Page 29 of Things We Do for Love and Science
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.
~ * ~
When Delia had cycledto 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.”
