Lily’s puzzlement showed. “Say that another way.”
“A battered woman is afraid. Her body is pumping hormones and adrenaline into her blood with the electrical signal to run. But she doesn’t. She stays. Her brain countermands the powerful signals of her body.”
“Oh I see. Soldiers stay in a battlefield. Like that?”
“Conditioning is part of the explanation, yes. The brain can and does countermand our neurobiology all the time. I studied the pool of DNA and I couldn’t get a good sample of battery victims or soldiers. But there was one common trait across all of it, driven by the way the samples were taken, classified and the donors interviewed.”
“Marital status!” Lily’s eyes lit up. “Of course. It’s practically on every form anyone ever fills out.”
“Even more specifically, married, divorced, widowed, never married, unmarried but in a relationship exceeding five years…these are common intake questions when researchers take samples and add to the registry. Dopamine is nearly as powerful as adrenaline, so I asked myself if I could find a link between the presence of dopamine and relationship status.”
“Dopamine?”
Nicole pointed at the cookies. “You’re enjoying some dopamine right now.”
“Oh, the stuff in chocolate that makes you feel like you’re in love?”
“It’s not in chocolate. But chocolate causes the body to produce dopamine, in many cases.”
“Is that an important distinction?”
“Actually, it is.” Nicole looked down at her hands because it was hard to keep looking at Lily. “To a scientist, I suppose.”
“So you decided to study love.”
“No.” Love had been the last thing she’d been curious about. “I decided to study the correlation between the DNA centers controlling social behavior and cognitive reasoning with relationship status. At first the results were too huge to have meaning. Yes some sequences—probably shared by six billion people—were in people who’d had a relationship. That’s not useful. But when I narrowed the field to sequences for people who’d been in relationships lasting more than fifteen years, that’s when the big patterns began to emerge. After that it was—”
“Child’s play?”
“Not exactly.”
Lily finished her tea. “I think it’s all fascinating.”
“You’ve asked better questions than this morning’s radio show host.” She kept staring at her fingers. She felt odd, as if the train were making her a little dizzy.
“I don’t think he was awake yet. But at least you were. So… Why is it that I can’t go have my DNA tested and find out the DNA profile of my ideal mate?”
“Because there’s no registry you have access to that would supply you with the names and addresses of those people with that DNA. You’d have a string of numbers and nowhere to look up the meaning.”
“But aren’t there people saying they can do it for you, for a fee?”
“I don’t endorse those theories.”
“The fingerprint lady?”
“Pure charlatanism as far as I know. But obviously providing a service people are willing to pay for.”
“Couldn’t you take samples of friends and see if their relationship history confirms your theory?”
The dizzy sensation faded a little. “Why?”
“Confirmation?”
“Without a rigorous control, it would be pure anecdote. I have plenty of case studies for anecdotes already. And anecdotes flooding my e-mail where people can’t wait to tell me I’m a genius or a fraud. Most people don’t read the cautions.”
“I read them. I know you’ve proven to your own and your peers’ satisfaction that there is a greater than statistical probability that people with compatible DNA sequences are more successful in relationships. But that doesn’t mean people with other sequences can’t be successful. They can be—just not with the same frequency.”
“And that all boils down to the tagline on the book: Does DNA determine the perfect match? I couldn’t convince the publisher to take that off and, contractually, he had the final say on the cover.”
“Damon’s good at marketing.”
“Damon?”
Lily blushed. “Damon Linden.”
“Do you know him well? He said you were a family friend.”
“He’s my uncle, actually.” The flush had receded and she got a sidelong look and smile. “That’s right, nepotism in action.”
Trying to digest that information and not sure how she felt about it, Nicole said, “He has certainly been successful marketing the book.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
It wasn’t surprising that she would defend her relative. “It wasn’t my goal.”
“You submitted a book to a publisher but didn’t want it to sell?”
“I wanted it to be shelved in research libraries and to be of use to the field. This…” She waved a hand at the countryside skimming past the window. “This wasn’t in the plan.”
“The best-laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley,” Lily said. She turned to throw away her cup as the trolley woman came through the car with a trash bag. The collar of her shirt flipped up and Nicole watched as her own hand began to lift in that direction as if to adjust it. What was she doing?
She forced her hand down to the table. She picked up the pen. She looked out the window to clear her field of vision of Lily’s hair and pale, soft skin.
Your body is churning with chemicals, she told herself, and you can’t predict your behavior. What chemicals, though, and why? It wasn’t the fear of yesterday on the beach. This was something else.
“Cole?”
She turned back. “Yes?”
Lily started to say something, but paused with her mouth half-open. Finally, she said, “I’m just going to step down to the restroom.”
“Okay.”
She turned back to the window and wondered what had startled Lily. She looked like herself, didn’t she? Lily couldn’t know that her palms were damp. Again. That her heart was racing. Again. That there was also a strange shaking inside her stomach that wasn’t food poisoning.
It had started when she’d heard Lily’s soft voice saying her name, saying Cole.
It had started when she realized that she wanted to hear Lily say it again. And again.
