Man Who Loved Pride and Prejudice (16 page)

   He leaned back in his chair. "Did Erin tell you that?"

   "She didn't need to. I know academics. It was a big deal when Erin applied for the job at Cambridge Biotech. Duke would have made her sign all kinds of waivers before she left."

   "She applied for a job at Cambridge Biotech?"

   "It was before she met you. They finally offered it to her in October."

   "Did Calder know? He never said anything about that."

   That answered one question. "He talked to you, then."

   "Read me the riot act is more like it. He said I should stop trying to convince everyone I was more successful and more white than my father and start thinking about what I wanted for myself." He took a long swig of his beer and looked over Cassie's shoulder for a moment as if fascinated by the view of the water.

   Cassie made a decision. "She's going to be here in three weeks."

   "Erin?" He sounded like a man just granted a reprieve. "Here in Woods Hole?"

   The waiter appeared with their food, placing a salad in front of Cassie. "She's coming to visit."

   She could see the change in the set of his shoulders as a look of determination crossed his face. He was silent, clearly considering the possibilities, and Cassie could see him as the successful businessman he was. Erin might be surprised by what she would face when she came.

   "And how is Calder?" She tried to sound casual.

   Scott sliced off a piece of steak. "He's insane."

   She couldn't imagine anyone ever describing Calder Westing as insane. "Because he read you the riot act?"

   "Not that. His new book is finally in press, and that always makes him crazy. He was driving his agent nuts, staying up all night doing rewrites when it was supposed to be in final editing, and then demanding that they hold to the same printing date. He's always frantic before one of his books comes out, but this is worse than usual. Now he's just hiding out. Personally, I can't wait for the damned thing to be published so he gets back to normal."

   Cassie said slowly, "I didn't know he wrote books. I think he said something once about writing, but I thought it was just for his own pleasure or something." She had believed she knew Calder, at least a little. Discovering he had an entire side she knew nothing about was more distressing than she would have expected.

   Scott stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. "You didn't? You'd better forget I said anything. He's very private about his writing. Not many people know about it, but I was
sure he must have told you
. There was something, I can't remember what…" He paused for a moment. "No, I remember. He said you liked his books."

   "He did?" Cassie was completely bewildered. "But I've never read them. I didn't even know he wrote until you told me just now. I still don't know
what
he writes."

   "Novels. He writes under a pseudonym—Stephen West. He's reasonably well known for them in certain circles."

   Cassie stared at him. "You're joking," she said flatly.

   "No, not at all. You can find his books at any bookstore."

   "I know that. I've read them. Oh, God, and he's right. I did talk to him about them, but I never knew he wrote them. Now I feel like an idiot." She had lost all interest in her food.

   "Oh, please don't! How were you supposed to know? He keeps it such a secret. He says he wants to be seen as a writer, not 'the Westing who writes.' And his family isn't precisely happy about him writing, so it works out for them, too."

   "Why would his family be unhappy about it? The books get excellent reviews," she argued, still trying to grasp the idea of Calder as one of her favorite authors. She remembered how he had loaned her the latest book—
his
latest book—without a hint of having a connection to it.

   "It's not the kind of thing Westings are supposed to do. His father gets livid if you even mention Calder's books. Calder never puts dedications in his books because he'd be damned before he'd dedicate one to his family, and if he mentioned anyone else, he'd get even more grief from his father than he already does. Calder was supposed to be president, not a writer."

   "President of what?" Cassie realized with embarrassment what he meant. "I guess that was a silly question. It's just so hard to imagine."

   "Yes, Calder wasn't meant to be a politician."

   A dry smile touched her lips. "I don't think he'd be very happy in that arena."

   "Oh, God, no. I can't even imagine it. Calder getting up in front of hundreds of people and asking them to vote for him? I've never met anyone who works as hard to duck publicity as he does."

   "No." Cassie pushed her food around her plate with her fork for a minute. "So he won't be visiting you this summer, then?"

   "Already been and gone," he said cheerfully. "He was here for a couple of weeks in June, but he was so restless he left again. Sometimes I wonder why he puts himself through this. It's not as if he needs the money from book sales."

   That was hardly the answer she had been expecting. Calder had been there and had made no effort to see her. She felt vaguely sick. Why would he have come to see her? All she had ever done was to throw him out, except for the one time she cried on his shoulder and told him all her problems. But she had imagined more from their brief emails and had hoped he thought of her with fondness. But it appeared he didn't think about her at all.

   "He wasn't much company. He was always either stuck to his computer or sitting on the porch staring out at the Sound for hours at a time."

   "I guess his writing process must be pretty intense," said Cassie quietly. "I take it he's not involved with anyone then?" She hadn't meant to ask, but it came out anyway.

   "Not now. He's been off women for a while, though for a while there last fall he went through them faster than I could learn their names. Fast even for Calder."

   Cassie took a much-needed sip of beer. "He goes through women pretty fast?" She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer, but it was like a sore spot she couldn't resist poking at.

   "Pretty much. Of course he usually isn't terribly serious about them in the first place. He never has to look for a girlfriend. There are always plenty of admiring women around him, between his name and his money. He just waits for one to come along who seems interesting and attractive, and he takes up with her. Then things go well for a few weeks, or even a few months, and then suddenly he starts getting quieter and quieter. That's how I know when the end is coming. He's very nice about it; he tells them very kindly that he's sorry, but it just isn't working out for him, and that's that." Scott took a bite of steak. "You know, there was a time last summer when I thought he was pretty interested in you."

   Cassie flushed. She had forgotten Scott knew about the night they had spent together, just as Erin had. "I don't think so. I'm not exactly his type."

