Eric hadn’t visited the stacks since his student days. He remembered fondly an all-too-brief escapade with an ardent female medical student one spring; yes, stacks were a worthy institution. Today, though, he’d approached with exhausted resignation the idea of researching what he’d come to call (to himself, of course) Harris’s Folly. Never enough sleep, or time to eat a decent meal, or even wash out your socks. But Harris seemed to think he had time to dig into old issues of the Lancet, digest the information, and then offer an insightful analysis of the possibility of . . . What? He didn’t even know what Harris was after. But actually he was quite flattered.

And now, barely an hour after disappearing into the dusty depths, Eric was stunned.

According to the twenty-year-old Lancet article, Talmidge had gone further during his very earliest years than anyone working in the field of cell regeneration and DNA research today. Why hadn’t he known about Talmidge? Why wasn’t the world applauding and building on the man’s incredible achievement?

And then the answer was revealed, and Eric’s excitement died. For soon after the first article was published, another proclaimed Talmidge’s work to be a fraud, and then Talmidge himself repudiated his results, crowing at the deceit he had practiced on the medical community.

It was pouring again. The drumming of the rain, such a cozy sound in the stacks, had flooded every street crossing by the time Eric emerged from the medical library, hungry, dusty and puzzled. He’d have liked nothing better than to head for home and a takeout pizza, but instead he hiked over to Madison Avenue and caught an uptown bus. His curiosity was piqued. He needed more information.

The imposing limestone building which housed the New York Academy of Medicine dominated the corner of East 103rd Street and Fifth Avenue. The receptionist looked slightly askance as Eric pushed through the large wrought-iron-and-glass doors, deposited his umbrella in the thoughtfully provided bin, and squelched wetly through the ornate lobby toward her desk. But his hospital identification card seemed to reassure her, and his dark good looks didn’t hurt either. She noticed he wore no wedding ring, and wondered whether she dared suggest he call her unmarried niece.

“You’ll need to speak to someone in the Membership Office,” she told him pleasantly when he’d explained the purpose of his visit. “Please have a seat.” Maybe she could mention Cindy to him on his way out . . .

She spoke quietly into the phone, and soon a short bearded man of about forty materialized, extending a hand in greeting.

“Dr. Rose? I’m Simon MacKenzie. How can I help?”

“I’m doing research on the history of transplants,” Eric extemporized. “Dr. Harris, uh, John Harris of New York General, suggested I check out Dr. Benjamin Talmidge. I thought you might have some information on him.”

Simon looked impressed at the mention of John Harris; most people did.

“Benjamin Talmidge?” he asked, “He’s a current member?”

“I don’t know. He left the country back in the seventies.”

“Before my time here, I’m afraid,” Simon said with a smile. “Come back to my office and let’s see if we can bring him up on the computer.”

Simon’s office was small and cramped. “Pull up a chair,” he told Eric as he slid behind his desk. “Seventies, you said?” He rifled among an assortment of computer disks. “You’re lucky. We’ve just recently finished transferring our membership files to these things.” He drew out a disk and fitted it into the computer drive.

He typed away on the keyboard and soon was scrolling through a lengthy membership list. Next to each name was a series of letters. “Each letter is a sort of code,” Simon explained. “See, A means current member, D means dues paid up-to-date, F means nonresident member - sometimes people move out of state, but still retain their membership here . . . Ah, here we are . . . Talbot . . . Talman . . . Uh-oh!” Next to Benjamin Talmidge’s name was a large X. “You sure you’ve got the right name?”

“Yes,” said Eric. “Why? What’s the X mean?”

“Kicked out,” Simon replied. “Expelled. Your Dr. Talmidge must have been a very naughty boy.”

“Would you still have any records on him?”

Simon looked doubtful. “We’d have his CV on file; that’s sort of standard, even when someone’s asked to resign. I suppose there might be some information in the file itself.”

“Could I see it?” asked Eric hopefully.

Simon studied him for a moment. “It’s rather irregular,” he said. “Mind if I check you out with Dr. Harris?”

“Go ahead.”

