite tired. And because it'd been so very long since she'd heard him sound so tired, she was concerned. That alone was reason enough for her to want to see him.

    All the same, they were his problems, and he was asking for space. Terra reluctantly pulled back. "Perhaps some other time."

    "I need to be on set in another fifteen minutes, so I'm afraid I'll have to cut this short."

    "That's all right."

    He almost felt guilty enough to dump it all on her shoulders right then and there. He cleared his throat. "Then I'll talk to you later."

    "I love you, Greg. I hope things get better."

    "I love you too, Mum. Send my love to Dad."

    "I will. Take care!"

    "You too!"

    He didn't think it was possible, but the lethargy that was holding him back the whole conversation came over him intensely. He wanted to crash and sleep so very badly. The past week's loaded schedule hadn't left much in the way of private time.

    He checked the clock at his bedside and grimaced as he saw that he should have left for costume and makeup five minutes ago. With a roll of his shoulders and a firm press at his aching neck, Greg left for the set.

    She'd spent forty minutes locked up in the bathroom.

    Emma put the open bottle of zinfandel to breathe on the dining room table and moved towards the bathroom door. She knocked on it gently. "Annie?"

    The door was opened in a rush and Emma came face to face with an overly done-up Annie. "Ah," she turned and walked back towards the kitchen.

    "Ah?" Annie came tripping out the bathroom, trying to pull on the teetering slides she'd opted to wear with her "totally Bo-Ho" skirt with the "adorable" peasant top that Liz had helped her pick out earlier that day. "What is 'ah' supposed to mean?" Annie asked self-consciously.

    "It means ah," Emma said, as she grabbed the spinach from the fridge.

    "It's not what you thi--Ow!"

    Emma turned from the sink to watch Annie take a seat at the dining table to examine her big toe. Emma came through the doorway. "Do you need me to grab a Band-Aid?"

    "No, it just stings."

    Emma sat next to her friend and carefully studied Annie's face. Lips pressed in a thin line. Underneath the uniquely pink blush, her pale skin was nearly translucent. And she wasn't meeting Emma's eyes.

    Guilt immediately clenched Emma's gut; something was obviously wrong. How long had Annie been this way? Emma bristled as she recalled the snippy comment Isabella had made yesterday when she'd found out that Emma still had not gotten her measurements taken, nor had she looked at the shoe options.

    She did care. She cared plenty about things and people who mattered. There weren't many people whom Emma could count as "close". Annie was one of them. And yes, Annie knew her, most of her. But in reciprocation, Emma had also put a considerable amount of time and consideration into knowing and caring for Annie.

    Maybe she'd been a little caught up in things. Too caught up. Emma immediately piled this grievance onto the heap already classified as "the Greg complication".

    "You ok otherwise?" Emma put a hand on her friend's shoulder and gave a pat that she hoped conveyed her concern, and none of the artifice that Isabella had alluded to.

    She was just looking for a scapegoat and I got screwed.

    Try to make this about Annie, why don't you? Emma scowled as she pressed more firmly on her friend's shoulder.

    Annie leaned into the touch and sighed, "That obvious, huh?"

    "Only kind of," Emma smiled comfortingly.

    Annie chuckled, her glossy lips outlining her straight teeth. "It's silly, you know."

    "Let's hear it, and then I'll tell you if it's silly."

    Annie was silent for a moment in debate and indecision. "Fine. I'm going to tell you."

    "Good."

    "But you have to promise not to get defensive. Or weird. Because it seriously means nothing."

    Which only made Emma more apprehensive. "Sure," she said too quickly. She could never lie well.

    Annie sighed as she tugged at her skirt. "So a week or so ago I got an e-mail from Louisa Musgrove."

    Emma considered the database of names in her memory. "You're going to have to help me out; I don't recall a Louisa Musgrove on campus."

    "That's because she's from our time at Stanford. Louisa was one of the freshmen down my hall my last year."

    "Oh."

    "So anyway, Louisa is originally from Irvine. She's just gotten her law degree and is moving back to Irvine to join her family's firm."

    Emma nodded her comprehension of the situation thus far as she started picking at her spinach leaves. Annie picked at a few herself. Emma took it as a sign that she was getting to the painful awkward part. "Well, the thing is," Annie swallowed, "Louisa mentioned that she was going to bring her boyfriend. An old friend of mine, she said."

    Emma waited patiently for Annie's elaboration.

    Annie took a deep breath before taking the plunge. "She's bringing Fred," Annie said shallowly, breathlessly.

    The words hung in the air like a wispy spider web, nearly invisible, but everywhere all the same, threatening to tangle them up in That Mess all over again.

    Emma forced on the mask of indifference. She pushed herself up from the table and brought the spinach to the sink and turned on the water.

    Annie's shoes made a heavy distinct tempo as she followed Emma into the kitchen. And waited.

    At length, Emma looked at her friend. Waited for Annie to meet her gaze. "Are you sure you can do this?" Emma said over the rush of running water.

    Annie looked out the window over the sink into the late afternoon sky. "I don't see why not."

    Emma turned off the faucet and turned to examine her friend's features. Not her business. It hadn't ever been her business. All the same: "Annie."

    "Seriously, Emma: not an issue," Annie turned.

    Once upon a time, Annie would have elaborated. At what percentage she rated her "getting over Fred" task had been accomplished. It would have been followed by a half hour or so of being depressed about almost being over him. And then another hour or so of being depressed about not. The whole sordid epic would have been relived: the initial glorious flush of crush and infatuation, the intense realization of falling in love for the first time in her life, the fast-paced whirlwind perfect relationship, and, but of course, the demise of Camelot and All Happiness in the World™.

    That Annie was so very succinct over the situation set Emma on edge.

    But, Emma concluded as she shook the water from her spinach, Annie had plenty of reason to be succinct: nerves, confusion, determination and courage. Emma tried to read what percentages attributed to which emotions in her friend's face, but Annie remained closed. Another tactic to make sure that whatever happened tonight, Annie would exit with a smile and her dignity.

    Was she up to the task? Emma didn't know. And, she felt her head spin, she had her own thing to deal with tonight.

    Not that she really wanted to lock horns with Frederick Wentworth ever again.

    You're being selfish. Does she need you?

    Emma put the spinach down on the cutting board and looked at Annie. She was still looking out the window. Her posture was ramrod straight. It'd been a while since Emma had seen Annie look so determined and yet so delicate. And distant.

    Emma decided to give her friend her space. Maybe she was taking the easy way out. But maybe Annie just didn't want to talk about it, not until it was over with and she was sure she was over him. Annie needed to be alone with her thoughts.

    It was, after all, a luxury that Annie had given Emma several times in the past. It was what made her such a good friend. The least she could do was try to repay her. So Emma played along. "So where are you going for dinner?"

    An hour later, Emma put out the candles she'd just lit. What were the candles for? Shaking her head, she put them back in the kitchen.

    Annie had left forty-five minutes ago; she was meeting Louisa and Fred at a restaurant in Old Town Pasadena. Emma was relieved that she wouldn't have to deal with Fred again, but that was only a very small part of her. Most of her was worried that the reunion wouldn't go the way Annie was hoping it'd go.

    Not that there was much to hope for. If she was hoping for anything, that is. Which she probably wasn't. Because she was over him. Definitely.

    Oh, Emma wished with every cell in her body that Annie was over him.

    Emma slammed Annie's metal art-deco candlesticks on the counter and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. She could not afford a headache right now. She still had to check to see if the bathroom had enough toilet paper and whether or not the lamb stew was done. And finish setting the table.

    Emma walked through the dining room, adjusting the lighting once more; it was just a dinner between friends. No frills. Where did she get this strange need for embellishments?

    All the same, it was bothering her. Fred. He always did. Not the same way he bothered Annie, to be sure. But everything that he represented!

    Emma took another roll of toilet paper from under the cabinet and placed it on top of the toilet. A quick check to the SoftSoap levels.

    Sleepless nights of worry, no time or emotion left for lab work. Or friends. It wasn't hard for Emma to recall the numerous times Annie had backed out of meals together for Fred. Or, for that matter, those many afternoons and evenings in lab Emma had spent chemming alone in her bay; Annie had flaked out because Fred's frat needed another member for their intramural volleyball team, or one of Fred's friends was having a small get-together, or Fred had a surprise for her.

    The stew looked and smelled perfect. Emma tasted a small spoonful: yes, and it tasted perfect as well. Greg would have to get here in the next fifteen minutes if he wanted it to be as good as it smelled now. Emma sighed and put the heat on low. She checked the clock. He was already late.