   "No, you aren't." He gave her a sharp look.

   She didn't think she could bear to talk about Calder any more. "But you wanted to hear about Erin. What more can I tell you?"

   She still couldn't believe it. Stephen West's prose—no,
Calder's
prose—was marked by an unusual sensitivity and fine nuances. It was so out of keeping with the man who barely spoke and seemed so thoughtless of his impact on others. She couldn't begin to understand it. But she could make sense of one thing: she had made something out of nothing, had assumed that an odd friendship of a sort existed between them, and she couldn't have been more wrong. It was all in her head the entire time.

CASSIE WAS STILL SHAKEN by Scott's revelations when she arrived back at the lab. She almost snapped at Chris when he asked about her lunch and couldn't focus when she returned to her statistical analysis. Finally, when Chris went to dinner, leaving her alone in the lab, she went to the computer and ran a search on Stephen R. West.

   She found bookstores offering his books, several critical analyses of his work, and absolutely no biographical information or photographs. One review referred to him as "reclusive" and commented that he never gave interviews or did book signings. She typed in Calder Westing and immediately had dozens of sites, ones about his family in which he was mentioned as a side note, information about the Stephen C. Westing Foundation where he was a board member, society notes about what charity balls he had attended in the company of which beautiful young women, and pictures of his elegant home in Virginia.

   Then there were the amateur sites, filled with photographs of him, many clearly taken without his knowledge, offering details about his life garnered from various sources. She read in shocked fascination a variety of rumors about his personal habits, his love life, the size of his fortune, and more. One site listed dates and places he had been spotted, and she was disturbed to see Woods Hole on the list, both for the summer and in March. She smiled grimly at an assertion that his family kept him out of politics to hide the fact that he was gay. None mentioned anything about writing.

   How little of this she had understood before! Now she could see why he reacted badly to being recognized. She clicked back and looked again at his pictures, seeing expressions she recognized and remembering the set of his body. Not to mention his touch. But she couldn't afford to think about that now.

   Cassie scrolled back to read the two emails he had sent her. Needlessly, as it turned out, since she remembered them practically word for word. With careful precision, she moved the mouse and clicked on Delete.

   If only she could delete him from her mind as easily and destroy any ideas she had about whether she meant anything to him. Her first impression had been right. He had wanted sex. It was just a line when he had said at the Christmas party he couldn't forget her. He had been kind in March, but even then, what he wrote on his card had told her what he was thinking about. Sex.

   Or perhaps he had meant it at Christmas when he said he wanted to see her again. But in March she had told him about her family, and in June he made no effort to see her. It wasn't hard to guess the reason. Why had she said anything to him about her past? Why, of everyone she knew, had she decided to confide in Calder Westing?

   She shook her head. Instead of helping her reject Calder, this was making her feel cheap and dirty. It wasn't going to improve if she kept looking at pictures of him on the computer, so she closed the window and cleared the history for good measure. There would be no sign she had looked for him.

   A distraction was what she needed. Perhaps Jim would still be around. They could talk about his project, and if he noticed anything amiss and pressed her to talk, at least he already knew about Calder. She slipped out into the corridor.

   The door to Jim's lab was open, light spilling out into the hall. Cassie went in without hesitation. Not seeing Jim, she peered into his empty office and then noticed she wasn't alone. Rob was in the back of the lab, his eyes bent to a microscope. Cassie backed away, hoping to escape before he noticed her, but she was too late.

   "Hi, Cassie."

   "Sorry, I was looking for Jim. I'll try again later." She tried to put finality in her tone.

   He swung to his feet and strolled over to her. "Anything I can help you with?"

   Rob was the last person who could help her with this. Or the second to last, anyway. "Thanks, but no."

   Rob cocked his head, watching her. "Something's wrong, isn't it?"

   Bad luck, to run into the one person in Woods Hole apart from Jim who had some idea how to read her moods. She had been pleased her contact with Rob this summer had been civil if distant. They even managed to converse over dinner one night at Jim and Rose's house. "No, I'm fine. Just need to get back to work."

   With a mirthless half-smile, Rob said, "Whatever. Hope your evening is productive."

   Cassie trudged back to her own lab. She would have to conquer this on her own. She couldn't focus enough to do serious work, so she started clearing out old samples from the refrigerator. She watched the solutions she had worked long hours on swirl down the drain and then cleaned and sterilized the containers. It was work Chris could have done, but it was all she could manage.

   She didn't look up when she heard laughing voices in the hall. No one she knew was still here except Rob. But the voices stopped outside her door, and she heard Rob's voice saying, "Let's check."

   There were four of them, Rob and three of the neurophysiology post-docs. Cassie straightened slowly as they came in. Rob had never set foot in her lab before. "Cassie, we're going out to the Kidd for a beer, and some of us may go to the movie afterwards. Want to come?"

   "That's nice of you, but…"

   "Or are you too busy being
faculty
to hang out with mere post-docs?"

   Cassie had forgotten Rob's ability for light-hearted teasing. It had been a long time since she had gone out with a group of researchers, though she had done it often as a grad student, and even in her first year of teaching. She hadn't stopped until the summer of Ryan and Calder. Even dealing with Rob was better than thinking about Calder, and there were plenty of other people to talk to. "Why not?"

   The warm wooden walls and floor of the Captain Kidd brought back years of memories for Cassie. Their group settled around a large round table in the alcove overlooking the harbor. Cassie made sure to take a seat well away from Rob. A salt breeze through the open windows teased strands of her hair loose from its practical ponytail.