Chapter Eight #2
G abriel was waiting for Delia at the open gate to the park. His gaze followed an excited Renoir as he raced back and forth along the path at full tilt. When the panting wolfhound came to a halt beside him, he patted his flank. “Calm down, buddy, she’ll be here in a minute.”
He looked up when Delia’s Fiat approached. She parked her car in the driveway of the gatehouse, got out, and ran to them.
“Hello there.” She hugged Gabriel, then squatted to pet Renoir.
“Hi, Delia,” Gabriel replied.
He was no early riser by nature, but when she’d suggested a morning run, he’d agreed without a second thought. Because it was spring, the weather was sunny, the birds vocal, the air fragrant, and for the first time in months, he felt alive and well.
She inhaled deeply, opened her arms wide, and twirled. “On days like this, I’m happy I don’t have a pollen allergy.”
He laughed. “The park is lovely at this time of year.”
They started running. Renoir sped ahead.
She fell in step beside Gabriel. “This is what I need: fresh air, exercise, and good company before I go to the lab.”
“Stressful day ahead?”
“Ah, not more than usual.” She adjusted the elastic holding her pony tail. “I’ll finish sequencing your DNA sample today.”
He studied her profile. “Should I be excited or alarmed?”
“Neither. But if you want to, I can go through your DNA sequence with you later on.” Her chest rose and fell with her rapid breathing.
“I’d rather not know what hides in my DNA.” He tugged at the neckline of his T-shirt. His running top was too warm for this weather.
“No need to worry,” she glanced at him sidelong, and the corners of her mouth ticked up, “you strongly resemble your ancestor Edwin, and if he’s anything to go by, you’ll have a long life ahead of you. Also, you have terrific telomeres.”
“Which means?” he asked. Renoir returned, stick in mouth. Gabriel threw it far into the meadow. The dog yelped and tore after it.
“Telomeres are the ends of your chromosomes and protect these from damage. The longer the telomeres, the better. Yours, my friend, are surprisingly long for a man of thirty-five.”
He smiled at her. “I’m thrilled.”
She gave him a playful slap on the arm. “You should be.”
Was she being flirty? Heat shot up his neck at the thought. His mind wasn’t fully tuned into the finer social signals these days. Maybe she was just a tactile person and his imagination too vivid.
“What are you up to today?” she asked.
“I’m going to have a look at the Victorian tea pavilion. It’s pretty overgrown and needs repainting. But before that, I need to check the masonry for damage.” He ran a hand through his hair. Clipping back the climbing roses alone would take most of the day.
“Sounds marvelous. Can we go see it?” She bounced on the balls of her feet.
“For sure.” He lightly touched her elbow. “It’s this way.”
They followed the path through cedar and pine until the trees thinned out and a clearing revealed a dramatic vista.
The perfect blue oval of an ornamental lake reflected the neoclassical pavilion situated on a little hill on its far bank.
The circular structure was nearly smothered by roses, green but not yet in bloom.
He’d have to take her there again in summer when the soft pink blossoms created quite the spectacle.
She stopped in her tracks when the lake came into view and pressed her hands over her heart. “Gabriel, it’s gorgeous, plucked right from a fairy tale.” She glanced at him; her expression animated with joy. “Can we go right up to it?”
“Sure, I only wanted to show you the picturesque approach first.”
She entered the pavilion, and surveyed its inside, every so often leaning out of one of the eight tall openings that perforated the walls. “It’s so romantic,” she whispered. “I can almost picture myself dressed in a crinoline pouring tea from a silver pot.”
What a beautiful image. He loved that she showed such vivid interest in it. That little spark of awe and wonder would help him view the structure with fresh appreciation and fire him up when the renovation work inevitably became tedious.
Renoir joined them and dropped his stick on the first step. He rounded the periphery of the structure, nose to the ground, sniffing the undergrowth with abandon.
Oh dear, there might be rats. Gabriel sighed internally. Those wouldn’t go down well with potential clients who wanted to take their wedding pictures in the pavilion.
~ * ~
W hen Delia had cycled to work that morning, she’d been in excellent spirits. The air had been balmy, and the run with Gabriel had left her invigorated.
But the cheerful mood evaporated the minute John Winter barged into her office, clad in his lab coat, coffee cup in hand.
She didn’t hate the man, at least not all the time, but he was selfish, lazy, and thoughtless, with the occasional burst of brilliance and bonhomie to soften the blow.
She had cowered before him for too long and was beginning to detest herself.
He was there to dump some extra work on her, so much was certain.
Her boss settled in the chair opposite hers, crossed one leg over the other, and took a sip from his mug emblazoned with the double helix of the DNA molecule. Professor John Winter, always on brand. She remained silent, waiting for him to speak.
He swallowed his coffee and cradled the mug in his hands. “Good morning, Cordelia. I trust you have a minute?”
She bit back a sharp reply and swiveled in her office chair to face him. “Good morning, John.”
He raised both eyebrows, then returned his features to their habitual expression of professional friendliness laced with an undercurrent of indifference.
“I know you’re busy, so allow me to get straight to the point.
Since we’re making such great strides with the ‘Renwood Longevity Project,’ I think we need one last push.
I require one more DNA sample from an ancestor of the early eighteenth century. ”
Her throat tightened, and her nostrils flared on a sharp exhale. She was repulsed by his subtle abuse of power and her continuous lack of backbone in the face of it. “No, John,” she said calmly.
He glared at her above the rim of his glasses. “Why ever not?”
“Because I refuse to make Gabriel go into that vault again to mess with yet another ancestor’s skull. I just won’t.” She could expand on how awful it had to be for a person to again and again open caskets that had lain undisturbed for centuries, but she chose not to.
Not that she owed John any explanation; it wasn’t part of her job description to coerce unsuspecting fellow citizens into desecrating their ancestor’s graves.
The only thing that kept her from being tormented by her conscience was that they’d found that diamond and emerald necklace the last time she’d begged Gabriel for ancestor DNA.
“But Cordelia, consider—”
“No, John. I won’t do it.”
He rose from his chair with an ominous calm. “Is this your final answer?”
She also stood and fixed him with a firm gaze. “Yes.”
He turned to the door, coffee mug clutched to his chest, then left without another word.
She sank back, gasping for air, and pressed both palms against her chest. In her inner eye, she pictured him tearing up her contract. Years of hard work and dedication, all for nothing. Her heart was hammering, and her field of vision narrowed.
Fumbling to open her desk drawer, she rooted around for the paper bags she kept from her lunches. She found one, blew it open, and breathed into it, making sure to lengthen her exhalations. Slowly, her level of oxygen returned to normal.
What had happened to her? Afraid of John Winter’s every whim?
When had toeing the line with her boss become more important than being true to her convictions?
She was a grown woman and a respected scientist. If submissive behavior was a requisite for getting a job at Renwood University, maybe she’d need to find someplace else.