    And as if her mere thought conjured him, she heard the knock on the door. And before she could berate herself, she made a quick stop at the bathroom to check her reflection. And considered, for a split second, letting her hair down. Greg ended the debate by knocking again. No time.

    Emma tried not to rush to the door. And tried to quell the excitement altogether. It hadn't actually been all that long since she'd seen him. And of course, she thought of Annie, these feelings weren't actually good for her. Which she was planning on dealing with. Tonight.

    The tight feeling of disappointment pinched at the corner of her eye, but Emma fought it. And try as she might, she couldn't hold back the complete and utter elevation of spirits she felt when she saw him standing there on her doorstep, bottle of wine in hand.

    Nervous, she stepped back. "Hello! Come in."

    "It smells divine, and you look wonderful." He passed the bottle over.

    "A South African Shiraz?" she lifted a brow after she examined the label.

    "You said lamb," he said, as he held her elbows in a light grasp, bent forward, and kissed her cheek before he could stop himself.

    They backed away from each other immediately. Oh he smelled so good. Emma spoke immediately, and quickly. "Great! I had a zin prepped, but this looks good too. Let me open it and let it breathe for a bit."

    Greg followed Emma to the dining table. And because she gestured, he took a seat. Bread, a small plate of stuffed mushrooms, and spinach salad greeted him.

    He looked a bit off. Less happy. Was it her imagination, or did his face look a little leaner? She mentally pinched Isabella hard on the arm in revenge. Insensitive and oblivious? Ha. She could see unhappiness in everyone right now. She went into the kitchen to open the bottle. "You should serve yourself immediately, by all means," she tossed over her shoulder. "The stew is already finished. Let's not let it wait too long!"

    "Stew?"

    Emma was sure she was blushing when she tried to name the meal casually: "Lamb stew."

    Greg grinned. "My favorite. How did you know?"

    Emma turned to hide her blush. There was absolutely no way she was going to admit that she'd combed the internet until she'd found out that useless fact. "Oh really?"

    Greg was busy piling food on his plate, and Emma used the moment to catch her breath. Down, woman. You'd think he'd completed the total synthesis of Thiostrepton, the way you're acting. She methodically opened the bottle of wine and brought it into the dining room. Setting it on the table, she took her own seat. She accepted the serving tongs gratefully (managing not to brush his hands with hers) when he handed them over.

    "So how have things been?" she asked as she started arranging her own food on her plate.

    "Busy, but well enough." Greg took a bite of stuffed mushroom. "Mmm. This is amazing."

    Emma grinned and couldn't help herself, "Isn't it?! I love this recipe. You might sort of recognize it. It's a variation I've taken from your mother's."

    "I'm impressed. My mother will be very intent on extracting all your secrets when she meets you."

    "Your mother?"

    "Yes. When you get to England for the wedding, of course," he said quickly.

    Emma silently let the breath out she'd been holding. "Ah. Of course."

    "So, I take it that all is well in all things Austen?"

    Emma nodded because her mouth was full. After she swallowed, she elaborated: "Yes, they are. But you've been missed. By people."

    Greg laughed. "But of course. And how are all things Emma?"

    "Also busy, but good. All the applications are out now. I'm almost done getting this paper out the door; I can't tell you how many drafts Jane and I have gone through."

    "Well," Greg said, as he poured the wine out. "I think that this calls for a toast." He held a glass to her.

    Emma took her glass.

    "To finishing applications."

    "To finishing applications. And friends who will come to dinner," Emma added, wanting to express her simple happiness at his being there.

    It was as disconcerting as it was wonderful. The clink of their glasses rang crisply into the air. Emma took a deep breath, but found herself laughing. At his confused look, she shook her head. "It's just good to see you again, Greg," she said honestly.

    The dinner progressed at a leisurely pace. For once, Emma didn't wear a watch and didn't check the clock. She hadn't seen him for ten days, and she'd missed him, however much she hadn't wanted to. There ought to have been more of these peaceful, warm moments in her life. If only they didn't come with so many strings attached!

    "…so now Henry's a bit moody."

    "Ah, poor fellow." Greg chuckled even as he felt a tinge of pity; he knew how it felt to be pushed at.

    Emma took the last bite of her stew. "It's a good thing, though. Henry's a sixth year; most students in organic chemistry finish some time in their fifth year," she said in explanation. "If they stay, they do it because they don't have the results to graduate. But he's a brilliant chemist. And has tons of publications with Jane."

    It was hard to envision someone who appeared as relaxed as Henry Tilney to be as successful as super-organized, super-stressed Emma. "Well, I wish him luck in finishing his thesis, then."

    "Would you care for dessert?"

    "I honestly don't think there's room for it, but I'd hate myself if I didn't try," he said. "Truly, this dinner has been amazing. I'd put your lamb stew second to my mother's, and that's because she'd disown me if I put you ahead. And because she uses a bit less rosemary."

    Emma scoffed as she got up.

    Greg also started to stand and clear his own plates.

    Emma shook her head. "You're the guest."

    "And it would be terrible of you to leave me to my own company while you get dessert," he persisted as he held his plates back from her extended hands.

    They went into the kitchen. Emma put her plates down in the sink and went towards the fridge. When she saw that he'd unbuttoned his cuffs and was starting to roll the sleeves back on his arms, she shook her head as she came towards the sink. "No. No, no, no!"

    "It's the least I can do to show my gratitude. In my mother's household, if you cook, you don't have to clean," he said as he flipped the faucet on. "I'm pretty sure it's because she hates doing dishes."

    Emma bit her lip.

    "You could do me a big favor, though," he said as he added soap to the sponge.

    "Oh?"

    "After a dinner like that I'll definitely have food coma. Perhaps a cup or two of coffee to wake me up for the drive back?"

    Emma nodded. "Of course," she moved to the cupboard.

    "By the way," he said. "I've been told to remind you-"

    "What?" Emma came closer to the sink with her bag of coffee beans. "I couldn't hear you."

    He'd been careful to keep distance from her. Wisps of hair fell to her lips again. He scrubbed at the plate a bit harder and concentrated on the task. Cleared his throat as he picked up his train of thought. "Isabella has called me."

    Emma groaned as she poured some beans into the grinder. After the noisy grinder finished, she turned to him. "And let me guess; she wants you to personally escort me to the boutique?"

    "If by 'personally escort' you mean 'hunt, hogtie, and drag you', yes."

    "Ha!" Emma laughed as she put a new filter into the coffee maker. "And I'm sure the paparazzi would love to catch us coming in and out of a bridal shop."

    Greg didn't respond right away, so she self-consciously stayed on her side of the kitchen. She hadn't expected him to be so quiet about it. Where was the merciless teasing she'd expected? And why was she joking about it when it had made her so very upset in the first place? She shook her head.

    Watching the coffee percolate was so very boring. "I made my visit earlier today," she said quietly, after he'd turned the faucet off. "The measurements have been made and the dress has been ordered."

    Greg dried the dishes. "Saints preserve us," he said glibly. "I believe the world will stop turning."

    Emma took the sugar and half and half into the living room and set them down on the coffee table. She stepped back through the kitchen doorway and accidentally into Greg's embrace. They both stepped back immediately, but she felt disoriented. Greg held her by the arms to steady her.

    Why did it have to feel so good? Emma nodded her head as she brushed off his touch.

    "Ah, sorry. I just have to get through," she pointed to the coffee machine. Greg moved out the way. "Why don't you take a seat in the living room? The coffee's just about done and I'll get dessert."

    Left alone in the kitchen, Emma brushed at her arms again. This wasn't good. Ok, honestly, she admitted: it was absolutely wonderful. Why was it that when he was around, she could completely forget all the complications he'd brought into her life?

    Reaching into the fridge, she grabbed two cups of the white chocolate mousse she'd made earlier that afternoon. Taking the raspberry sauce she'd prepared separately, she drizzled the sauce over the top carefully. Mentally, she berated herself for spending so much time preparing for this dinner.

    What was she thinking? She shook her head. Plastering a smile on her face, she brought the coffee out first.

    He was examining Annie's pictures on the bookshelf. "I just have to get dessert now," she nodded towards the kitchen as she placed the mugs down on the table.

    Greg came forward and took his mug and started diluting his coffee with the sugar and cream. Emma shook her head with a smile as she went back in the kitchen to get the mousse.

    He'd finished stirring the mixture and was back at the bookshelf. "Who's the man with you and Annie in the photo?" he gestured to a picture from their graduation.

    "Fred. Someone Annie used to date," Emma said as she settled the cups down on the table. "White chocolate mousse in raspberry sauce."

    "It sounds delicious," he came and settled next to Emma on the couch. "Fantastic coffee, by the way."

    Emma nodded. "For economic reasons, it was imperative that I learn how to do it right."

