Beauty and the Brain (2 page)

Scheduled to begin work as an assistant
professor at the new university in Los Angeles in September, he’d
been at loose ends after moving to California from Massachusetts.
He’d also been pretty low on funds, although he came from a fairly
wealthy family. Colin chose not to rely on his parents’ good graces
now that he was a man. He believed men ought to be able to take
care of themselves. If they couldn’t, then perhaps one or two of
Mr. Darwin’s more controversial theories ought to be put to the
test.

This job, therefore, was a godsend. Not only
would he be able to do what he loved—research—but he’d be able to
witness work in a new and booming industry. Colin was fascinated by
moving pictures, and he went to see them as often as he could.

The expressive side of his nature, however,
had not been nurtured, and he wasn’t very good at showing people
how he felt. And now Martin Tafft, a fine man and one whom Colin
liked a good deal, believed him to be a stuffed shirt. Colin
sighed, and wondered if he’d ever learn how to live in the world
and not in his head.

An, opportunity for practice occurred not
more than two minutes later, when Martin opened the heavy door of
the wooden lodge and the two men entered the main parlor.

A large wooden structure built late in the
last century, the Cedar Crest Lodge had been the scene of many
parties, the headquarters for many hunting expeditions, and the
vacation home of choice for wealthy Southern Californians who
wished to rest and relax near their homes. Not everyone cared to
spend their holidays in the big city, and the mountains in the area
had been discovered to be ideal for such a purpose.

The half-timbered building had an odd but
appealing quality about it, Colin thought, and didn’t look as out
of place as might be supposed. One normally didn’t expect to
encounter a faux Tudor edifice in the middle of a California
forest. But the Cedar Crest gave the appearance of being both
rustic and elegant, a combination difficult to achieve but very
effective.

With appreciation, Colin entered through the
heavy double timber doors of the lodge and left behind the
brightness of the day. Inside, the furnishings were warm and
comfortable, but they also exuded qualities of excellence and
luxury. No shoddy, splintery old wooden chairs for visitors to the
Cedar Crest, as one might encounter in several dude ranches in
Wyoming or Montana. Such discomfort was not what wealthy Southern
Californians expected during their days of rest. All of the Cedar
Crest’s furniture was crafted of native wood, sanded to a
fare-thee-well, and polished until it gleamed.

The lodge, inside and out, was a fine
example of the new Craftsman school of architecture, Colin noted to
himself, although he didn’t, mention it to Martin because he sensed
Martin wouldn’t care. Long ago, Colin had learned to temper his
thirst to gain and disseminate knowledge with caution. Not everyone
in the world was as eager to learn about everything in it as Colin
himself. Nor, it was true, did most people possess the spongelike
quality of Colin’s own intellect.

With a sigh of regret that it should be so,
he followed Martin into the lodge. The day outside was sunny but
chilly, and a fire had been built in the huge fireplace in the
parlor. The pleasant aroma of wood smoke made Colin think of a trip
he’d taken to Montana once. He’d never quite understood why people
who trucked with long-horned cattle seemed impelled to make
furniture out of the horns. Some of the ugliest hat racks and
chairs he’d ever seen lived in Montana. It was almost enough to
make him glad he didn’t.

He was surprised to see four people kneeling
on the gorgeous Bokhara rug in front of the roaring fire. He
squinted, trying to discern what the people were doing.

“Snake eyes! Blast!” cried one of them, and
Colin blinked. Good heavens, were they throwing dice?

“Seven!” cried another—a woman, much to
Colin’s shock—and then she crowed, “I win!” She gave a delighted
whoop, making Colin’s considerable mind go blank for a moment—but
only a moment.

He couldn’t see her face because her back
was to him. He did notice that she had very light, golden blond
hair piled on top of her head in the mode made famous by Mr.
Gibson. Her hair gleamed in the firelight and reminded Colin of
some old, polished Roman coins he’d seen in a museum once.

Since Colin’s thirst for knowledge was
all-inclusive and often unintentional—his mind absorbed trivia read
in newsprint and periodicals with the same zest as it did tidbits
gleaned from musty historical texts—he recognized that she wore a
pinafore gown. If he’d been asked, he couldn’t have said where he’d
learned the name of that particular style of dress.

