“As I remember from the précis, a frayed personality was the basis of the story.”
“Editors are not to be understood.”
He handed her a mailing tube.
She chuckled. “Your attempts to be inconspicuous with that in the Jeep were unsuccessful.” She extracted a roll of parchment and laid it on the floor. “Beautiful!”
“Joe decided to use the chestnut ink for a change.”
“Great choice.”
“Now your test. The formula?”
She closed here eyes. “r equals 2a times parenthesis one plus cosine Theta end parenthesis.”
“I’m embarrassed that I asked.”
“As you should be.”
She kissed his cheek. “Thank you again. Now, ready for some lunch? I do in fact have zucchinis.”
Half an hour later, Sheila frowned. “Aaron, it’s not right. You ate nothing. I’ve raided my beds for all of the vegetables you like.”
“I apologize. Too much on my mind.”
She sighed. “All right, let’s examine the facts.”
“Sheila, I—”
“As the scientists we are.”
He shrugged.
She raised a finger. “One, they—whoever they are—are offering what is now a small amount of money.”
“True.”
She raised a second. “Two, there is no real limit to what you can earn.”
“My point exactly.”
“Three, you have a wonderful reason to be earning the money.”
“Wonderful, indeed. Have I told you about the latest—”
“Later, please. I want to pursue this point.”
“Of course, but you agree I should keep the money flowing?”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“But you’ve been threatened.”
“I sense it’s not real.”
“So, the answer seems easy to me.”
“Easy?”
“You don’t wish to sell. Ergo, you must resist. You must hire some detectives to determine the threat. And bodyguards, too.”
“I—”
“Aaron, is money a concern?”
“No.”
“Therefore, good, perhaps expensive, detectives will find out who these people are. When you know who they are, you can rid yourself of them. And the bodyguards will keep you safe in the meantime.”
He nodded. “I wonder if I should talk to Sam about it.”
“Larson? He’s just a money-grubber. He’ll have a single thought—keep the market calls coming.”
“You’re view is skewed. And while he’s not of our world, he’s a fine man and a magnificent operator in his—the world in which we’re trying to function.”
She shrugged. “All right, then let’s ask him to join us.”
“Now? Here?”
“If you value his opinion, let’s hear it.”
“Yes, all right. Sam would be happy to counsel with me.”
Rubenstein extracted Larson’s business card from his wallet.
“Sam Larson.”
“Mr. Larson, this is Sheila Rubenstein.”
“Hi! You didn’t—”
“I’m calling on a different subject.”
“Okay.”
She explained the circumstances. “Would it be possible for you to join us?” “Now? Sure, but what can you tell me—”
“Let’s wait until you arrive.”
“Okay. Where are you?”
“At my house in the mountains. Near Peabody.”
“North on Georgia 515? Two hours? Where from there?”
“A twenty mile drive, then I’ll meet you.”
“I’ve been up that way. Just give me directions from Peabody.”
“I can give you directions for most of the way, but you can’t make the last part by
yourself.”
“No? Okay.”
She gave him directions to Parrott’s Store.
The sign he encountered a mile from the store was so battered and faded that he wondered whether the store’s ruins were in fact his goal. He made a final turn and there it was, a building and setting from another time.
A bell tied with string to the door rang as he entered.
“Coming.”
A tall, thin woman appeared. Her white hair was streaked with yellow and pulled
back in a tight bun. She was barefoot and wearing the remnants of what was once called a sundress. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Sheila Rubenstein.”
The woman stared at Larson, then smiled. “She should be here any minute.” She looked out the door at the white Porsche, then pointed an aging green Volkswagen Rabbit and a white Buick parked at the side of the building. “Park your little toy car beside Sheila’s and Aaron’s. It’ll be safe.”
“You said Sheila wasn’t here yet.”
“She’s not.” She pointed at the Rabbit. “That VW’s Sheila’s flatland car. Can’t make it to the house. She’ll be here with her Jeep.”
The figure —hidden when he had first seen her in Rubenstein’s hospital room—was athletic, the shoulders even wider than he remembered. An Atlanta Braves baseball cap hid most of the hair. The cap shadowed the face, but the tan was evident.
“When I saw you in May you had the whitest skin I had ever seen, but now—” “Another advantage of having a few eastern Mediterranean genes.” She extended her hand. “Thank you for coming. I know it’s an imposition, but it’s important.”
She smiled at the proprietress. “Any mail?”
“Never mind the mail, missy.” She pointed at Larson. “Caught one, have you? All that yellow hair. He’s right pretty!”
“Sara Beth! This is Mr. Sam Larson—a friend of Aaron’s. What will he think of your talking like that?”
“Bet he could tell I was funning you.”
“May be so. Any mail?”
She handed Sheila a thin catalog. “Need anything?”
“No, I just came down to ferry Mr. Larson up to the house.”
The narrow macadam road rose quickly.
“Is this a county road?” Larson said.