    Greg grabbed a spoon and took a bite. He shook his head with a "but of course" smile. "It's delicious."

    Emma took a spoonful herself and settled into her seat. They ate in comfortable, warm silence. Emma relaxed into the cushions and let the contentment saturate her. It was so very nice to be quiet with someone. Just to be.

    "Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful," he said, after the last bite mousse had been swallowed, the last dregs of coffee had been drunk.

    "I'm glad you enjoyed it," Emma said. There was a smudge of mousse on her upper lip and her hair was starting to come loose from the clip she'd used to bind it up. The dress from the Dutch Department premiere had left a small white scar just by that dent at her collarbone. It winked at him from the collar of Emma's button-down shirt. Greg looked away.

    And finally came the moment he'd been dreading. There wasn't much time left. He'd stalled long enough, trying to figure out how to bring it up. As he still hadn't quite figured it out, he just launched right in: "So. We finished filming at Caltech yesterday night."

    "Yesterday." The warm comfort she'd been feeling only a microsecond ago dissolved away. Emma put her coffee mug down on the table, turning to facing him.

    He wanted to joke about how she'd have more time for work, but was afraid that in all seriousness, that's exactly what she'd been anticipating and eager for. He felt compelled to express a sort of regret in leaving her, but he honestly didn't feel one. Maybe he did. But it was mired in other emotions. And because he didn't know what he was hoping or not hoping to see in her expression, he focused on other things. "Yes. We're done here now," he said, toying with the sugar bowl. "We're moving on to New Mexico."

    "New Mexico," she could hear herself saying the words but their meaning, their significance would not settle in. And because she had no idea what she was supposed to say, or even what she wanted to say, she said it simply. "Well, then."

    She looked towards the window. It was dark outside, so all she could see was a reflection of the room. Of them sitting on the couch, Greg looking at his watch and her looking straight at herself.

    And while she'd been aware that the time would come (and had even at times anticipated it), she was still surprised.

    It was just as well, right? With this paper almost finished, her focus had turned to getting the next project off the ground before she left for interviews. And to do that, she'd known she'd needed more time in the lab. Time she certainly wouldn't have been able to find if Greg had been around. It was good. For the NMR experiments, she'd need all her evenings and weekends back, to be sure.

    Emma responded and commented as she was expected to, brain still immersed in thoughts. Greg was smiling and joking, though he seemed even more tired now. At length, he got up to leave. Emma followed him to the door, thoughts slowly dispersing with each step. In settled a strange feeling of loneliness. And her old friend confusion.

    Greg turned, pulling his hand through his hair. "So."

    "So." Was there supposed to be something more meaningful than this? She could only feel disgust with herself. You were planning your next experiments just five seconds ago! "Well, goodbye, then."

    Greg came to take her cold hands in his. "No," he said gruffly, "Goodbye for now."

    He watched her as if he expected something. But really, what did he expect? Had he really done anything tonight? Frustration bubbled up inside of her; if anything, she tried. He was the one who was distant. That didn't reach out.

    Foolish woman.

    Foolish man. Good riddance.

    Meeting those eyes that were trying to look into her, read her, understand her, she felt guilty for her thoughts. But not guilty enough.

    "I hope that New Mexico isn't too hot. Good luck, Greg," she said, as she pulled her hands back.

    He smiled and gave one last wave before he walked down the sidewalk out of the apartment complex. Emma shut the door and leaned against it. Just for a second.

    Chapter Seven

    Posted on Wednesday, 4 April 2007

    Date: September 23, 2005
    From: Amory Blaine (ablaine@caltech.edu)
    To: Henry R Tilney (tilney@caltech.edu)
    Subject: Open Season on First Years.

    I call the cute brunette from Penn.

    Pub crawl tonight. You in?

    Am

    "So how have you been lately?"

    Lately was a relative term. Lately could have meant the last month, week, day, or hour. She didn't want to start on the busy, confusing, emotionally sinusoidal hell that had been her last month. As for her last week: well, it had started out in that confusion, but then Greg had left. And then. . .

    Heavenly peace.

    "Pretty good," Emma said, taking a (very kind) average. "Things have been going very well for me lately."

    Life had become blissfully uneventful. Aside from an extremely short (not that she was complaining, she had a difficult enough time keeping track of her correspondence as it was) e-mail about lizards, clouds, sand, and tequila, contact with Greg really had been minimal. Harriet had completed her tenure as undergraduate research assistant and had run off to enjoy the short remainder of her summer, leaving Emma happy and quite alone in her bench and bay. The first crop of applications was out and she was taking a break to some serious experiments done (unlike her pathetic half-baked dabbling of the past couple of months), as well as reorganize her thoughts before starting on grant applications.

    It was great to be just in the lab again; sure, she had to spend the first day replenishing her private stock of chemicals and materials and reorganizing her glassware (that annoying Edward!) but things had settled into a steady, familiar pattern. Early morning coffee with a paper or two to tease the palate, a morning of working up last night's reactions and setting up new ones. An afternoon of more workups and purifications, with an occasional NMR acquisition sprinkled in here and there. Late afternoon coffee with another paper for reflection. Evenings for more purification and more setup. And of course, time for writing up what was done, and planning more studies in the lab notebook. And washing of glassware. Acquisition of more materials. Ordering of more chemicals. Putting together group meeting. Berating Will for not thinking of running the reaction in dioxane. Berating Henry for not leaving her alone.

    She loved it. The energy, the momentum, the productivity; she glided through her days in an enlightened, gorgeously happy daze. You never knew what you truly loved until you were denied from it for a few months. And sure, it hadn't even been a whole week yet, but Emma was so very relieved that things were back to normal, and that they were so very wonderful. She didn't have the results to show for it yet, but those would also come in a matter of time. You always had to pay your dues.

    Emma had been so very productive and happy lately that she didn't feel at all guilty for taking the entirety of this evening off to have dinner with her mother. And while she'd felt mildly annoyed that she couldn't run the temperature study tonight, well, it was her mother. With her own lab, lectures, conferences, and teaching responsibilities, Donna couldn't find the time to visit Emma more than once or twice a year, and only for an evening or so each visit. The least Emma could do was put off the temperature studies for an evening to drive five minutes away to dine with her.

    Besides, it was a gorgeous late September evening, with the perfect amount of light and warmth. Emma was determined to enjoy it as much as possible; upon arriving at the restaurant, she had insisted that she and her mother be seated outside. After all, she hadn't really spent any time at all outdoors in the past week aside from en route to lab or to coffee/food. Once seated, Emma had eagerly taken up the wine list and given it a thorough perusal; she did not expect to return to the lab this evening (she'd already asked Elinor to refill the liquid nitrogen dewars for the traps) and so was at liberty to sit back and indulge.

    Across the table, Donna took a sip of chardonnay and tugged on the chunky gold droplet dangling from her right ear. In the natural hair cycle of Donna Sheridan, she'd finally found the time to once again exchange the annoying, unruly shoulder-length mop she'd had last time for the low-maintenance, boyish pixie cut she generally liked to sport. "I'm glad to hear it. Very glad."

    "Me too."

    Emma could feel her mother's inquisitive, dissecting gaze bore into her brain, combing it fold after fold for any sign of conflict or confusion. It made no sense; surely the glasses had some opacity to dull the intensity, didn't they? But instead, those green eyes, the same ones Emma had, were exacting. Precise. Heavy. Emma secretly hoped that she, too, would one day be able to subject her students and colleagues to such an intimidating glance. Tragically, the most she ever got thus far was a smothered chuckle from Elinor.

    She had a long way to go.

    Emma simply sipped from her glass and had another bite of her sea bass. She would hold out and stand firm against the probing stare. The topic of Greg Knightley had not yet come up in the conversation, and Emma sensed that, if she wasn't stupid, he wouldn't. However, he was everywhere; as they had walked passed the movie theater, Emma had seen a poster boasting the upcoming release of his next movie, Kiss and Cry, out the corner of her eye. As they had been seated, a bus had passed with yet another advertisement for Dutch Department plastered across the side. The woman at the table next to theirs had ordered only a bowl of bisque before diving into her main course of People magazine.

    While her mother had finally worked up the courage to discuss Greg and romance on the phone, she had quite a ways to go in bringing it up in a real conversation, which Emma was thankful for. However, it was clear from the pinched smile that Donna was pained in her curiosity and concern.

    Emma almost felt guilty, but there was no reason to discuss it. At all. Anymore. Emma took another bite of fish, chewed, and swallowed. All the same, she reminded her mother that she knew exactly where her priorities laid: "Things got busy for a bit, but that's all over. It's been good to have whole days at the bench again. I can get a lot more done that way."