However he’d learned it, he also knew the
gown had been sewn of velvet the color of priceless sapphires.
Underneath the dress the woman wore a lacy white lawn blouse. Her
clothes were very well made. Colin knew these clothes had cost a
lot of money, and he deduced therefrom that the young woman was
probably Miss Brenda Fitzpatrick, who was a successful actress.
These days actresses earned far more than, say, college professors.
Colin’s turn of mind wasn’t bitter, and he didn’t resent the fact,
but only noted it with interest. His assumption of the young
woman’s identity was confirmed only seconds later.

“Shoot, Brenda, you always win.” A young man
laughed and handed the woman something. Colin thought he detected
the light of worship in the young man’s eyes, and his gaze thinned.
As much as Colin understood the things that made up the world, he
did not understand human emotions. At all. He’d like to learn; it
was only that he’d never had the time.

The woman rose from the floor with a grace
Colin appreciated on an instinctive level. Her movements were
fluid, and she swept the young man a deep, if comic, curtsy. “Thank
you, Gil. You ought to know better than to play dice with me by
this time

Colin frowned slightly. The only jarring
note in the picture the young woman presented—besides that of
dicing with three men, which was so outlandish as to be almost off
the scale of social normality—was that voice. The tone was
delightful; bell-shaped and liquid. The accent screamed Lower East
Side.

Good God, had this woman truly made a
success of herself on the stage? With that appalling accent? Colin
found himself fascinated by her, his intellectual thirst craving to
know everything there was to know about her.

“Brenda,” Martin said, laughing and
gesturing the woman to come to him and Colin. “I want to introduce
you to my new research assistant—and my own personal lifesaver—Mr.
Colin Peters.”

When she turned, Colin felt as if someone
had punched him in the solar plexus. Good God, the woman was
amazing! As petite as a Dresden doll, she appeared fragile in the
firelight, yet substantial. That is to say, her figure was
substantial. In a small way. Dash it, she had the most delicious
body Colin had ever seen. And he hadn’t even seen it, really.

Her mouth was as red as roses and bowed
beautifully, her lips neither too full nor too thin. Her nose was
an artist’s dream. Her face was a perfect oval, and her chin was as
delicately molded as Eve’s in Michelangelo’s painting on the
ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Colin had never beheld a more beautiful
woman. She looked almost unreal, she was so perfect. He tried to
calm his buzzing senses with the practical knowledge that she
undoubtedly owed a good deal of her magnificent shape to boning,
and at least some of her coloring to paint, but he wasn’t entirely
successful.

“Mr. Peters,” she said, and her blue eyes,
which matched her gown to perfection, sparkled like sapphires.
She’d managed to subdue her New York accent for the introduction.
“How nice to meet you. Martin’s told me so much about you. I’m
Brenda Fitzpatrick.” She walked like a sylph over to Colin and held
out a tiny hand.

Colin stared down at that hand, marveling
that it looked so innocent for one that had only lately held a pair
of dice. Astounding. Clearing his throat and his mind of
irrelevancies, he took her hand and shook it. “Very pleased meet
you, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

“Oh, please call me Brenda. Picture sets are
so casual, and we’re all like a big family.”

“I see. Charmed, I’m sure.”

Colin, who had never behaved in any but the
most dignified and reserved manner, hardly recognized the thin,
shaky voice that issued from his throat. He was behaving like an
imbecile, and all because Brenda Fitzpatrick was lovely. How
unsettling. Since, however, it was his habit, the trained scholar
inside of him noted his peculiar behavior with interest, as if he
might document it later in educational monograph.

Brenda’s eyelids fluttered, giving Colin a
splendid view her eyelashes, which were thick and, unless he was
much mistaken, homegrown. Her skin looked like white rose petals
with a mere hint of pink—natural pink, it was, too—staining her
cheeks. So much for his paint theory. In short, she was the most
spectacular female Colin had ever encountered.

Then she grinned up at him, revealing teeth
like pearls, and startling him because he hadn’t expected such
candid humor from this source. “May I call you Colin? I know it’s
probably shocking to someone who hasn’t been in pictures for long,
but trust me, we’ll all be pals before long.”