Simon looked at his watch; just after five. The academy closed at five-thirty. “Why don’t you leave me your phone number?” he suggested. “I’ll get back to you later in the week.”

Eric put on his most charming smile. “Please,” he said. “I’m doing this research in my spare time, and if you know medicine, you know I don’t have any spare time. All I want is to see the file, make some notes. The guy isn’t even a member anymore. I mean, if you kicked him out, you don’t owe him anything, right?”

Simon hesitated. “Well . . . okay,” he said at last. “Only you’ll have to wade through some cartons to find what you need. Everything’s in a jumble since we started computerizing.”

He led Eric out of his office and down the hall to a tiny room crowded with file boxes. Part of a desk was visible. “It’s somewhere in here. I think stuff’s more or less in alphabetical order. You need a pad, a pencil?”

“Nope, I’m all set,” Eric said. “And thanks. A lot!”

“Don’t mention it,” Simon told him. “I mean really, don’t mention it to anyone! Oh, and you’ve only got about twenty minutes before we close.” He looked around at the stacked boxes doubtfully. “Good luck!” He gave a little wave and disappeared, and Eric began tackling the files.

It took him nearly half of the allotted time to find Talmidge’s file. Opening it on the section of desk uncluttered by file boxes, he was disappointed to find it was rather thin. Checking his watch, he hurriedly began to read and write. There was little time to reflect; he knew that would come later. Now he just concentrated on recording whatever he thought might help him figure out the puzzle Harris had set him.

He jotted down the salient facts of Talmidge’s curriculum vitae, current to 1973, the date he’d been expelled from the academy. He noted the date - 1972 - when Talmidge had announced his incredible discovery, and then rescinded it. The reason for expulsion was spelled out in a copy of the letter the academy had sent to Talmidge at the time: scientific fraud. That jibed with the Lancet articles Eric had read earlier in the day. The file also contained a letter of recommendation Talmidge had written on behalf of a female colleague who was applying for membership. Someone had scrawled “membership denied” across it. The letter was dated October 1972. Presumably a referral by Talmidge was by then the kiss of death.

When Simon came by at five-thirty, Eric was packing up his papers.

“Got what you needed?” Simon asked.

“I got what there was,” Eric said with a small shrug.

“Not much, huh? We usually keep reprints of articles about our members, copies of papers they write, addresses they deliver to the membership. Wasn’t any of that stuff useful?”

“There wasn’t anything like that in the file,” Eric told him truthfully.

“I guess I’m not really surprised,” said Simon. “I went up to the library just now and asked one of our older members if he remembered Talmidge being expelled - doesn’t happen often here. He said it was quite a scandal. Your friend Talmidge had made a presentation to the academy prior to publication and was quite lionized because of it. After the smoke cleared, a lot of people were very embarrassed,” He lowered his voice slightly. “The director probably cleaned up the file afterward.”

“Why wouldn’t he discard it altogether?” Eric mused.

Simon shrugged. “Beats me,” he said.

They walked toward the street door together. The receptionist had left; Cindy would be single a little longer. Outside, the rain was still sheeting down.

“Maybe Talmidge did it himself,” Eric suggested.

“Talmidge? Seems unlikely,” said Simon.

“Yeah . . . you’re probably right.” But a dim idea was forming somewhere in the back of his brain. He groped for it, but it slid away.

“Well, thanks again for your help,” Eric said, retrieving his umbrella.

“Don’t mention it,” Simon told him. “I mean, really, don’t . . .”

“. . . mention it to anyone. I know!” Eric laughed and went out into the drenched evening in search of transportation.

The downtown bus stopped several blocks from the two-room walk-up he called home, and he slopped through the wet streets, stopping along the way for pizza and a carton of milk.

Stripped of his soaked clothing and wrapped in an old terry-cloth bathrobe, Eric chewed his dinner thoughtfully as he reviewed the facts, hoping to recapture the vague idea he’d had, and lost, as he was leaving the academy.

Talmidge had perpetrated an elaborate scientific fraud and gotten himself kicked out of the academy. Having been discredited within the medical community, he’d gone off to practice in Spain. He was certainly an unsavory character. No wonder Harris was indignant and concerned that such a man was performing a kidney transplant on one of his own patients.