    And, because her mother seemed to be holding her breath, Emma added, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

    Donna allowed herself to sit back just a little bit more. "So are you planning on another publication with Jane?"

    "Actually, as a matter of fact, yes. This is most likely my last project with her."

    Donna's eyes flashed with pride. "Isn't it strange to say it?"

    Emma grinned. "Just a little."

    Donna shook her head with a smile. "Well, I think it's fantastic. In fact," she signaled the waiter. "Could we please get another bottle of this chardonnay?" After the man left the table, Donna elaborated. "This calls for a celebration."

    That was wonderful, because Emma was in the mood to celebrate. Everything was settling in place and it all looked so very good. So perfect. So great. So exactly what she'd wanted all through September.

    And if she didn't have any other reason to celebrate: it was the first time her mother looked at her with unrestrained pride, instead of the happy but guarded "And when are you going to betray me?" smile.

    The waiter brought out the new bottle of wine and uncorked it. After a quick taste, Donna directed the waiter to refill Emma's glass and finish filling her own. "To the next step," she said, offering her glass in toast.

    Emma grinned. "To the next step," she said, as she touched her glass to her mother's.

    Life didn't get much better than this.

    "Cut! Can someone please get that annoying squirrel out of the shot?"

    Greg let go of Corinne Langley and waited patiently while one of the poor peons came forward with a broom. Ever relaxed, ever jubilant, Corinne laughed merrily. Greg gave a half-hearted smile.

    "You've been off your game lately, Greg," his former lover observed, with a concerned hand to his arm.

    He shrugged, noncommittally.

    Corinne wasn't stupid. "Just remember to smile when you tell me you love me next time, ok?"

    Greg scowled.

    A nervous assistant came forward to catch the director's attention. Patrick looked up and muttered to himself but listened patiently to a relayed message. After a brief exchange, Patrick groaned with disgust and spoke to the cast and crew at large. "I give up! Nothing's going right. We'll try this again after lunch. We start again at one-thirty."

    Dismissed, Corinne gave a heartfelt, earnest hand grasp in farewell and went off to consult with her assistant. Greg moved quickly to get back to his trailer.

    Checking his cell phone, he noted that his mother had called. And, as had been the case for the past two weeks, he was still not in the mood to talk to any of his family.

    As for the one person he was curious about…

    Well he didn't want to talk to her either, he thought darkly.

    Needing something or someone to rage at, he dialed his assistant. "Did you not call my mother and tell her I was busy?" he started without preamble.

    "Good evening to you, too," Amy replied cheerfully. "Well, afternoon where you are. And you know kiss-off phone calls don't work on her. I told you it wouldn-"

    "I don't care about what you told me. Get her off my back. I just need some time," Greg paced the length of his trailer.

    His assistant acknowledged. "Time."

    "Privacy."

    "Turn off your phone, then," she suggested the obvious.

    Greg stared at the device, wanting to reach into it and strangle her.

    Greg followed the linoleum pattern on the floor of the trailer with his eyes and foot in an exercise to calm himself. It was not her fault. But it annoyed him that she was speaking in her kindergarten teacher voice. He didn't want reason right now. He wanted to yell at someone. And he wanted someone to yell and push back. It certainly presented a much more pleasant prospect than being pissed off and impatient with himself.

    He didn't think it was possible, but the past two weeks in New Mexico were even harder than the last few he'd had back in California. He was working harder than he'd ever done before in his life. Hours of reading over notes and books, rehearsing by himself later and later into the night. Studying footage. Listening to interviews. All for what? So that he could be the world's expert on portraying Feynman. And not get reamed by Patrick's acidic tongue. And not get pitying looks from his coworkers.

    And what good was all this doing, really? Victor had called three days ago; another two projects that Greg had been banking on had not panned out. Greg was looking long and hard at a cold spell. Or worse. "Have you heard from Victor?" he asked Amy.

    "No. He's still upset you! It'll be at least another two days before he calms back down. Do you want me to find someone else for you to alienate?"

    Greg opened his mouth, scathing dismissal on his tongue, but Amy interrupted his tantrum with a laugh. "Greg. Listen to yourself!"

    He wanted to kill her.

    Amy shook her head. "You've been cranky ever since you left Los Angeles. Are you sure you don't want to, you know, take care of something back there?"

    "Amy," he said, dangerously.

    "She-" Amy paused. Sighed. "None of my business. I think you're going to need a longer break than two weeks before you start in Egypt."

    Greg sighed, kicking his foot against the side of the couch. He wouldn't have needed a break, if this hadn't been so damn draining. And if he hadn't been so distracted.

    There was a knock on the door. "Your lunch, Mr. Knightley."

    "I've got to go. My lunch has been delivered. I'll call you after I finish."

    "It better not be an Ita-"

    "Goodbye, Amy."

    Greg opened the door and the intern handed over the plastic bag. Greg gave a curt nod in dismissal before shutting the door with a kick. Setting the bag down at the table, Greg eagerly took out the Italian sub with extra onions and peppers that his assistant was about to warn him against. It was, perhaps, just a smidge off the menu that his trainer recommended, but damn, he'd earned it. He'd balance it out by drinking water; he would have killed for a beer.

    Sitting back, he grabbed the book that had caused more headaches than anything else in his life. Taking a deep breath, he mentally prepared himself as much as he could for the pending frustration. Then he opened the book and began to read: "A molecule is chiral when it is non-superimposable on its mirror image."

    "How about the one that wanted to join the James group? What's her name, Susie? Sally?" Amory Blaine suggested.

    "Far too short for my tastes," Henry replied easily.

    "What about Anne-what'sherface?"

    "We're talking about the redhead who's hot for C-H activation, right?"

    "Hot for C-H activation or hot in general?" Catherine asked, exasperatedly. "Come on, Henry. We have to go and set up the VT experiment in five minutes!"

    Henry reached out to tousle the shining strands of Catherine's new haircut. "You know I hold a special place in my heart for you, Cathy."

    "Yep, smack between the left and right ventricles. Come on!" she urged.

    Henry laughed. "Sorry, Am, the wife calls."

    Catherine rolled her eyes as he chuckled and followed her out.

    "I ought to get going too," Am sighed. "See you ladies later," he winked.

    "I hate it when orientation begins. They're grad students, not fresh meat," Elinor muttered, annoyed.

    "The male/female ratio in the department is 2:1. Do the math," Liz chuckled, leaning against Emma's desk. "And take advantage. We are in the lucky position of choosing for ourselves."

    "Speaking of fresh meat, have you seen the Stud Postdoc from UCSD?" Fran sighed admiringly.

    "Is that his name now?" Elinor asked. "And yes, I saw him at the stockroom yesterday afternoon. And he's not to be talked of this way."

    "What Stud Postdoc? Ugh, you mean Porphyrin Boy? A little too blond for my tastes," Annie shrugged.

    "I suppose that's why you were with Tall, Dark, and Handsome yesterday at the Red Door. Who is he, Annie?" Liz asked.

    "Old news," Annie replied glibly. "Very old."

    "Can you guys please let me finish this in peace?" Emma swore as she nearly pierced her index finger with a needle. She gave a quick glance to Annie, whose own expression remained closed.

    "Just because you've been on this man-hating-" Liz shut herself up as she saw Annie's wild slit-at-her-throat gestures. Liz shook her head and laughed. "Come on, Fran. You said you'd show me that prep for the nickel catalyst."

    "Fine, fine."

    "And you said you were up for coffee now," Elinor said to Annie.

    Annie met eyes with Emma. They had to talk. About Fred. About Greg. About the lack of progress, the frustration, the mounting tension and panic that Emma felt as a whole month had passed and she'd not yet heard from any of her prospective institutions.

    Emma broke eye contact and continued to set up her reaction. Right, because vocalizing the-the mess was exactly what she needed to forget about the stupid thing.

    Annie sighed. Emma sensed that Annie would back off, but only now. "Sure thing," Annie replied to Elinor.

    And then there was peace. Just Emma, in her hard-won solitude. She walked to her desk and settled in.

    Somewhere in the United States, leaves were gold or red. They were falling. The air was cooler and the nights longer. The breeze crept to a lower temperature with every passing day.

    However, in Southern California, things remained the same; the leaves were on the trees, the temperature persisted in the 70s and 80s, and Emma Woodhouse was still in lab, doing her best to get results.

    Summer was on its dying breath, but fought autumn valiantly. Everywhere the graduate students had started bringing sweatshirts to lab, so that their walks home at night would not be too cold. The undergrads had returned to campus, just now starting their school year. Harriet was in the frantic bunch of those who had signed up for entirely too many classes and needed time to adjust. The female portion of the incoming class of graduate students was sorting out the eligible bachelors into "datable" and "no way" categories. Everywhere there was a sense of new beginning.

