Текст книги "Thirty Nights"
Автор книги: Ani Keating
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Chapter Five
Tick Tock
“What did you say?” Professor Denton is staring at me as though I grew horns overnight.
“Yes, they denied the application. There’s really nothing I can do.” My throat constricts. “I’m so sorry, Professor. You’ll have to find a replacement for the summer, but I can help train them as much as you need me to,” I mumble, as if that’s the real problem.
He looks at me pensively. He has a kind face and a salt-and-pepper beard, with light blue eyes that peer at me through his wire-rim glasses. After what feels like an eternity, he simply shakes his head.
“My country just made a big mistake,” he says, defeated, and takes a deep breath. “Well, you have another month. Let’s see if we can find someone to work with you in England on this last stage.”
Gratitude for my favorite professor floods me. He is not pushing the there’s-got-to-be-a-way agenda. He is thinking practically, as he would with a science experiment. But I cannot think about England right now, especially not something so finite and official as working there.
Still, I smile at Denton. “Thank you, Professor. They’ll have big shoes to fill.” I stand to leave because I know he has papers to grade, but he purses his lips as he does when he is solving a stubborn combinatorial algorithm.
“What about selling it, Isa? I know what it means to you, I really do, but there’s no reason not to benefit from all your blood and tears.” He waves at the wall-to-wall whiteboards covered with my color-coded scribbles.
I nod. “Actually, I’ve thought about it. It can help with my visa but the companies I contacted said they’d be interested in the final product, not the research.”
Denton’s lips purse more tightly than a beaker stopper. “Well, let me dig around. Maybe we can find a smarter buyer.” His voice is almost a dignified pleading.
“It couldn’t hurt.” I shrug, even though I know the trouble is not finding a buyer. It’s finding someone who will buy it for exactly one million. Not a dollar less will satisfy the CIS.
I thank him again and pick up my rucksack to leave. But he reaches over and rests his hand on my shoulder. “For the next month, let’s go with Isa and Arthur if that’s okay. You’ve grown more over the years than any student I have taught. I’d be proud to call you a colleague, as you should have been, if you were allowed to stay.” His voice takes on a casual but melancholy edge.
I cannot find the words to thank him. They are lodged somewhere else, along with my tears.
* * * * *
For the next two days, I bury myself in textbooks with a mania that is alarming even by my standards. I take my genomics and neuroethology finals, turn in my report for biochem and even start writing Reagan’s paper on clinical psychology. By the end of each day, I’ve worn myself out so much that I don’t need the periodic table to fall asleep. Javier has stopped by my apartment every night. I worry about him driving around so much in his beat-up Honda Civic. If he gets pulled over and the coppers see he does not have a valid driver’s license, he’ll get deported. After I beg him, he promises to take the bus or bike over here.
We told his parents, Maria and Antonio, but we can’t explain it to his four younger sisters. Still, to prepare them, we said that I may visit England for a while. When they started crying, we dropped it.
Thankfully, Reagan has stopped Googling immigration reform, although I’m sure she is pestering her father on a daily basis. I will have to thank him properly before I leave. Not just him, but all of them, for giving me a home here.
Without conscious thought—like reflex or instinct—my brain summons Mr. Hale again. His eyes trace my throat, my jawline, my lips until my very skin is tinted turquoise from their light. Instantly, I feel warm. I don’t know why my mind invokes him with every ticking hour. Perhaps because his home is the only home where I will remain in this land. Or maybe because he chose to keep me on the same day that his government kicked me out. Whatever it is, he keeps my lungs going.
Chapter Six
When It Rains, It Hales
Thursday morning, I wake up to the deafening crack of Oregon’s thunder. One more final and it’s over. I cannot think about that. I bolt out of bed, throw on the first jeans and sweatshirt that my hands touch, leave Reagan’s finished paper by her rucksack and storm out into the torrential rain to the bus stop that takes me to school. As I duck under its Perspex roof, my ancient flip phone rings from the depths of my rain jacket. I dig into my pocket for the artifact and answer it.
“Hello?”
“Isa, this is Prof—I mean, Arthur. I reached out to my contacts at Oxford to see if any of them can take you on for the last stage of testing. That way, the university would fund the research.” He always gets straight to the point.