An unpleasant situation but a straightforward one. Or was he missing something?

He glanced down at his notes again, laid out in front of him on the coffee table. Why had Harris thought it worthwhile sending him on this paper chase? There must be a connection, but what was it? What did a kidney transplant have to do with faking evidence of cloning a mouse?

“She’s got what?!”

Vivienne held the phone away from her ear; when Charles was mad, she reflected, you could hear him halfway across the East River.

“Chickenpox,” Vivienne repeated. “She caught it from a kid she did a commercial with last week. Occupational hazard.”

“The hell it is!” Charles stormed. “Well, I hope you’ve got someone else lined up.”

“Er, yes,” said Vivienne, but . . .”

“But?”

“Well, it was very short notice. Everyone was busy or not interested or . . . I got Angie.”

“Angie? The fat one who works in the office? Are you out of your mind?”

“Angie can look very nice when she tries,” said Vivienne, hoping that for once Angie would try. “And she’s a lot of fun. Anyway, it’s Angie or nobody.”

“Nobody would be preferable,” Charles said sourly. “I promised O’Connell a good time with a pretty lady.” O’Connell was a political hack from Boston, whose influence Charles was courting.

“Hey, O’Connell’s no beauty himself,” Vivienne countered. “He’s sixty if he’s a day, he spits when he talks, and he calls me ‘honey.’ Which, by the way, I hate a lot. Okay, Angie’s no Miss America, but she’s a lot better than he could do on his own.”

“He does all right in Boston,” Charles said sulkily.

“Yeah, in spite of his wife and kiddies. Look, I’ll go over to Angie’s, do her makeup, make her wear a dress . . . you can pick us up there.”

Charles took down the address with bad grace and disconnected, and Vivienne began to pull together an assortment of scarves, jewelry, and makeup to try out on Angie. If Angie would let her.

An hour later, Vivienne was leaning across a rickety kitchen table in Angela’s apartment, making her beautiful.

“Stop squirming!” she told Angela for the forty-seventh time.

“I hate that stuff, Viv!”

The makeup base which Vivienne had with much persuasion managed Angie to accept, had heightened the effect of her already porcelain skin. Now Viv was working on the eyes, making them glow larger and deeper. Angie’s deep black hair had already been put up in a graceful twist, and her cheeks had been modeled and gently blushed. She looked faintly exotic, Vivienne reflected.

Next she went through Angela’s closet, augmenting the clothes she found there with her own scarf, belt, earrings. Only when she was finished did she allow Angela to look at herself in the warped mirror insecurely attached to the bathroom door.

“Who the hell is that?” said Angela nervously.

“You’ll get used to being beautiful.” Viv smiled at her.

In fact, Angela looked very nice. There wasn’t much Vivienne could do about the weight, but she’d professionally de-emphasized it with tricks learned from a hundred photo sessions. And her expert make-over led the eye away from the body and up to the face and hair.

By the time they passed the lobby doorman on the way to Charles’s car, Angela was feeling more confident. The doorman’s double-take helped too.

Even Charles seemed surprised by the transformation, although he still hadn’t forgiven Vivienne for his not being able to offer O’Connell a date with a professional model. I don’t ask much of her, he thought bitterly. You’d think she could do this one thing for me without screwing it up.

But the evening went surprisingly well. O’Connell seemed to enjoy Angie’s dry humor and exotic madonna-like looks. They’d had similar ethnically oriented inner-city childhoods, albeit years apart, and that made for a certain bond. Angela’s initial self-conscious stiffness he took for an aloofness which piqued his interest, and he found her directness and lack of pretension refreshing.

Unfazed by the myriad of French-speaking waiters at the ultra-expensive restaurant Charles had chosen, Angela calmly ordered her dinner in English. “Duck with cherry sauce” may not sound as elegant as “canard à la cerise,” but the food on the plate is the same.

Momentarily puzzled by the vast array of forks at each place, Ray O’Connell turned to Angie: “Is this supposed to be for the salad?”

“Who cares!” She grinned at him and choosing a fork at random, dug in.

She’s absolutely right, Ray said to himself and did the same, chuckling like a naughty boy.