    But not for Emma.

    She was working hard, but it was hardly working. Her progress was slower than any time she'd ever experienced, from undergrad to postdoc. It would have been easier to accept, had she not started thinking that perhaps the source of her frustrated pace was in fact not chemistry-related. That it rested outside herself.

    Disgusted, she sat up straighter in her chair and reconsidered the NMR spectrum she'd taken this morning. Blaming others for her problems was a coward's way out. She had to focus and get on with her work.

    Where was that peak at 5.4 ppm from? Was there a side product? And if there was, why only one peak? Ought there be more? It had to be a solvent, but what?

    The questions spun until they made her head hurt. Turning to the clock on her laptop, she concluded that though she'd waited for everyone to shuffle out of the room, maybe it was time for her to take a lunch break. A late lunch break. She pushed herself away from the desk stretching her arms high above. She rolled her neck and was slightly disturbed to hear a crack or two from her shoulders.

    Placing her safety glasses and pulling her gloves back on, she moved to her fume hood to check on the hydrogenation she was currently running. As it looked just fine, she cleaned up a bit and pulled the hood sash down.

    She'd have to run the aldehyde again. There was no going around it. The results were just not steady. Something had to be reproduced. Once she duplicated one of her three different results for the reaction, she'd have more footing to decide what had happened in the other two. She pulled off her gloves and washed her hands in the sink.

    All in all, things were good. Things were just as they should have been. Research walls and all. After all, research wasn't supposed to be easy. Wall or no wall, the problem would be addressed in its time, she told herself patiently. She simply had to keep on going. Something would work eventually.

    In the meantime, there were simple dilemmas that filled her days: take the NMR before or after dinner, set up the reaction tonight or tomorrow. Do the isopropyl substrate or the isobutyl. Work or more work.

    She'd even managed to be a good daughter and bridesmaid this week; at the advice of John Knightley, she'd called and booked one of her sister's favorite restaurants for the rehearsal dinner. She'd also called and chatted with her father and stepmother. They were planning a vacation to Aruba for February. Or January. One of the first two months of the year.

    So why did she feel so frustrated? She wasn't unmotivated, per se, but she sure put up the semblance of it. And it wasn't just clear to herself; upon joining Henry for a late night beer in the break room on Tuesday, she'd been put on the spot when he'd quietly mentioned that she seemed to be off her game. Expecting an hour or two of light carefree distraction, she'd been taken aback by Serious and Thoughtful Henry. She'd finished her beer quickly and gone home early that night, quite a bit shaken.

    Ok, so she'd caved. Only once. A short, quick, breezy e-mail. "Hey, how are you doing? Life's much better without you, ha! ~Em." Before she could be upset with herself for her quite lame message, she'd immediately gotten a reply from his assistant Amy; Greg was cutting himself from all contact during his two week vacation, but her message would be passed on to Greg the minute he emerged from his retreat. And, as she was sure Greg would want the information passed on, Amy included his cell phone number for future reference.

    Emma had walked away from that half hour of confusion even more determined to let things lie. What was she doing, trying to contact him? Especially when things in lab needed that extra attention and effort? It served her right that she'd had no success thus far, what with her mind wandering. What did she think was going to happen when he read the e-mail? Rush back and complicate her life even further? Because if "Life's much better without you, ha!" was Emma-speak for "I have strange and ineffable reactions to you" she dreaded finding out what would happen if she tried to articulate her unwanted romantic feelings for him: "I think you should leave, and I hope to never see you again."?

    And of course, even if she could find an eloquent way of enunciating those vague lonely feelings she'd been getting lately with regards to him, what did she expect to find out of it? It pissed her off that she missed his company. His jokes. His smile.

    That spin. It was the same uplifting, world-rocking tilt she felt when she looked at a proton NMR spectrum and realized she'd most likely made her desired product. She felt that when he laughed at her. Laughed with her. When he asked her about her latest project, and was able to recall a detail she'd mentioned before. Even if he called "dichloromethane" "dimethylchloride."

    Emma scowled as she found herself smiling. Here she'd gone and lost another ten minutes staring into space.

    Two failed deprotections, one reaction mistakenly set up with wet THF. An hour of lab gossip, and ten minutes spent who-knows-where.

    What a wasteful morning.

    They were classic, sexy, and outrageously beautiful.

    Emma scowled at the dozen long-stemmed red roses that arrived just a scant ten minutes ago. She hadn't been able to take her eyes off of them. Her mind hadn't quite wrapped around the fact of their existence, nor their purpose. A quick touch confirmed their authenticity: dreamily soft satin.

    "So it's true," Fran said breathlessly from the door of the lab, gaze wide on the arrangement in the glass vase on Emma's desk.

    "Wow," Liz said with an uncharacteristically soft look in her eye.

    "You'd think that they'd never seen a dozen roses in their life," Will muttered to Henry.

    There was too much noise. She had to think this out. Figure this out.

    No contact for more than three weeks and then flowers?

    "I take it that they're from your number one British fan?" Liz reached for the card.

    Emma almost glared her into unhanding it, but Liz was made of sterner stuff and greater curiosity.

    "They made me think of you. Greg," Liz punctuated with a whistle through her teeth. "Hot damn, Em." She couldn't resist another pleased grin. "Do you know what red roses mean?"

    "Do you know how likely it is that Greg has no clue about the secret of language of flowers?" Will rolled his eyes. "Or, for that matter, how likely it was that his assistant--"

    "God, Will, shut up and let her be delusional and girly for a moment!" Liz smacked him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. "Just because you haven't been on-"

    "Don't you guys have work to do?" Emma asked abruptly. She scowled and avoided the curious gazes of her labmates. Yes, something in her had twisted up and then released a huge silky sigh when she'd seen the flowers. But that was only at first. Will's buzz-killing words hadn't really shocked her; she'd been telling herself the same thing. All the same.

    "Come on, I'm sure she wants to thank him privately," Henry grinned. Emma nearly growled.

    When she was sure she was alone, she grabbed the note that Liz had put down by the vase and fingered the card. A typed message, of course. Because he was thousands of miles away. An ocean away.

    So why did things feel too close, too much, too everything?

    Emma opened her e-mail program and scanned the contents until she found the message she was looking for. She wrote the number down and moved to the wall phone. She inputted the digits slowly, trying to convince herself that she didn't have to do this. A quick glance at the clock told her absolutely nothing; where in the world was he now?

    It would have served him right if she woke him up at the buttcrack of dawn.

    She was wondering where he'd have to be for such an event to occur when he answered within two rings. "Knightley."

    "Greg," she said simply, mind blank.

    "Emma! How are you?"

    She cleared her throat. "Since when do thoughts of me merit so prosaic a gesture?"

    Greg laughed. "You got the flowers."

    Emma looked balefully at the arrangement on her desk. "Yes, I did," she replied succinctly.

    "Go ahead."

    "If you think I'm going to thank you for-"

    "Ha! Didn't you just say something about being prosaic? Go ahead. Tell me I'm an idiot." It wasn't something he hadn't been thinking to himself for a bit already.

    Emma gestured exasperatedly, glad that he couldn't see her reaction. "What are you on, Greg?"

    It was the same thing he'd been asking himself for weeks now.

    "I thought of you. I wanted you to be thinking of me," he said simply.

    Emma sighed as she leaned against a desk. I don't want to think of you. "A rather extravagant gesture; an e-mail would have sufficed."

    "Not quite my style."

    "No, I guess not," Emma said as she wistfully reached out to touch a petal, echoing a response that she was sure had been made before several times, by several different women on different bouquets, all sent by Greg. Was he planning on using more of that "style" on her? All the same, they were beautiful, and darling, and as pessimistic as she wanted to be, she felt moved. "They're going to die, Greg. I kill cacti."

    "Just goes to show you what a higher education will get you: I hate to break it to you, but I believe they'll be dying anyway."

    "So why did you send them to me?"

    He was silent, as if to think over the matter. "Because they're not dead yet," he replied, the answer obvious.

    "Profound, Knightley."

    "I try."

    Chapter Eight

    Posted on Monday, 9 April 2007

    Date: October 12, 2005
    From: Anne L. Elliot (ale@caltech.edu)
    To: Frederick M. Wentworth (fmw@scripps.edu)
    Subject: Not now.

    See subject line.

    ALE

    Date: October 12, 2005
    From: Gregory P Knightley (gpknightley@gmail.com)
    To: Isabella Woodhouse (irw@ckg.org)
    Subject: No need! Really!