“That’s very thoughtful, Arthur. Thank you very much,” I shout over the rain’s din and grip the rail of the bus stop at the mention of Oxford.
“Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see if something comes out of it. And remember, Fleming from Edinburgh is speaking at Powell’s next week. He may be another option.”
I swallow hard. I could never forget that Fleming is coming to Portland. He is the chemist that inspired the first article I wrote with my dad. “Yes, it’s on my calendar.”
“Good, good. In the meantime, one of the school’s donors is coming this Friday to see the department’s progress. I know this is not a great time for you but your thesis experiment has been our gem this year. Would you mind giving a presentation on your supplement?”
“Friday? As in tomorrow?” I yelp.
“Last minute, I know. I meant to tell you on Tuesday but forgot. Can you do it?” Denton’s words gush faster than the rain’s pellets. Whoever the sponsor is, he or she must be integral to the success of the department, and Denton is the chair. No matter how much I dread public speaking, I have to support him.
“Of course I’ll do it. If you don’t mind the good reputation of the department resting on my public speaking skills.” I force a laugh.
“Nonsense. This is your baby and you know it better than anyone. I’ll email you the details in about sixty seconds.”
A roll of thunder rumbles in the skies and I use my scientific thinking to convince myself that it is not an omen.
“Will you have time to put together the presentation this afternoon and we can practice?” Denton continues.
My heart picks up some rhythm from my nerves. Something it has not done since…well, since Mr. Hale’s apparitions. “Sure. Right after my stereochem final. How many people are going to be there?”
“Two. I’ll get the small lecture hall—conference room B—so it’s close to the lab. Good?”
“Yes, that’s great. What does the company do?”
“Venture capitalism. I’ll give you some background today so you can spend what time you have on the presentation.”
I thank him even after he hangs up. Any other week, I would be a puddle on the floor from nerves. Now I’m grateful for them. I was dreading the time I would have after my last final. Bloody hell, things must be bad if public speaking feels like a gift from the gods.
* * * * *
After my last exam, I plod to Denton’s office in my squishy canvas sneakers that are still soaked from the trek to the bus stop.
Denton is waiting for me. “Hey, kid. How did the finals wrap up?”
I shrug. “I wish they hadn’t.”
He gives me a sympathetic look but does not linger. “Okay, let’s talk about tomorrow. Here’s what I know: Hale Holdings was founded by Aiden Hale…” Denton’s professorial voice is muted by a sudden pounding of blood in my ears. Hale? As in my Mr. Hale? My Mr. Hale? Bloody hell, I’ve lost it.
“Isa?”
“Yes, sorry. Still here.”
“Good. Now, HH is a venture capital firm. Hale started it out as a small fund and now it owns equity in over one hundred companies around the world. He runs them single-handedly, which is unique even among venture capitalists. Most are notorious control freaks. How the man does it, I have no clue.” Denton laughs. His eyes twinkle as they do when he witnesses a scientific wonder.
“Anyway, HH has the smallest carbon footprint in the U.S. for companies its size, and its philanthropy is astounding. From funding stem-cell research to supporting low-income schools. But its pet cause is the rehabilitation of U.S. veterans.”
Denton goes on like this for a while. I absorb everything I can. “Do you know who they’re sending?”
“No, but I’m sure it will be someone who knows enough to ask pointed questions. Let’s get the PowerPoint slides going.”
My nerves start creaking again. To distract myself, I wonder whether my Mr. Hale is the son or grandson of whomever founded HH. Or maybe he is not at all related and does not even spell Hale the same way. I shake my head at myself.
By eleven, my slides are all finished and we have run through them five times. I feel confident about my material. I’m just worried about phrasing it right and unexpected questions. Denton drops me off at home in his environmentally friendly Prius and reminds me sternly to get some sleep.
I nod back as enthusiastically as I can. No need to tell him I have no hope of following his instruction.
