They lived about an hour away from each other so at the beginning it was mostly long phone calls and the occasional visit. That suited them, though, because they were both busy people. The calls came in the evening or on the weekends. They were relaxed and uncommonly frank. Perhaps distance had something to do with it. Because fifty miles separated them, both people felt free to say whatever they wanted without having to worry about the possibility of seeing each other unless they agreed on a time and a place to meet.
Mills loved women. A confirmed bachelor, he usually dated two or three simultaneously. Sometimes they knew about each other, sometimes not. He said he liked the drama that invariably came with “dating multitudes.” Hell, he even liked the confrontations, the recriminations, the hide-and-seek that was frequently necessary when divvying up your heart among others.
Eventually Beatrice realized Mills wanted her in his life partly because he did not desire her. At another time that would have hurt—no one likes being unwanted. But after her divorce and the exhausting cruel events that preceded it, she felt like a tsunami survivor. The last thing she wanted was someone new in either her head or her bed. So this kind of friendship was OK with her, at least for now. They’d be buddies, Platonic pals with the added bonus that each brought to the table the unique perspective and insight of his or her sex. Neither of them had ever had a really good, nonromantic friend of the opposite sex and it turned out to be a gratifying experience.
Mills asked questions about why women thought or behaved certain ways so he could better understand and win the hearts of his girlfriends. Beatrice asked many of the same kinds of questions but for a very different reason: She was curious about how men saw life so she could better understand why her ex-husband had behaved the way he did. Mills teased her about this. “You’re performing an ongoing postmortem while I’m just trying to get them to say yes.”
They ate meals together, went to the movies (although they had very different taste, and choosing what film to see often was a good-natured tug-of-war), they took long walks. Mills had a big mutt named Cornbread who regularly went along with them. That made things nicer because the dog was a sweet, gentle soul who wanted nothing more than to be your friend. When they passed other people on these walks, Beatrice could tell by their expressions that they thought Mills and she were a couple. The happy hound bounding back and forth between them further proved that.
One afternoon they were sitting at a favorite outdoor café by the river. It was a gorgeous June day, the place wasn’t crowded, Cornbread slept at their feet: a moment where you couldn’t ask for more.
“Tell me a secret.”
“What do you mean?” She straightened up in her seat.
Sticking his chin out, he said in a taunting voice, “I dare you to tell me one of your absolute deepest secrets. One you’ve never told anyone before, not even your husband.”
“Mills, we’re friends and all, but come on.”
“I’ll tell you one of mine—”
“No, I don’t want to hear it!” She made a quick gesture with her hand as if shooing flies away from her face.
“Come on, Bea, we are good pals now. Why can’t I tell you a secret?”
“Because things like that… you should keep to yourself.”
He smiled. “Are your secrets so ugly or dangerous that they can’t be told?”
She tsked her tongue and shook her head. This was the first time he had ever made her feel uncomfortable. What was the point? “Tell me about your hat.”
He looked at the Panama on the table. “My hat?”
“Yes, I love that hat. And I love it on you. Tell me where you got it.”
“You’re changing the subject but that’s all right. My hat. I got it as a present from a client who was a pretty interesting guy.”
“Was?”
“Yes, he’s dead; he was murdered.”
“Wow! By whom?”
“Well, they never found out. He was Russian and supposedly had quite a few enemies.”
“You were his divorce lawyer?”
“Yes.” Mills signaled a passing waitress to bring him another glass of wine.
“Who was he married to?”
“A very out-of-the-ordinary woman; an American. They met when she was a guest professor at the Moscow Institute of Steel and Alloys.”
“Do you think she killed him?”
Mills smiled strangely. “She was on their list of suspects.”
“Who wanted the divorce?”
He picked the hat up off the table and put it on his knee. “He did, but she got everything in the settlement because he just wanted out and away from her.”
“If he lost everything in the settlement, why’d he give you a present afterward?” Her voice was teasing, but she really wanted him to answer the question.
“Because after it was over, I convinced his wife not to turn him into gold.”
Beatrice wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “What? Say that again.”
Mills turned the hat round and round on his knee. “I convinced her not to turn him into gold and he was grateful. I’m a very good negotiator, you know. That’s why he gave me the hat; he was thankful.”
“What do you mean, turn him into gold? What are you talking about, Mills?” Beatrice looked at her friend skeptically, as if he must be putting her on or there was a joke in all this somewhere that she either wasn’t getting or he’d told badly.
Cornbread woke up and immediately began biting his butt with great gusto. Both people watched while the dog attacked himself and then stopped just as suddenly, curled up again, and went back to sleep.
“Mills?”
“I told you they met when she was a guest professor in Moscow. She’s a metallurgist, but also an alchemist. Do you know what they do?”
Beatrice snorted her derision “I know what they’re supposed to be able to do—turn dross into gold.”
He rubbed his neck and nodded. “ ‘Dross’—I like that word; it’s very medieval. But, yes, you’re right—that’s what they do.”
“But there’s no such thing, Mills, and don’t pretend there is. I know nothing about it, but I do know alchemy is more myth than anything else. People have always tried to transform worthless stuff into gold. But it’s a metaphor—a nice one—but it’s not real.”
No longer smiling, Mills said, “Oh, it’s real. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen. I saw her do it more than once.”
“Stop it, you’re teasing me. But, listen—I am completely gullible about these things. I believe what people tell me. That was half the problem with my husband—I always believed him and you know how that ended.”
Mills rubbed his neck again and looked at Beatrice a long few moments. It was clear he was carefully considering what to say next. “We met back in seventh grade. I was the first boy she ever slept with.”
“Who is this? Who are you talking about?”
“Her name is Heather Cooke. Alchemists aren’t made, they’re born. It is an inherent talent. Contrary to what most people believe, you can’t study to be an alchemist, any more than you can study to be a violin prodigy or sports star. Studying makes you smarter and practice makes you more adept, but neither is able to create the divine spark that flares into genius. It’s either within you from the beginning or not. That’s why all those geniuses so accomplished at other things—Paracelsus, Isaac Newton, Saint Thomas Aquinas—failed at alchemy.