    I meant it. I'll stop by.

    Greg

    > You really don't have to do this. She's my sister!
    > Isabella

    It wasn't as if the world had ended. She was being overdramatic.

    Still. Emma took a deep breath. She was barely aware of her surroundings, but was glad when she realized that she could mope without an audience. There was a ringing in her ears. She moved to the couch and dropped into it.

    She didn't know how long she sat there before Annie jolted her out of her reverie. "Hey Emma, I thought you were having dinner with Henry tonight. Emma? Anything wrong?"

    The living room was dark. Slivers of orange light snuck between the blinds and scattered across the floor. She'd left the window open. The evening air was cold; at some point her fingers had turned frozen.

    Dramatics. Emma flexed her fingers, tension in her fist sending heat singing through the appendages. The crack of her knuckles snapped the air.

    The touch of Annie's comforting hand on her shoulder had Emma sitting up straighter on the couch. Emma met Annie's eyes, nodded in acknowledgment of her friend's presence and gestured to two letters on the coffee table. Her embarrassment would have had her hiding the news from anyone else.

    Annie picked them up, turned on a table lamp, and scanned them quickly in the dim yellow light. And really didn't quite know what to say. Yes, a setback, but not unexpected; nobody got interviews everywhere they applied. Annie didn't have to tell Emma that; Emma knew it.

    All the same, she could understand her friend's frustration. "Emma…" she rubbed her friend's back soothingly.

    Was she supposed to cry? Why didn't she cry? Disappointment made Emma's muscles sore and tired, but she wasn't sad.

    She was angry. She'd worked her butt off this past month, and there was nothing to show for it. Not one intriguing result. Not one clean NMR. And she'd taken it in stride. With verve, even. Frustrating, but natural.

    No interviews. With the two that arrived today, four outright rejections.

    Unable to provide her friend any comfort or understanding, Annie simply held Emma's hand. Imagining herself in Emma's shoes, Annie simply couldn't fathom what words were most needed.

    At length, Emma spoke to at least give Annie relief, "I know. Not a big deal. These places, they're teaching colleges. I-I wouldn't have been happy there."

    "And you know teaching colleges have different standards," Annie comforted.

    Emma sat, quietly thinking over Annie's words. "They didn't even want an interview. They didn't even want to meet me."

    "And if they don't want you, then what's to say that no one else wants you." Annie completed. Annie shook her head. "Not possible."

    But it was. No one else had contacted her. And Emma wondered if there was anything she could do to change their minds.

    Yes, this round of applications happened to go to mainly teaching colleges; the universities and institutions with grad programs she was planning on applying to had later deadlines. And of course, Annie was right; teaching colleges did have different standards. If she was truly honest with herself, Emma could admit that she lacked the charisma and patience to be just a lecturer. Add the fact that Emma hadn't TAed a class since she'd made that premed cry in o chem back during her first year, and her application wasn't looking good at all.

    It made sense that these people could see through her statements and dismiss her. If they knew what was good for them.

    But the sting. Oh, the sting of real rejection.

    "Don't you remember what Tom Weston told us when he was applying? He said that for every five applications you sent out, you get only one interview. And for every five interviews you go on, you on average only get one offer. It's only natural," Annie reminded her.

    Again, words that Emma had told herself before, but whose meaning never took root.

    She should have--ugh. Emma pushed herself off the couch and started to pace.

    She deserved this. She did. No question about it.

    More annoying and distressing than her lack of progress and the fear that she seemed to be unemployable was the chilling truth that despite the important things to be annoyed and frustrated with, she was walking around in a daze, unmindful of all of it.

    A daze attributed to a dozen roses that were nearly dead and dried, sitting in moldy water (in spite, or even perhaps because of Liz's many harangues). And three phone calls, each of ten minutes' duration.

    She was the one who missed him. She was the one who was weak. She was the one who, against her better judgment, allowed herself to be played the fool. She was the one who really wanted to reach for him right now, when she felt lost and disappointed. And what, exactly, did she expect him to do?

    Disgusting. Terrible. Horrific.

    And so now, even reeling from professional rejection, when she felt fearful of the future and less than confident of her own abilities, she hated that she thought of him. Of reaching for him. She hated herself for not taking the immediate problem seriously.

    A part of her whispered that she was being rejected because she'd already sabotaged her own credibility and progress when she chose to blow off lab for premieres and parties. It was months ago! Why was it that with all things regarding Greg she could make such huge mistakes?

    It's not the end of the world. She tried to calm herself with platitudes but she couldn't help but feel the paranoia. The echoing gentle criticism of her mother.

    "Do you think that maybe we should…"

    Emma turned to look at Annie. "What?"

    "Well, would you like to call Greg?"

    Hearing the man's name uttered aloud, Emma leaned forward and buried her head in her hands.

    "We haven't really talked about him…" Annie began uncomfortably.

    No, they hadn't and Emma had grown increasingly aware of a surprising guilt; she had avoided having any sort of heart-to-heart since the evening Annie'd been reunited with Frederick, and Greg had gone away.

    There was just too much to deal with, counting lab alone. If one were to also bring to light all the other horrible possibilities, then honestly, what kind of time, strength, or focus would be left for work and real life? It didn't help the heavy, thick hesitancy that Emma felt at this moment, but Emma fought for her privacy staunchly. "I know, Annie. And I'm sorry."

    Annie nodded slowly.

    "But I don't think I should call Greg."

    "Ok," Annie answered simply, understanding that her friend wished to drop the topic.

    No need. No courage. No embarrassment. This was a problem, Emma determined, that she would deal with herself.

    As for the bigger one, well, she'd deal with that too.

    He had a bottle of Dom, two plastic cups, and a come-hither smile. That alone would have been hard enough to resist, but when he told her that he also had tiramisu, she was gone.

    She wasn't sure, but it was as if in the time that they'd been apart, he'd actually found a way to become more irresistible. She reasoned that his appeal was, of course, in that she hadn't seen him in a while.

    And that was the only reason why she was letting loose with her "avoid thoughts of Greg at all costs" resolution and enjoying him.

    "What are we celebrating?" she asked, as she unlocked the door to the conference room. When she reached for the light switch Greg took her hand in his, set another hand at her waist, shaking his head. "Sit down."

    Startled by his touch, she backed away from him quickly. She moved towards the table, allowing her eyes to settle into the darkness. Bright sodium lamps outside the windows cast a warm orange glow into the room. He settled the plastic bag he carried onto the table and took the Tupperware out.

    "Did you make this?"

    "It's my mother's recipe. She got it from my Italian grandmother," he explained. He grinned and she groaned as she saw the candles he'd drawn out of the bag as well. "Happy birthday, Emma."

    "How did you know?" she asked, hiding her face in her hands.

    "John and Isabella told me." And threatened to visit, but Greg wasn't going to reveal how he'd been so gracious in saving her from the copious criticism Isabella had stored up. "And Isabella ordered me to be abominably cruel to you and remind you that your biological clock is ticking," he teased. He gestured to his pack of candles. "They don't sell them in packs of thirty, so I figured, we'd put three, one for each of those lovely decades…"

    He struck a match and lit the candles with care. And she couldn't help feeling happy. He wasn't going to be around for long. As long as he wasn't around for long, surely...

    She looked glad to see him. And he was grateful for that.

    So maybe he'd impulsively jumped to her defense when Isabella had mentioned the visit last phone call. Maybe he'd even been maneuvered. All the same, nothing could take away from the genuine rush of vitality and brightness that he was feeling at this moment. It was that same feeling he got when he ordered that last scotch, the one that he knew he'd be feeling in the morning, but couldn't help it.

    The candlelight caressed the corners of the room. She could have sworn this entire sequence was part of a dream; in the dim light, Greg didn't look real. In his sweatshirt and jeans, he appeared the most casual she'd ever seen him. And when he turned his warm smiling gaze to her, her mind simply drifted…

    "Make a wish…"

    They were in a conference room at Caltech. Had she not just torn apart Will's group meeting five hours before in this room? There was nothing at all romantic in this situation. But she couldn't stop the heady feeling. She looked back at the candles on the cake and then at him.

    Make a wish. His words slowly settled in her mind and she couldn't seem to focus on anything. Had she had complete command over her senses and sense, she would have simply scoffed. However, in the warm candlelight, there was something so very…

    She bent forward as she thought about what she wanted. And she was sure that there was a good many things she did want. She'd been coming up with a list of them as she'd been running her column just this afternoon. But she couldn't help but look up and meet his gaze again. The yearning she felt didn't surprise her, but its intensity did. She closed her eyes to the sensation.