Chapter Seven
Mr. Hale
When my alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m., I am still awake. Mr. Hale has kept me company all night—lulling me into a trance between dreams and reality. Reluctantly, I force him out of my mind to rehearse my slides. But the mental distance fills me with a sense of loss, so I escape to the restroom to shower and get ready. Last night, Reagan insisted I wear one of her suits, but as I slip it on this morning, it feels strange. Suits are not for scientists. I decide on a pencil skirt with my mum’s white blouse instead. Maybe it’s not quite as professional but at least I’ll feel like me.
When I’m ready, I steal a quick glance at myself in the mirror. Even four years after my parents’ accident, I rarely look at my reflection. The girl looking back at me with wide eyes is paler than usual against her waist-length black hair. I don’t linger on her purple eyes. They’ll always remind me of Clare.
I whirl away from the mirror and tiptoe to the door so I don’t wake Reagan. In the misty morning, the bluebirds are already chirping. I drive the MINI to school with the windows down, timing the periodic table to their twitter.
Denton is waiting for me in conference room B even though we still have two hours before the presentation.
“Good morning, kid. I knew you’d show up at the crack of dawn.”
“Yes, I couldn’t sleep.”
“What’s there to worry about? You’ve got great results and an ingenious idea. And a British accent. They’ll eat out of your hand.”
I nod and start reviewing my slides one more time while Denton connects the laptop to the projector and sets out three packets on the first row of desks. Right before the HH representatives are supposed to show up, I pull out a paperclip from my purse. This is a trick I use when I have to speak in public so that I won’t fidget or twitch my fingers. Unfortunately, reciting the periodic table while talking is impossible and, therefore, useless. I grab the clip between my thumb and my index finger, rubbing and pinching it gently. On the twelfth pinch, the door opens.
I freeze on the spot, my breath leaving for England already. My knees lock for impact and something like an ice bath trickles from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. The person walking through the door is none other than my Mr. Hale. Not his grandpa, not his father. Him, in all his perfection. Oh, bloody hell! How am I supposed to look at him and keep a straight head? And why did I title my thesis “Does This Protein Make My Mass Look Big?”
Ever erect, he scans the room with keen vigilance. He spots me, and his impassive face registers surprise. His gaze is controlled but I think I see the ghost of appraisal in his eyes. The same way he looked at me at Feign Art. I blush the color of rubidium when I think of my paintings hanging on his wall. He starts walking toward me with precise steps. His eyes are lighter than the first time I saw him—almost turquoise, like my dreams. Not like the color has changed but like a light is shining underneath. I take some shallow breaths so he can’t see the havoc he is wreaking.
“You must be Miss Snow.” He extends a long hand to me. I register vaguely that his voice is not as cold as I remember it. It’s equally polite and hypnotic but now, it has a soft after-sound. I have to make an effort not to close my eyes.
“I’m Aiden Hale. It’s nice to meet you.” He looks at me intensely for a moment, as if he is trying to say something else. Maybe trying to assess whether he should mention that he has seen me before?
“Mr. Hale, a pleasure to meet you too,” I manage, but my voice sounds softer than usual. I reach for his hand, expecting it to be cold. But it isn’t. It’s warm and his long fingers wrap almost above my wrist. A jolt of electricity runs through me at the touch. The good news is that it brings me back to the here and now. The bad news is that it lingers on my skin even after he has withdrawn his hand, which does not help the prospects of my presentation.
Luckily, Denton is here. He shakes Mr. Hale’s hand, looking perfectly electricity-free. Mr. Hale steps backward into the seat closest to the wall, as though he knows the precise distance. Then he picks up my packet of materials from the desk and starts flipping through it quickly. His shoulders never release their tension.
The door opens again and a second man comes in. He introduces himself as Daniel Samson, marketing director at HH. He has ginger curls and an avuncular air that makes you think of family get-togethers. I teeter to the podium and notice the same Shaquille O’Neal-sized man who was at Feign Art, standing outside the door. He must be Mr. Hale’s bodyguard. Why would he need a bodyguard on a college campus? Oh, right, because the all-women dorm might kidnap him, tie him to a chair in the basement and ogle him shamelessly 24/7. Much like I am right now. I try to focus anywhere else. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium, 4.003—
“Miss Snow, Arthur Denton has been quite complimentary of your thesis project. At your convenience, I’d like to hear about it,” Mr. Hale says in that same measured tone that’s a few degrees warmer than it was in the gallery but still very formal.