“Theoretically—as far as the turnoff to the old Nicholson place.”
“They’re a little behind in their upkeep, aren’t they?”
“Some, but there isn’t enough traffic to warrant much maintenance. After the turn-
off, the road’s my responsibility. You may look back fondly upon this stretch of road.” “Wonderful.”
“Given that Flossy has no doors, I recommend you pull your seat belt tight.”
The view was spectacular, but the face held his attention. The light was better. It was as he remembered, except for the coloring. He could see the hair better at this range. Much of the red was now yellow—not much darker than his own. The green eyes were darker in the shadow of the baseball cap. He smiled—no ear lobes.
Twenty minutes later, they reached the top of the mountain. Larson stared at the house for a long moment. “This is yours?” She nodded.
“Where exactly are we?”
“This is Davis Mountain. Forty-six hundred feet—just a few feet less than Brasstown
Bald.” She pointed to a mountain to the southeast. “The North Carolina border is just a few miles behind you and Tennessee is off to your right five or six miles.” “Impressive. Took some dynamite to clear this place.”
“And some experts.”
He turned to the forty-foot, solid wall of rock two hundred feet behind him. “Looks like you left about a third of the mountain top.”
“I left it as a windbreak. And the view toward the northwest is less attractive that the others.
He gestured at the leveled area. “Two acres?”
“More or less. The far end—the east end—slopes away to a minor cliff. Debris from the blasting. The local serpents find the rubble habitable.”
“Serpents?”
“Rattlesnakes. They like to sun themselves on the flat rocks.”
&nb
sp; “Big drop?”
“Thirty feet or so. The north and south edges are more gentle.”
She parked between the main house and a three-car garage. A well house, potting shed, and raised beds filled with flowers and vegetables were visible south of the house.
She turned off the ignition. “Welcome to Mountain House.”
“Certainly an appropriate name. Thank you.”
She opened the rear entrance, a door in the middle of the north side.
An hour’s conversation, ranging from Sheila’s gentle persuasion to Larson’s threat to take the matter to the police himself, produced nothing to alter Rubenstein’s mind.
“I’ve found a way to justify my life,” he said. “Through my own efforts—”
Sheila interrupted. “Your accomplishments with CHAOS have long since justified your life, Aaron.”
“Perhaps, but coupled with Sam’s expertise, I can make another real difference.”
“For the one hundredth time, Aaron,” Larson said, “that doesn’t give you license to be reckless with your life. If something happens to you, the—”
“Nothing will happen to me.”
“Consider your situation. You’re working at home now, without even the protection you had at the NOAA office. I think—”
“In the event something should indeed happen to me—” He hesitated. “But that’s not a concern for today.”
“If whatever you’re talking about isn’t a concern for today,” Sheila said, “what is?”
Rubenstein didn’t reply.
She led them to the Jeep.
Rubenstein climbed in. “Today’s concern is improved performance. I know I can make Augur close to error-free. Ten or twelve more inputs and a little better relational processing. I should be home at this moment, working.”
Larson was about to climb into the rear seat, when Sheila raised her hand. “I wonder if you could stay a little longer?”
He and Rubenstein exchanged glances. “Sure.”
She parked the Jeep beside Aaron’s Buick.
He patted her hand. “Thank you for your concern.”
She nodded.
“Regarding the new artwork—”
“It’s a worthy addition to my collection.”
“Thank you, but there is a possibility it may have a different meaning for you
someday.”
“Different? How?”
He patted her hand again. “Don’t concern yourself.”
She paused. “All right. Safe trip back.”
He chuckled. “I’ll have fewer hazards than you’ll have on that goat track.”
Larson had seen the sheet of parchment on the floor when he arrived, but the argument with Rubenstein hadn’t allowed time to examine it. Now he did so. “A heart,” he said, “a fat heart, lying on its side.”
He looked at the artwork on the walls. Half of the compositions were similar in style to the unframed work on the floor, line drawings of a type he had never seen before.
He left the artwork to sit in one of the window seats. The Appalachian mists were forming.
Sheila was shaking her head when she returned.
“Any breakthrough?”
“No.”
He shook his head. “He’s being irrational.”
“I think the magnificence of what he’s doing—both Augur and the foundation—have taken all of his concentration. In retrospect, I’m surprised that he even told me about it.”
“Maybe so.
He led her to the artwork on the floor. “What do you have here?”
“It’s a visual representation of a mathematical formula.”
“Does it have a name?”
“It’s a cardioid.”
“A pudgy Valentine heart.”
“Yes—hence it’s name.”
“Name?”
“Cardioid—think of cardiac.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Got it.” He waved at a row of similar works. “The others?”
“More representations of mathematical formulae. On the far left, Parallels of the Witch of Agnesi. Then toward the right: Cochleoid, Epicycloid, Hyperbolic Spiral, Hypocycloid, Lituus, Pearls of Sluze, my favorite, Rhodonea Curves, Bernoulli’s Lemniscate, and Talbot’s Curve. Aaron has them produced on a special NOAA printer. Parchment and special ink. I’m a collector.”