    She bent forward and found herself blowing the candles out without even deciding on her wish. And as the room darkened once more and the smooth smell of blown-out candle curled into the air, she simply couldn't understand. She waited patiently as she heard Greg move around towards the light switch.

    The harsh fluorescent lights made her recoil and she covered her eyes in discomfort. Lingering unclear, intense thoughts were driven away with the shadows, and she was happy to be safe in the real world again.

    "You look tired," he observed as he walked her back to her apartment.

    The air was brisk and the streets were empty. Emma gathered her jacket closer to her.

    "Don't I always?" she replied.

    "There's more strain than usual."

    "I've been busy," she replied succinctly.

    "With?"

    Feeling too tired to elaborate for someone who most likely didn't understand or appreciate, she kept her answer succinct: "Stuff."

    "What kind?"

    She turned to him, eyes narrowed. When she assessed that he was actually interested in her reply, she shifted uncomfortably. "Well, there's this paper that Jane and I are working on."

    "That's the napkin doodle conversation we had at Jamba Juice, right?"

    She smiled and answered, "Yes. It is."

    He grinned. "So you're writing your results up?"

    "Yes and no. I've started on the draft, but there are still some very important data points I need to acquire."

    "And you are having difficulties in acquiring them?"

    Emma sighed. "To put it politely, yes."

    He put an arm around her companionably. "Sounds like a pain."

    "It is."

    "What else?"

    "Well, there are more applications, both for positions and for funding." she listed.

    "More writing."

    She nodded in misery. "Not that I dislike writing. If I'm serious about a career in academia, I'll have to get used to it. And, well you know I already had one set of applications finished, so maybe these will go smoother. But when I think about it," she paused to watch a cat cross the street, "I get tired," she said honestly.

    He squeezed her shoulder in sympathy. "Maybe you're too close to it. Maybe you just need a break."

    She looked at him dubiously. "A break?"

    "You know, a short period of time during which one relaxes."

    She rolled her eyes as she stepped away from his half-embrace. "I know what a break is, Greg. I was merely verifying that you were suggesting this atrocious idea," she replied seriously.

    "What's so atrocious about it?" he teased.

    "I don't break, Greg. When I come to a problem I can't solve, I push through it. You can't avoid or ignore your problems; the harder you push, the sooner you'll get through it. What are you so amused at?" She wondered at his chuckle.

    "You. You don't take any breaks? I think Annie once told me that you baked and rock-climbed…"

    "As a matter of fact, I do. They are my rewards for pushing myself through my problems," Emma replied matter-of-factly.

    "Rewards? And what happens if you cheat and take a reward before you're meant to?" he teased. "Do the guilt police come and repossess your car?"

    His careless smile made a muscle in her stomach clench in disgust and disappointment. For some reason, she'd thought better of him.

    She wanted to let the remark stand, as it was obvious they weren't moving towards anything. But as the silence stretched on, she concluded that he was patiently waiting for her answer. That he was seriously interested in what she had to say. Tentatively, she began, "I have to stay in control. A career in academia requires a lot of intelligence, hard work, discipline-"

    "And taking a moment to breathe every once in a while won't hurt any of that," he reproached. "It doesn't make you weak to rest; it makes you human."

    They walked up the sidewalk to her apartment complex as he finished his gentle reproach. She turned to him with an awkward laugh. "Well, on that note, I guess we'll wrap this evening up."

    "Agreed. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at eight," he took her hand in his clasp and on it placed a careless kiss.

    She withdrew her hand from his so that she could gather her wits about her. She could feel the embarrassment and nerves rush to color her cheeks, and hoped that the dim lighting would hide it. The words finally started to sink in a few seconds after. She paused in her task of retrieving keys from her purse to meet his gaze, startled. "Eight in the morning? Tomorrow? For what?"

    "Your birthday present."

    She frowned. "But tomorrow's Wednesday."

    "And I'm sure you have more than enough vacation days to play truant for one day."

    He made it sound so easy, so tempting. And it was more clear than ever that being around him really did complicate her schedule, her life. Nerves and haze of happiness dropped, Emma narrowed her gaze. "A whole day? I can't. I have reactions to run," she began, emphatic hand gestures punctuating her frustration at his high-handedness. "This is very presumptuous of you. I can't just drop everything because you've decided to come and visit."

    He simply stood, smiling at her.

    "I can't believe you're doing this to me. You, of all people, know how busy I am and how important my routine is to me," she looked at him.

    "It's your birthday."

    "And I can choose how I want to spend it. What makes birthdays so special anyway?" she asked exasperatedly.

    "You have survived being your prickly self for thirty years. I think that's a fine accomplishment. One certainly worth celebrating."

    She scowled at him. "Well when you phrase it that way, how can I resist?" she quipped. She looked up as a car came by, illuminating her pale features momentarily. The fear and embarrassment in her eyes.

    Greg took her gently by the shoulders. She looked at her shoes. "Greg, you don't have to do this. I'm sure you have better things to do with your time. I don't mean to sound ungrateful."

    She paused, waiting for a response. When he wouldn’t reply, she continued. "I appreciate the thought. I really do. But I don't need special celebrations. In fact, they make me uncomfortable."

    And suddenly he wanted to hug her until she did feel comfortable with it. Frustrated with her incredibly annoying reserve, he closed his eyes and cleared all the mess away. When he opened his eyes, he stared at her silently until she looked up to meet his gaze. "If you won't go for you, then come for me," he said. "I haven't seen you in a while and for some unfathomable reason, I actually missed you. If you're unhappy, we'll leave immediately. But give it a chance."

    And somehow, that reason frightened her even more. He was asking for more than her accompaniment the next day. He was asking her to step up and take a chance. What was scarier: she wasn't quite sure that even he knew what the stakes were. What if she did something stupid and threw herself at him? What if she didn't and she still fell in love? But as always with Greg, she found that she simply just couldn't take the safe option and dismiss him.

    Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was because she'd been staring at her papers too long and really wanting to stop. Maybe it was that cold chill she'd felt when she'd finally tossed his flowers a week ago. Maybe it was that cold autumn breeze that haunted her now, warning her that the pleasures in life like warm summers and handsome men were fleeting.

    She would never ever try to remember what came over her at that moment, but she simply nodded.

    "Isn't this considered cannibalism?"

    "It's a pretzel," Greg chuckled.

    "It's also in the shape of Mickey Mouse's head."

    For once, she was the better-dressed of the two. Greg wore a dirty Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap, an entirely too-large, bright, Disney-liciously yellow shirt that boasted that he was in fact the "Goofy-est Dad". Greg incognito. The only stars being chased today by eager and ardent fans were Mickey and his friends.

    When she'd woken and realized that she really had no clue whatsoever as to where he was taking her for the day, Emma decided to drag out the sundress that Isabella had forced on her one or two years ago when she was guilt-tripped into going back home so that they, together, could take their father out for lunch on Father's Day.

    Boy, did she feel like a fool, she mused as she took in the screaming kids and tired parents all around them. The only people who had dressed better than her were the little girls who had shown up in princess costume, complete with tiara.

    Once Greg had maneuvered his shiny rented BMW Z4 from the 5 freeway onto the carpool lane exit of Disneyland Drive, she'd vehemently protested that she at least be given a reprieve; they'd stopped in Downtown Disney to buy a pair of cross-trainers for her. The Strappy Sandals of Death were safely ensconced in the plastic bag that he gallantly carried for her.

    Furthermore, the cool evening before was followed by a hot, Indian summer day. To protect her pale face from burning in the sun, she reluctantly made her way to one of the bijillion merchandise stores, where she purchased her very first piece of Disney memorabilia, a navy blue baseball cap with the castle logo. It was the plainest one she could find.

    Greg had been clever enough to bring sunscreen, so she made a deal; at least an hour of smiles (however contrived they might get) in exchange for UV protection.

    Using her folded park map to fan her face, she was pretty sure that Isabella would be cringing if she knew that Coppertone Sport, sweat, and water from Splash Mountain were violating this Ann Taylor number.

    It was her dress, anyway.

    As she took a bite out of her pretzel, she turned once more to Greg. "How often do you come here?"

    "Four or five times every year."

    "Why?" she asked.

    He smiled, apparently determined that she come to her own conclusions on that score.

    She sighed and turned away from him.

    "What are you looking at?" she snapped, and immediately regretted it as the chubby cherub who was watching her with big eyes and a gaping smile pursed her tiny lips, the corners of her blue eyes wrinkling up, moisture collecting in them instantly. As the dismayed scream sang into the air and pierced Emma's eardrums, she turned back to Greg in exasperation.

    Greg chuckled and quickly escorted her out of the line. "I can't take you anywhere, can I?"

