Grace thanked her and lied. “I really appreciate the vote of confidence, Professor Berk, maybe I will.”
But she’d had it with cold weather and self-importance and the tendency to politicize everything from breakfast cereal to reading material. She’d also lost patience with having to explain why she preferred not to attend social gatherings. Had overheard one too many of her alleged peers refer to her as “different” or “weird” or “asocial” or “autistic.”
On top of all that, she was beginning to tire of the shy boys, had found herself working harder to come.
But none of that really mattered.
She’d known all along what her next step would be.
As her junior year drew to a close, she phoned Malcolm and told him she’d be coming home for the summer. He and Sophie had seen her a month before, the second of their twice-yearly visits, and she’d hadn’t mentioned anything about returning.
He said, “No summer school this time?”
“No need, I’m finished.”
“Finished with your research?”
“With nearly everything. I’ll be graduating a semester early.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” she said. “Done, kaput. I’d like to talk to you about doing some research in L.A., and about grad school.”
“So you’ve definitely decided?”
“I have.”
A beat. “That’s terrific, Grace. Clinical or cognitive?”
“Clinical and I want to do it at SC.”
“I see...”
“Is that a problem, Malcolm?”
“Of course not, Grace. Not in terms of your qualifications, that is. With everything you’ve accomplished and the kind of GRE score you’re bound to get, any school will be happy to have you.”
“Including SC?”
Another pause. “Yes, of course, the department would certainly be pleased.”
“Interesting grammar,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“Not they will be, Malcolm. They would be. It’s conditional on something?”
“Well... Grace, do I need to spell it out?”
“If it’s something other than the obvious,” she said. “E.g., you and me, nepotism blah blah blah.”
“I’m afraid that’s it, Grace.”
“Are you saying your presence will disqualify me?”
“I’d hope not.” He laughed. “There I go with more conditional... I must admit, you’ve surprised me with this, Grace.”
“Why?”
“Pardon?”
“Why the surprise?” she said. “There’s no one whose work I admire more than yours.”
“Well,” he said. “That — that’s extremely gracious... you’re saying not only do you want to study at SC, you’re planning to be my student?”
“If it’s possible.”
“Hmm,” he said. “I have to say, it’s not the kind of thing that comes up in departmental meetings.”
Grace laughed. “Paradigm shift. You always say that they can be useful.”
He laughed back. “So I do, Grace. So I do.”
She wasn’t sure what he had to go through, but a month later, she had her answer. Formally, she’d be required to apply like everyone else. But Malcolm’s tenure and status and “other factors” made her acceptance inevitable.
Grace had a notion of what other factors meant: He wasn’t her biological father. So, officially, no nepotism.
That, she confessed, did tighten her chest a bit and make her eyes hurt.
But on balance, everything was working out just as she’d planned.
Chapter 42
Grace’s catnap lasted the perfect twenty minutes. Reinserting the bright-blue contacts and re-donning the fluffed-up brunette wig, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, dabbed on extra deodorant, and reassured herself that she was Sarah Muller, Educational Consultant, with expertise in psychometric testing.
All that, and two guns in her oversized bag.
Leaving the hotel via the back door, she drove down Center Street, again passing the construction site. Still no activity and her psychotic pal was nowhere in sight. But a few high school kids were loitering in the park, for the most part tough-looking boys. Maybe they’d driven away the homeless men.
She drove to Lawrence Hall, arriving seventy minutes prior to her appointment with Amy Chan. That gave her time to find an ideal parking spot near the entrance to the lot across the street from the museum. Perfect for making a quick exit, plenty of time to scope out the front plaza.
The day was gorgeous and clear, cool air wafting gently under a stunning sky that matched her contacts. Off to the west, the Golden Gate Bridge was a flash of rust-colored brilliance. San Francisco Bay was a roiling pewter broth, chop whipped up by wind, frigid water frothing like freshly beaten meringue. Tugs and tourist boats and a few fishing craft rocked and rolled. On one of her visits, Grace had toured Alcatraz, wondered what it would be like to bunk down in a cell if you knew you could get out.
The plaza was spotless and nearly empty, just a couple of young shapely women who could be moms or au pairs, standing by as ebullient toddlers ran and jumped and cavorted across the open space.
Grace knew she’d never have children but, from a distance, she found kids pleasing and agreeable, not yet fucked up by life. In grad school, opportunities had come up to learn child therapy and she’d been required to spend three weeks observing at a preschool but had never opted to go beyond that. What she’d learned was that kids, even toddlers, were damn good at solving their own problems if so-called grown-ups didn’t intervene and impose their will.
She proceeded to the center of the plaza, was nearly butted by one of the little boys, a stocky mini-elf with a mane of long red hair, racing blindly and whooping with joy.
She smiled and sidestepped and one of the young women yelled, “Cheyenne!” The boy sped on, unheedingly.
Grace murmured, “Good for you, kiddo.”
Reversing direction, she exited the plaza, crossed the street, took a lovely walk up a pathway that snaked into the green hills of Berkeley.
She returned at one fifty-five. Professor Amy Chan was already there, wearing an outfit not unlike Grace’s: blouse, sweater, slacks, all in a monotone of navy blue.
Chan sat on a bench that faced the Bay, head down, engrossed in a book. Grace made sure to approach in a way that wouldn’t startle her, pacing a wide conspicuous arc that would give Chan plenty of time to take Grace in.
Despite that, Chan didn’t glance up until Grace was ten yards away. Her face was unreadable.
Grace gave a friendly little wave and Chan waved back and put down her book. Hardcover novel called The Genius. Something Chan could relate to?
Chan slipped the volume into her purse and stood. Her tote was a macramé thing even larger than Grace’s. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if she was also packing?
“Hi, I’m Sarah. Thanks so much for meeting with me.”
“Amy.” The two of them shook hands. Chan’s grip was gentle and soft. Five six or so, she was slim and leggy, long hair drawn back in a ponytail. No makeup, no perfume. Patting the bench, she waited for Grace to settle then positioned herself to Grace’s right.
The spot she’d chosen offered both of them a glorious view of the Bay. It also made avoiding eye contact easy as both of them stared straight ahead.
Amy Chan said, “You’re in education, Sarah?”
“Used to teach, now I consult to private schools — anxious kids and highly anxious parents.”