As I think more about the gallery, the gratitude I have felt toward this stranger all week for getting me through hell makes a welcome appearance. It’s enough to give me some clarity, and some volume. Years of British gentility are triggered in my brain.
“Of course, sir.” I pick up the PowerPoint remote control in one hand, my paperclip in the other, and start going through my slides.
The moment my project design comes on the screen, I gain more confidence. I have lived and breathed this material every day over the last year, and even before. I try not to focus on Mr. Hale, but the few times that our eyes meet, he is watching me intently, just as he does in my dreams. I think he seems mildly impressed but it’s hard to tell with his well-controlled mien. He must be an excellent chess player. Denton gives me several small encouraging smiles, and Daniel is writing down various things. Mr. Hale takes no notes. Finally, I’m through my last slide. Resisting the urge to do a cartwheel, I set down the remote control and take a sip of water.
“Are there any questions?” I ask, praying to every higher power I can think of that there aren’t any. Apparently my prayer is not entirely wasted because the first one to break the silence is Daniel, not Mr. Hale.
“Miss Snow, this is very impressive indeed. Aside from its inherent protein, can the formula support add-on medication?”
“Yes, Mr. Samson. Drugs can be incorporated in powder form. There would need to be an adjustment for taste, but chemically, it’s possible.” I look from Daniel to Mr. Hale and speak without thinking.
“Would you like a taste?” Even I hear the excitement in my voice.
A warm tingle darts up my spine as Mr. Hale nods and answers, “I would.”
I try to walk—and not wobble—to the podium where I have a handful of the protein candy, wrapped in glossy recyclable paper.
“Sorry, I only have them in pink for now,” I mumble. I hear a low chuckle from Hale’s direction.
I open my hand and all three reach simultaneously for the candy. I watch only Mr. Hale’s fingers as they graze my palm. The electric tingle jolts down my arm and nestles at the spot he touched.
“So, are these safe to eat? Have they been tested?” asks Daniel.
Denton jumps in, bouncing on his seat. “Oh, yes. I eat them every day, especially when I forget lunch. Poor Isa has had to make extra just to account for me alone.”
But I want to be scrupulously open, and I don’t want to upset Mr. Hale. “Technically, Mr. Samson, they have not been approved by the FDA yet.”
The male gender is apparently eager to try anything previously untested for safety. They open the wrappers and pop the little candy in their mouths. I know it will start melting on their tongues instantly. I avoid looking at Mr. Hale as much as possible because his lips are puckered around the candy in a way that should be illegal.
Daniel laughs. “It tastes like cinnamon.” He smacks his lips.
“Yes. This batch does.”
“You’ve tried them in other flavors?”
“Yes. Peppermint and chocolate. Oh, and steak once because Professor Denton thought that would go well with men. I don’t recommend it.” I wrinkle my nose. Denton laughs, Daniel with him. Mr. Hale gives that same low chuckle again. I wonder if he ever truly laughs. His eyes are dancing with amusement and a dimple forms in his cheek—an innocent trait at odds with the sinful face and the savage scar. How did he get that scar?
“How did you come up with the idea?” Mr. Hale asks his first question.
It’s the most basic of questions but the tingles evaporate because of the memories it triggers. “It’s something that my father originally came up with when I was young. I have continued his work.” I try to control the emotion in my voice.
Mr. Hale’s eyes narrow a little. Denton knows this is a touchy issue so he jumps in. “Isa is being too modest. Her father formulated the idea of a tiny candy packing as much nutrition as a healthy meal but the protein, the content, the taste and the process are all hers,” he tells Mr. Hale, who continues to regard me intently.
“Has your father helped you during this project?” he asks. I swallow hard. I wish he had.
“No, Mr. Hale,” I say softly, finally making full eye contact. Please don’t push it, I beg him. He nods once as if he can hear my thoughts.
“And how far are you in the process of finishing and obtaining FDA approval?”
“I have one last stage of testing. Preservation, shelf life, that sort of thing. That should take about six months. Then, the product would be ready for FDA approval and patenting. I understand the process for that can take a while.”