Chapter Eight
Seated on the left side near the front of the University of Edinburgh’s largest lecture hall, Lily could hear Nicole’s voice as she spoke at the podium as well as her voice over the hall’s speakers. The air was also filled with the vigorous tapping of keys as the students around her took notes at their keyboards.
She was gratified that Nicole had made a few changes to the opening of her lecture, even for students. It meant their talk on the train had been useful. That Nicole took her advice…seriously.
Her breath caught at the memory. She’d fallen asleep last night thinking about the look on Nicole’s face when she’d turned back from the window. It might be the closest Lily had come to seeing Nicole without her thick air of academic seriousness. Her eyes were dark, but soft, lashes low—the look had roused a very inappropriate response. A response that hadn’t stopped.
She tried to look at Nicole as a client, a boss, a professor. Rude, unfeeling bee-yatch, remember? Lily tried to feel like a student, an employee, even a caretaker. None of it worked. She looked at Nicole and saw a woman with a fascinating brain, hidden humor, strong shoulders and beguiling eyes.
Black slacks, white blouse, black socks, black loafers. There was no sexy in that, except Nicole was sexy. There was no sign of that alluring woman on stage, but Lily couldn’t stop seeing Nicole as she had been in that fleeting moment when all the trappings of the professor had been gone and the woman within had stared back into Lily’s eyes.
But she’s thoughtless, she told herself. And could care less about other people unless they’re printed out on a report. In nearly every conversation it’s clear that if social c
onvention didn’t require her to speak, she wouldn’t. She fights with her sister and doesn’t seem to care that her mother loves her. She’s…
Nicole gestured at a slide on the large screen and Libido—who was not helping Lily’s heart rate—sat admiring the gesture, committing the length of Nicole’s arms to memory, and considering just how far they would go around Lily to pull her close and tight.
Circumspect crossly pointed out that every single thought in her head was inappropriate, as if the word was some kind of anti-Viagra.
Libido pointed out that Nicole biked regularly and probably had firm, muscled legs.
So much for sex in an alley, Circumspect retorted. Fat lot of good that did you, because here you are thinking a woman without a sexual impulse in her soul is some kind of love goddess.
Lily snorted. The young man next to her gave her an odd look.
You should take warning, she told herself, that someone who devoted several years to studying human relationships doesn’t have a clue about how to translate that to real human emotions and interactions. Everything people felt was just a biochemical imperative to her. If the data didn’t support it, would Nicole even believe love existed?
Libido wanted to know what love had to do with it.
Circumspect wanted to know what love had to do with it.
It was entirely too noisy in her head, and between the keyboards and the loudspeakers, there was no room for Lily to think about anything with any clarity. The continual low thrum centered at the base of her spine that made her skin tingle and thighs clench only got worse.
* * *
Nicole had been surprised when Lily had pleaded a headache and retired for the evening, which had left Nicole alone to accept an invitation to dinner from the university’s event host. Lily looked as vibrant as ever, but there was no reason not to believe she felt unwell. The dinner conversation with the host had been easily managed, much like any dinner with a colleague interested in the same subject. Only their mutual accents had caused any issues, and as much amusement as they had frustration. When they’d left the small café it was in time to appreciate the cool early evening and the growing crowds for something called “Fringe.”
Now, standing in her hotel room, aware that Lily was probably asleep, she was considering if Cole might finally take advantage of an evening alone. An encounter would undoubtedly take care of her unruly sex drive.
She hoped Lily was feeling okay. Should she call her—would that be the polite thing to do? But what if she were asleep? It was best to leave her be.
Her phone chirped with a reminder and she realized it was the day and time she’d agreed to call her mother. On the itinerary it had seemed a good opening. Best to get it out of the way. If she didn’t call her mother would panic.
“Your sister has been put on bed rest,” her mother promptly informed her. “Her amniotic fluid is too low and there has been some pelvic discharge and cramping.”
“It sounds very unpleasant.” Her mother’s anxiety was palpable. “Is the baby in danger?”
“If she doesn’t do as she’s told, perhaps.”
In the background she heard Kate’s voice protesting. It included the F-word and Nicole wasn’t unhappy that a large ocean separated her from both her mother and Kate.
“I’m sure you’ll get her to cooperate somehow.”
“The cramping helps—it’s a reminder from her body to do as she’s told.” There was more commentary in the background. “Tell me about your appearances so far. Where are you?”
She launched into a colorful description of London and Edinburgh, and went to great lengths to present tea with the relatives as a great success.
“Rajesh’s father is very pompous,” her mother said. “He is a man you can’t tell anything.”
“Then clearly Rajesh is his son. But Priya seemed a very nice woman.” Those were her mother’s words of highest praise.
“She is a bit forward, but that’s her father’s opinion. A lawyer—he should be proud.”
“They both seemed well and happy.”
Her mother sighed and Nicole knew that the news would travel. In spite of Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and phones that zapped photographs from one side of the world to the other in seconds, a week-old account of having seen Rajesh and Priya in good health was more valued by most of her mother’s family. She was glad to have provided her mother with something to share.
