“What’s that?”
“Your choices would be limited. There are only two places where Malcolm and I have received positive responses: USC and Harvard.”
“Where you work and where you went to school,” said Grace.
“Go Crimson,” said Malcolm, as if nothing mattered less than attending Harvard. But he read everything Harvard mailed him and wrote occasional checks to various endowments.
Sophie said, “Well, technically, I went to Radcliffe, women weren’t accepted at Harvard, back then, but yes, those are places where we have personal relationships. Princeton might be a possibility but they and Stanford refuse to commit to a level where I’d be comfortable taking the risk. Meaning if we turned down USC and Harvard, we might be left with nothing.”
“USC and Harvard,” said Grace. “There are worse choices to make.”
“You need to understand,” said Malcolm. “If you endured the full year at Merganfield and applied for the fall, you’d likely get in everywhere. The Ivies, Stanford, anywhere you choose. Hell, anyplace stupid enough not to take you doesn’t deserve you.”
Sophie said, “So you’re narrowing your options, considerably.”
I live in a narrow world. Boundaries keep me safe.
Grace said, “I understand. But trust me, this is great, I’m fine with it. Which do you think I should choose?”
Sophie said, “We can’t make that decision, dear. It’s really up to you.”
“All right, then. How about some parameters?” Using a word she’d learned from one of Malcolm’s statistic books. Great word, she used it at Merganfield whenever she could. Even with Sean Miller. Time for some new — ahem — parameters.
“USC,” said Malcolm, “is a fine, fine institution. Harvard is... Harvard.”
He seemed to be struggling. Grace wanted to save him. “Could I apply to both?”
“Sorry, no, they’re both insisting acceptance means commitment.”
“I bear all the risk.”
“Welcome to the world of higher education, Grace.”
Sophie said, “Let’s back up a bit. Give you parameters. We’re talking apples and oranges, on more than an academic level. In one case, you’d stay in L.A., would have the option of dorming in or continuing to live here. In the other you’d be clear across the country and learning to deal with some extremely cold weather.” She smiled. “Though I suppose the opportunity of some nice warm winter clothing isn’t half bad. Think shearling, dear.”
Grace smiled back. “Would I get the same education?”
Malcolm said, “You’d get an excellent education at both places. Anywhere, really, the crucial ingredient is the student, not the college. There are plenty of smart kids at USC but it’s more... heterogeneous. And while there are stupid people at Harvard, you’d be more likely to meet blocs of individuals closer to your level.”
Who cares?
“There’s also,” said Sophie, “and I shudder to say this, the matter of prestige. A Harvard degree is given a lot of weight by employers and such.”
“Far more than deserved,” said Malcolm. “Didn’t know a blessed thing when I graduated. Didn’t prevent consulting firms from wanting to hire me.”
“You remained there for your Ph.D.,” said Grace.
“I did. I’d planned to go to Chicago or Oxford but I met a gorgeous girl from Radcliffe who was also pursuing her Ph.D. at Harvard.” He shrugged. “The rest is domestic history.”
Sophie said, “Romantic twist, he tells everyone that story. The truth is, he’d decided well before meeting me.”
“I dispute that.”
“Darling, you know we’ve been through this. When we moved and I cleaned out the apartment, I saw the correspondence between you and Professor Fiacre.”
“Letters of inquiry,” said Malcolm, “are not letters of intent.”
Sophie waved him silent. Their fingers touched. Talking about their student days, however briefly, had brought a flush to their cheeks.
Maybe Harvard was an interesting place.
Grace said, “How would you feel about my staying in L.A.?”
“Of course, we’d be fine with it,” said Sophie. “Whichever you choose.”
“The same goes for Boston?”
A beat.
Sophie said, “Absolutely. We could visit you.”
“Give us a chance to revisit old haunts,” said Malcolm.
Grace waited.
Sophie understood the silence. “Would we be insulted if you left? Think you ungrateful? Absolutely not. At your age it’s normal to want to attain autonomy.”
“Develop a sense of yourself,” said Malcolm. “Not that you don’t have one, of course. But... it’s a growth process. Your self-image at twenty-five won’t be the same as it is at sixteen.”
“Sixteen,” said Sophie. “I must confess, I keep thinking about that. Not only would you be stepping into an already established social scene, you’d be younger than almost everyone.”
“But she’d also be a helluva lot smarter,” said Malcolm.
“What would I need to do to apply?” said Grace. “In either place.”
Malcolm said, “Fill out a form, send your transcripts and your SAT, sit for an interview with an alumnus.”
That sounded pitifully simple. Grace said, “There’s still the matter of money.”
“The old moochery thing? Don’t give it a thought.”
Grace didn’t reply.
Sophie said, “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it?”
“All right,” said Grace. “I appreciate your setting up contingencies in both places. Could I have a couple of days to think?”
“I’d expect no less than careful contemplation from you,” said Malcolm.
Grace finished her soft-boiled egg.
She’d let the time pass. Ask for a third day in order to appear contemplative.
But she’d already made up her mind.
Chapter 39
Grace stopped in Monterey, finding a casual fish restaurant where, surrounded by families and older couples, she fueled up on grilled salmon, steak fries, and a pot of serious coffee. Thirty-five minutes later, she was back on the road.
Refreshed, purposeful, spotting no cops, she sped.
She pulled into Berkeley just before nine p.m., encountering clear, starlit skies and plenty of street life. A welcome sense of familiarity took hold, though she hadn’t been here in years. But back in her twenties, she had flown up fairly frequently, delivering papers, co-authored with Malcolm, at oh-so-earnest symposia.
He had no professional need to do any of that but indulged in occasional scholarly gregariousness. Grace’s purpose had been hanging out with him. She recalled the inevitable after-parties with a smile. Standing on the sidelines, glass of white wine in hand, as Malcolm regaled a generally sour lot of academicians with anecdotes plucked from a life lived well.
He’d been so different from them, a redwood among dry weeds.
In her free time, Grace had explored the university town, always finding it an interesting study in pretense. Berkeley was blessed with gorgeous, rolling topography, bordered by hills where trees and shrubs thrived with little care, graced with stunning views of ocean and bay and bridge, everything centered on the vast emerald spread of a venerable campus.
High-end restaurants abounded — Shattuck Avenue’s sobriquet was the Gourmet Ghetto. And neighborhoods like Berkeley Hills and Claremont sported grand old houses dating from an age when Northern California was the financial hub of the state. Despite all that, the city seemed to cultivate shabbiness, like one of those old-money dowagers pretending they hadn’t lucked into a life of privilege.