“Who owns the supplement legally?”
“I do, sir. Reed has a minor share but it’s assigning it to me upon graduation.”
“And you’re graduating next week?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, what happens to the supplement then?”
Denton interjects. “Ideally, we would work on the last stage together. That way, Reed would attract more funding and Isa would supervise the project.”
“That’s the ideal outcome but what is the actual plan?” Mr. Hale’s brow furrows slightly.
“Well, due to circumstances outside of our control, she will work on the last stage alone, although I’ll continue to advise her to the best of my ability.” Denton looks at me uncertainly for the first time. I smile and hope that it conceals the devastation I feel inside.
“What circumstances?” Mr. Hale looks at me now, as if he has had enough of Denton.
I think Denton notices it too, because he looks at me expectantly. After all, it’s my problem to tell, not his. Bloody hell, Hale is nosy. But for some reason, I don’t want to tell him that I’m leaving forever.
“Private reasons, Mr. Hale,” I say with as much volume as possible.
He does not like my answer, that much is obvious. His resolutely impassive face does not change but for a very slight, almost imperceptible flexing of his sculpted jaw. Suddenly, I am worried he will not renew the funding for the department.
“Mr. Hale, there’s no reason to doubt the department’s ability to accomplish tremendous other projects. I have full confidence in Professor Denton. It was his mentorship that made it possible for me to create the supplement. Please, don’t alter the financial support.”
Mr. Hale’s eyebrows arch as if he is surprised by my little rant but his eyes soften.
“I will not pull the funding, Miss Snow. There’s no reason for your concern. But at the moment I’m focusing on your invention. Surely, you need assistance with the last stage?”
I smile as I realize his frustration may actually be kindness. But unfortunately, his investment in my project would not keep me here. Only my own investment of a million dollars to an existing American business would.
“Professor Denton and I will continue to collaborate. Someday it will be finished, Mr. Hale. You have my word.”
He smiles at the last sentence. “What are your plans after you graduate?” he asks, tenting his long fingers.
“No plans at the moment.”
Immediately, his eyes harden, no doubt because of my secretive answer. There is something sentient about them, as though they have thoughts and feelings of their own.
“You may have your reasons for guarding this supplement closely, Miss Snow. However, I would advise you to think practically. You could profit from this.” His words are careful, almost a warning. As though he is telling me I have my priorities wrong. But priorities imply options, and I only have one.
“Well, if you want to buy it for a million dollars net of taxes, I would sell it to you today,” I offer because I already know the answer.
He chuckles. “A million dollars for an unfinished invention? That’s a steep price, considering that I do nothing with science. No offense to your accomplishments, of course.”
“None taken, Mr. Hale. How much would you sell your dreams for?”
He stops smiling. “I’m a venture capitalist, Miss Snow. I don’t have dreams. I have goals.”
Life without dreams… “That sounds very safe, Mr. Hale.” Maybe I should have followed that philosophy. If I had, perhaps this end would not hurt so much. “Are there any other questions I can answer for you?” I smile.
Daniel smiles too. “I don’t think so, Miss Snow. Your materials are very clear and I have this handy packet, which I’ll study in detail. I do thank you for making time for this when you’re wrapping up your final year here.”
I nod and look down at my hands. He has no idea how literal his words are.
Daniel stands, and so does Denton. Mr. Hale doesn’t stand until Daniel shakes my hand and walks with Denton to the door. The tension in Mr. Hale’s posture remains palpable. I reach for his hand, half-scared, half-curious to see if the same electricity will jolt through me again. It does, the instant our hands touch.
“Thank you for your support of the department, Mr. Hale.”
“My pleasure, Miss Snow. I’m very impressed with your project,” he says politely.
I feel suddenly giddy at his praise, like I did when I got my very first A. I thank him, cursing the bloody blush again. Mr. Hale looks slightly amused and sweeps out of the door last.
I stand there, staring after him even when the door closes. What better way to illustrate what I’ll be missing than sending an impossibly handsome man who can mess with my head just by blinking. Something warm—like an ember—heats up between my lungs as if his electrical charge nested there. I watch my skin, mesmerized. There’s no physical evidence of change but something inside feels…new.