They chatted for a bit longer, then her mother handed the phone to Kate.
“I am stuck in fucking bed and not for fun. It’s a beautiful afternoon and I can’t move.”
“I’m really sorry. Did you get Mom to bring in the television?”
“No, but we’re discussing alternatives. I can’t even sit at the computer and read my e-mail. I want an iPad.”
“Good luck with that,” Nicole said. Under the circumstances she decided against suggesting that such wants were why people had jobs.
“Mom is driving me crazy.”
“This was unexpected?”
Kate’s tone grew even more waspish. “I’m pregnant and I’m venting.”
Nicole laughed. “I’m sorry, sis. If I were there I’d probably make it worse.”
Kate’s voice softened. “Yeah, I don’t miss you at all either.”
They chatted for a bit longer, then she was passed back to her mother for goodbyes. A few minutes later she sat on the bed and realized she didn’t know what she felt. Or how she ought to feel about what she’d heard. Kate was making the best of it, but her mother was clearly worried, and for good reason. She knew enough about biology to understand that anything cramping or leaking during pregnancy meant risk to both Kate and the baby.
She put aside the idea that it would help to talk to Lily. Lily was unavailable. Besides, what would Lily advise?
She considered that for a moment, then picked up her phone to call Beekman’s. It was early afternoon in New Hampshire. She was willing to bet they could deliver an iPad by the end of the day.
* * *
Cole fit right in with Edinburgh’s Fringe Festival. There didn’t seem to be breathing room in the narrow streets and she wasn’t alone in her leather. Every corner had some kind of performance underway, all in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle, its ancient ramparts outlined against the night sky by moonlight. Simple floodlights illuminated the keep. Lily had expressed an interest in a walking tour through the castle before they caught their flight to Dublin tomorrow afternoon.
From the open doors of theaters, inns, pubs and shops hawkers shrilled out invitations to see everything from comedy acts to puppetry to musicians. Apparently, it was the final weekend of a month of independent theater, dance and cabaret. Most appeared to be suitable for all audiences, but “Fringe” did include adult topics as well, from a performance of The Vagina Monologues to a demonstration on knot tying and leather care.
She kept track of the streets as she walked. About four blocks from the hotel she found an open pub door advertising an “LGBT Mixer.” The noise level even at the doorway was deafening. As she hesitated several young women pushed past her to enter.
This is why you brought the jacket. Just like the old days. Just like that conference in Dallas or the one in Seattle. Perplexed by her lack of confidence, Nicole followed the young women through the low doorway.
She was struck first by the fact that the group was more than half male. That changed the dynamic in both subtle and obvious ways. Compared to women, men tended to keep greater distance from the bar and from other men for whom they had no sexual interest. Their stances occupied more floor space. They extended arms while speaking more than women did. More subtle was the shifting of body language in unconscious negotiation of status. As a whole, the men in the pub also occupied the best lit areas where they could more easily see and be seen.
She had to shout her request for a pint of a local brew several times to be understood over the bone-shaking volume of the dance music. All the while she told herself that she could al
ways go back to the hotel. Having looked forward to a night like this for several months with a Pavlovian response almost every time, she didn’t understand why her sex drive had suddenly gone into hiding.
She sipped her pale, earthy beer, cool but not cold, and slowly surveyed the room. Based on their cues, there were a number of women interested in “mixing.” The sidelong looks, the quick glances at the door when someone new entered, the lowered shoulders and exposed curve of the neck all invited examination.
“See anything you like?”
Startled by the voice suddenly shouting in her ear, Nicole turned to find a woman perhaps slightly older than her, not quite as tall, and also clad in denim and leather. She shrugged by way of response.
“The birds love the leather. They’ll come to you. Just wait. You here for Fringe?”
Nicole nodded and took the other woman’s expression to be relief. The local lion, perhaps, making sure there wasn’t going to be another long-term competitor for the attentions of the local pride.
Every time in her past in a scene like this she would have by now introduced herself at least visually, if not verbally, to at least one woman with whom she’d shared more than a fleeting glance. Once again, as on the beach, she found it hard to make eye contact. Maybe that was it. Maybe she just wasn’t giving herself a chance. How long had it been? Two years? Was she rusty?
After a long swallow from her pint she forced herself to study faces. There were several women looking at her and the woman next to her. A brunette kept up the eye contact while saying something to her friend. She was medium height and her jeans and silky blouse did justice to a lush figure. Her wide smile indicated a familiarity with laughter and pleasure.
All very attractive—and Nicole felt nothing in response.
She was going to have to give that situation serious thought, but clearly the pursuit was a waste of time and energy tonight. With a nod at the other woman, who was sharing winks with the brunette now, she made her way around a group of men and set her half-empty pilsner on the bar. As she turned to leave a petite blonde came in with a group. Fishnet stockings and a short skirt drew Nicole’s gaze downward at first. A thin shirt knotted at her midriff left smooth, pale skin exposed. By the time Nicole got to her face the woman was staring at her.
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