    Embarrassed, Emma sighed. "This is what you get for dragging me out in public and exposing me to kids all day."

    He took her hand in his. "Why don't we go and ride the Haunted Mansion again?"

    She blushed as she recalled that she had practically jumped into his lap after a grotesque puppet had suddenly jumped out at her from behind a gravestone on the ride. "You laugh. It's a perfectly natural response for a person to jump when she is surprised."

    "I do believe you have one of the most adorable squeaks I've ever heard."

    "Too bad you won't be hearing it from me ever again," she pronounced decidedly.

    They wandered past the line for Peter Pan's Adventure. As Emma swerved quickly to avoid the sprinting boy that came at them from eleven o' clock, she grabbed Greg's arm and moved closer. "I'm serious, Greg. What is it about this place that you love? I would have thought that you were one of those 'this is an evil commercial capitol' guys. Frankly, I'm disappointed in you."

    "Well, everybody has his flaws," he chuckled. "My father proposed to my mother here."

    "Are you serious?" she asked incredulously.

    "Completely. It was in front of the spinning tea cups."

    And she shifted her feet uncomfortably. "Wow, that sounds…" Cheesy? Weird? "Romantic?"

    "You doubt, but my father had it planned; he figured that after the ride, her head would feel light enough that she'd accept."

    Emma laughed. "I take it back. Not romantic, but practical. So now I know why your parents like it, but why do you?"

    Greg shrugged. "Why do you like rock climbing? I like it here," he said simply.

    Three hours later, as she leaned against Greg tiredly on a bench, she still hadn't figured it out, but found reasons of her own for at least tolerating it here.

    The vanishing sun painted the shops, rides and people a pale gold, gilding those last few seconds of daylight in the Happiest Place on Earth. The pale pink sky seemed to seep into the senses until you realized that you no longer had to view the world through a rose-colored glass; it was already all rosy anyhow. And best of all, the kids, drained of energy, were finally quiet. Most of them were bundled up into strollers; others were carried on their fathers' strong backs, fast asleep on steady paternal shoulders.

    And while she realized that it was quite possible she'd never understand Greg's reasons for liking this place, this was what she liked about the Magic Kingdom.

    Greg squeezed her hand gently, an inquiry as to whether or not she was all right. She didn't turn to him, though. She simply squeezed his hand back reassuringly.

    The drive back to Pasadena from Anaheim was absolutely terrible.

    With every mile they drove, another wrinkle folded into her brow, another note of worry infused itself into her gaze. He could almost hear her questions and thoughts himself: What was she going to do about that stupid proposal? And what about that side product? What was it? How long was this complication going to set her back?

    Greg finally got off the 210 in Pasadena. She'd wrung the map into a strip of crushed paper. Greg covered her hand with his. Startled, she turned to him. In the quick passing of the street lamps, it was hard for her to see his face, but the tone of his voice was warm. "Please, don't."

    And when he was about to withdraw his hand, he was surprised that she held on.

    She was holding on. Because today was good. Problems were simpler in the Magic Kingdom. Move to the right to avoid the kid. Smile every once in a while to the child next to you so that she knows you're not out to kill her. Dumbo or Alice in Wonderland? The green or purple tea cup to ride in?

    Take Greg's hand and it was all easily solved. He'd make the decision for her. He'd laugh and kid her until she cooled it or laughed herself. He'd shrug and say that the color of the tea cup really didn't matter, and guffawed when she conceded, elaborating that the angular momentum was obviously the culprit of the sick kids she'd seen exit the ride. He'd simply smile when he had nothing to say at all.

    And now, she held his hand tightly, hoping that these problems she was returning to would somehow be miraculously solved as well.

    Greg stopped the car in front of her building and they got out. She knew him well enough now that she didn't even protest when he proceeded to escort her to the apartment door.

    "I-"

    He placed a finger on her lips to quiet her, and she immediately felt her mouth go dry.

    The glow of her neighbors' lights warmed his features and she simply smiled weakly in response.

    "You worry too much," he said softly.

    Before she could say a word in argument, however, he simply wrapped her in his arms. "You were happy today, right?"

    Against his chest, she nodded and replied honestly, "Happier than I've been in a while."

    Greg smiled into her hair, enjoying the moment. The day had been one of the happier ones that he'd had in a while as well. He'd been relaxed, entertained, and content. Fussy agents, stressful filmings, and obnoxiously curious costars slipped into the background of his mind as he focused on Emma's face, Emma's smile. It was startling how much this woman so easily shook things up for him. She'd invaded just about everything in his life now, and had made it all so very, very difficult. And tiring. And honestly, boring when she wasn't around.

    She looked up at him to find his serious gaze upon her. A teasing remark about how hypocritical it was of him to tell her not to worry when he was so obviously preoccupied remained unsaid. Most of her brain told her to turn around, dig out the keys, get inside and close the door. She always contrary and moody when she was tired, so instead, she remained rooted to her spot, reached up to twine her fingers in his soft hair, pulled his head down, and kissed him.

    It was a moment of beautiful startling clarity. And it was everything she'd feared it would be.

    And it had nothing to do with teaching proposals, side products, or even twirling tea cups. For the moment, it didn't matter if she couldn't identify the side product. Or if she got a job. It didn't even matter if someone accidentally set fire to the whole apartment complex they were standing in front of.

    It was comfort and heat. She felt it shake her deep inside. Her head spun. The raw physicality of it moved her. Closer. To Him. His shirt was soft against the skin of her arms. His jeans were rough against the cold skin of her knees. Textures, tastes, smells. Conglomerated, they formed a filmy, warm haze around Emma's brain.

    The rush was nearly overwhelming. Of course she kissed as she did everything else; with 115% of her being, effort, and spirit. One word echoed in Greg's mind, over and over: Finally. Real thoughts would have to catch up later.

    Opening her mouth, she let his tongue sweep inside possessively and she laid her claim to his mouth with a fierceness that was completely unlike her but oh so fun to wield.

    Before the kiss was over, she missed it. Her hands came to embrace his shoulders and she pulled him closer, not wanting to let go. She felt his hands on her waist, around her shoulders, holding her tighter. And she celebrated in it. Within her, resistance melted in the intense exothermic heat of the moment.

    A fellow building-dweller noisily started digging in her purse for keys, coughing hard as she walked past them. Emma slammed back into herself and pulled her lips away from his. She blushed as she saw that it was Annie, who winked at her.

    She hid her blush in his chest.

    "Wow," he said at length, huskily.

    Taking a deep breath, she tried to organize her thoughts, but was distracted with the simple sexy smell of him and all she wanted to do was to fold herself into him and kiss him some more. Possess him some more. She exhaled shakily. And took the cowards' way out. "Oh, we shouldn't have done this. Things are so complicated already."

    "No, we shouldn't have," he agreed stupidly.

    "It's perfectly natural that we did, though," she reasoned defensively. "There are instincts between a man and woman. And you're an attractive member of our species, it's only natural that--"

    Why wouldn't she shut up? He couldn't think. What the hell was supposed to happen now? Hearing her try to rationalize the event only irritated him more and he just wanted to get away from this. "Not now, Emma," he interrupted.

    Whatever look of insecurity in her eyes was shuttered away when she heard his words. Emotion and awkwardness vanished, replaced by a sheer cool veneer of stoicism. He wanted to kick himself for being such an insensitive dolt.

    "Of course not. I'm sorry," she apologized tersely.

    "No need to apologize," he said gruffly, knowing very well that it ought to have been him apologizing to her. "It happened. And it won't happen again," he informed her.

    "Oh."

    Her soft, glossy, well-kissed lips formed a perfect O. His gut clenched, hateful of his restraint.

    "Well, good. Because it ought not to," she said, voice clearer, smoother now.

    "So." If only he could redo the last minute. Maybe he wouldn't have kissed her back. Or stopped the kiss from happening.

    Ha.

    Ok, maybe he could have just not stopped kissing her.

    "We're all right?" he asked, still feeling incredibly lame. How many movies had he been in? Why could he not come up with something smart to say?

    "Of course we are!" Emma snapped.

    "Good."

    "Good."

    They stood in uncomfortable silence.

    "I'm going away again tomorrow," he stated.

    "Of course," she said. "Where to this time?"

    "Back to my home in London."

    "Oh. Well, have a good trip, then."

    Greg nodded. Feeling dismissed, he turned to leave. But he couldn't walk away from her like this. He sheepishly turned back to her. And though he knew it'd startle them both, he took her hand in his. Hers was cold in his warm one, and he felt his fingers tighten around…

    "Happy birthday. Take care, Emma," he said, bringing the hand to his lips.

    She cleared her throat three times before she replied steadily: "You too."

    Continued in Next Section

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