Blinking, unsettled both by her beauty and
the renewal of her accent, Colin stammered, “Oh. Certainly. I’m
sure,” and felt himself shrinking in his own eyes. He stood up
straighter. He did have an advantage over many people in that he
was tall and straight and, while he might be an egghead, he didn’t
really look like one. Except for his extremely thick eyeglasses,
which took that opportunity to slide down his nose. He pushed them
back irritably.

Evidently sensing some of Colin’s tension,
Martin broke in with his customary easiness and charm. “I can’t
tell you how happy I am to have Colin assisting me on this picture,
Brenda. He’s an expert on just about everything there is to know
about American history. He’s really keen on Indians.”

Her blue eyes opened wider, a feat that
amazed Colin, who wouldn’t have believed it possible until he saw
it. “Is that so? How fascinating.”

He didn’t believe her. Not only was her
accent enough to let anyone hearing it know her for an unlettered
booby, but nobody thought his work was fascinating except Colin
himself. Some of his initial and unexpected ardor cooled. “Indeed.”
It came out more stiffly than he’d intended.

“I think it’s marvelous that you know so
much about the Indians,” Brenda went on, apparently either not
noticing or choosing to ignore Colin’s awkwardness.

He didn’t believe that, either. “Yes,” he
said. “I find my work interesting.”

“He’s a walking encyclopedia,” Martin said,
slapping him on the shoulder and making him jump. “Just the man we
need for this picture.”

Brenda gazed appraisingly at Colin, making
his discomfort acute. He’d not encountered many self-assured women
in his life; this one disconcerted him.

“I’m sure you’re right, Martin.” She smiled
at Martin and transferred her smile to Colin. “I’d be interested to
know something about the Indians if you ever have time for it, Mr.
Peters.”

If there was anything needed to break the
spell Brenda Fitzpatrick’s loveliness had spun around Colin, it was
this artless comment. He detested people who spoke about “the
Indians” in that magnificently casual and totally uninformed
way.

Realizing this was only one more of God’s
little jokes—a pea-sized brain in a beautiful package—Colin shook
off the remaining remnants of the magic he’d been under. “I fear
there is no such thing as ‘the Indians,’ Miss Fitzpatrick” His
voice was cool. “There are several tribes belonging to a race of
people we have come to designate as American Indians, but they are
no more akin to each other than a German is to a Spaniard.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

Good heavens, she didn’t even flinch from
his tone. She must truly be a good actress because she even looked
interested. What was the matter with this woman? Was she too stupid
to understand he’d just tried to make her feel foolish?

Brenda darted a quick glance around the
room. Her attendant swains had given up waiting for her and
wandered off. Colin saw them standing in a clump at the other side
of the room, lounging and smoking in an artistic grouping of chairs
and sofas, gazing at Brenda and chatting with each other. It looked
to him as if they were all three trying to pretend they didn’t want
to be the first to race to her side after she stopped toying with
Martin’s research assistant.

He started when Brenda laid a small hand on
his arm and stepped closer to him He barely stopped himself from
taking a startled step back.

“Listen, Mr. Peters,” she said in an
undertone, as if she didn’t want to be overheard by anyone else. “I
know you think I’m nothing but a pretty face, but I really am
interested in the Indians—at least the Indians in this picture. I’d
appreciate it if you could help me to understand a little bit about
them.”

For the third time in less than five
minutes, Colin didn’t believe her. “I’m sure I’ll do my best to
provide you with any information you require,” he said in his best
schoolmaster’s voice.

She sighed, dropped her hand from his arm,
and stepped back, still gazing up at him. She opened her mouth,
closed it, then opened it again to say merely, “Thank you.” She
turned away from him.

Colin could have sworn she braced herself
before she took off at a jaunty but extremely dainty pace toward
her flock of modem’ courtiers.

“She’s a lovely person,” Martin said at his
elbow.

Surprised because he’d forgotten there was
anyone else nearby but Brenda, Colin turned and stared at Martin
for a moment before his wits gathered themselves together. “Er,
yes. She’s lovely” That much was true, no matter how little of
solid worth Colin had detected underneath her surface beauty.