“And the one on the floor is new?”
“Yes.” She paused. “Aaron brought it today.” She paused. “As he was about to leave, he said it might have a different meaning for me someday.”
“Different? How?”
She shrugged. “He wouldn’t explain.”
Larson returned to the window seat. They were silent as they watched the valleys darken.
She stood after a while. “I’m thirsty. Would you like a beer?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
She returned with two Budweisers and two glasses.
They sipped the beer and watched the eastern sides of the mountains disappear.
Larson crushed his beer can.
“Another?” she said.
“Thanks.”
“The fridge on the left. On the bottom.”
“You?”
“Not yet.”
She watched him walk toward the kitchen. “Thanks for coming. And staying.”
“My pleasure.”
“Aaron thinks a great deal of you.”
“And I of him.”
“He thinks you’re some sort of genius at what you do. And he trusts you.”
“Doesn’t take a lot of genius to win a bet if you know which horse will come in first.”
“He means the organizational aspects of what you do.”
“Just a matter of experience.”
They were silent again, then Sheila stood. “Ready?”
“No, thanks.”
Sheila returned with another beer, this time sitting closer to Larson.
“I asked you to stay so we could become better acquainted.”
“Until now, you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Nothing personal. I haven’t had any reason to want to know you any better until now.” She paused. “I do, of course, find you physically attractive, but we have nothing in common.”
Larson frowned.
“What could there be? You’re money-driven. If Aaron is correct, you’re a hedonist—and a lady’s man. You’re—”
“He’s right.”
“But the threat to Aaron and his reliance on you may mean we may have to work together.” She paused. “So, what can you tell me about yourself?”
“Forty-one years old, bachelor, six feet tall, blue eyes, blond hair, descendant of Scandinavian immigrants.”
“Eagle Scout?”
Larson smiled. “Yes.”
“Of course.”
Larson frowned.
“Please go on.”
“Tennis scholarship at UGA. Stockbroker-turnedmoney manager.” He paused. “That’s it.”
“Hmm. What are your politics?”
“Under the category Republican, I would be listed as rock-ribbed.”
“Religion?”
Larson hesitated, frowning. “Excuse me, but where are you going with this? I have no secrets, but I’m not applying for a job.”
“If you’ll indulge me?”
Larson shrugged.
“Raised a Presbyterian, but I play tennis on Sunday mornings.”
“Family?”
“Mother and two sisters. All healthy and reasonably happy.”
“Goals?”
He hesitated. “Financial security.”
“How much have you earned from your relationship with Aaron?”
“A great deal.”
“What will constitute financial security?”
He hesitated again. “I don’t know.”
“Is your money-gathering perhaps more a game than a desire to accumulate money?”
He gestured to the darkening mountains. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s
like that mountain. Because it’s—”
“I know.”
There was a lull. “No more questions?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Plain vanilla.”
“All-American boy.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He hesitated. “Is it my turn?”
“Yes. I think your knowing about me might make us better prepared.”
“Prepared?”
“For whatever might transpire.”
“Well, I know you have a doctorate in mathematics. I know you have one of the more interesting houses I’ve ever seen.” He grinned. “And you’re without a doubt the most beautiful woman that I—”
“Thank you, but that’s not significant.”
He frowned. “I don’t think I’m very good at interrogations. How about just telling me about yourself?”
She took a deep breath. “I was a child prodigy in mathematics. When I was in middle school, I was taking courses in calculus. When I was a freshman in high school, I was studying differential equations with a tutor from Tech. Wave equations—separation of variables—Fourier series.”
“Amazing.”
“But not pleasant. Being different can be difficult. I wanted to be outside playing, but I was in some dusty auditorium, showing a rapt audience how fast I could handle Laplace transformations.
“I left high school at the end of my first year and enrolled at Tech, where I proved to be less than a prodigy in some of my other course work. I needed tutors in French and history. I graduated in May, 1991. Took me two years.
“I finished my master’s the next autumn and on to my doctoral studies.” She paused. “And then the rains came.”
“The rains?”
“I couldn’t theorize.”
“Theorize?”
“I was a whiz at solving equations, but how to reduce a complex question to an equation to be solved? I invariably drew a blank. My committee was solicitous—after all, my Uncle Aaron was a senior member of the Department and I was a famous prodigy. But there was something missing. Ask me to massage a function in ways no more than a dozen people in the world could understand? Easy, but produce a dissertation on the workings of a basic mousetrap? Nothing.”
“Strange.”
“Yes. You’ll get over it, Miss Rubenstein, they said, just give it a little time. Take some non-related courses. Take a break. I took a course in Shakespeare versus Marlowe at Harvard. I spent a year at the Sorbonne—mostly concentrating on the study of wine. I taught freshman analytic geometry for a semester. And I went skiing for most of a semester. Nothing helped.”
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