Who would have guessed? thought Charles. Old Angie and Ray. No accounting for tastes.

In the restroom outside the Bemelman Bar, where they’d gone for drinks and music after dinner, Vivienne repaired their faces white Angie glowed.

“Thanks so much for tonight. I’m having just the best time!”

Then a thought hit her. “What if he wants to come home with me?”

“Do you want him to?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Then say no.”

“Won’t Charles be mad? I know he probably wasn’t too keen on my coming in the first place. . .”

Vivienne lowered her lipstick and stared at Angela in amazement.

“It’s dinner, Angie. That’s all you signed on for. A night on the town. Anything else is up to you. And frankly, if you want my opinion, I think you should say good-bye in the lobby. Even if you were interested, which I find impossible to believe, the man has a wife and kids in Boston.”

She looked closely at Angela, who seemed genuinely troubled. “Don’t let any of this impress you, sweetie,” she said. “It’s only money. Jeez, I invited you because I thought it would be fun for you, that’s all. You can tell Ray to go to hell if you want to. Slap his face, I don’t care. I was never too crazy about the guy anyway.”

Angela looked very young all of a sudden, and very relieved.

“Just checking,” she said. “Now who do you have to screw to get a brandy alexander around here?”

The next morning, Vivienne received two phone calls. The first was from Angela, telling her a messenger had just delivered a dozen long-stemmed red roses from Ray, whom she’d left standing in the lobby the night before. The second was from Charles, now back in Boston, admitting that the evening had gone well but asking her not to pull that kind of switch on him again.

She countered the second call with the first, and a mollified Charles promised to bring her a special surprise when they met at the New York Yacht Club the following evening. He can be so sweet sometimes, she reflected as she cradled the receiver. And he can be such a bastard.

For once, she didn’t simply push away the doubts that assailed her. Was a real, whole life with Charles truly possible, or, indeed, desirable? Lately, there seemed to be more and more things, seemingly small yet somehow significant, that divided them. They were great in bed, but were they really compatible in other ways? Was it truly she herself that he loved, or was he dazzled by her beauty, by the glamour of her profession, the way his world still dazzled her? Was there enough between them to build a life on?

He can be such fun, she reflected. But sometimes he’s so stuffy, so . . . proper. So afraid to put a foot wrong. Yet, especially with his money and social connections, he shouldn’t be afraid to make a mistake or to live by his own rules. That bitch really did a job on him!

Elizabeth had died shortly before she and Charles had met, but Vivienne had heard enough about Charles’s mother to feel both morbid curiosity and hearty dislike. She couldn’t help but compare Elizabeth to her own parents: supportive, kind, unselfconscious about who they were and what they valued - honesty, hard work, caring about others. No doubt Elizabeth would have thought them rather insipid, but Vivienne wouldn’t have swapped parents with Charles for all the money in the world.

Poor Charles. Poor little rich boy. A wave of sympathy and longing swept over her, and at that moment Vivienne believed she truly loved him, loved him despite their disagreements and differences, as if there were another, better Charles deep inside.

How will she take it? Charles wondered, sipping his vodka gimlet and rating the attractiveness of his fellow members’ guests. It pleased him that none were in Vivienne’s league. Too bad she wasn’t here with him now, so he could show her off. Absentmindedly he raised his cuff an extra half-inch to reveal more of his gold Rolex.

One of the most selective private clubs in New York, the New York Yacht Club boasted (no, it was far too well-bred to boast) one of the most magnificent clubhouses in the city. Hidden away behind a massive stone frontage designed to resemble a galleon, the interior accurately echoed the nautical theme. Appropriately named, the Model Room itself was filled with hundreds of intricately detailed scale models of sailing ships and hulls dating back to the last century. Many were famous racers, and all had been custom-built for club members. The massive fireplace, nearly twenty feet high, dominated one wall. Above, the stained-glass ceiling made the huge room seem higher still. Yet the banquette seats and tables tucked under the galleon windows at one end were curiously cozy, It was here that Charles sat, nursing his drink and idly watching the passing well-dressed throng.

The Model Room was unusually full, since many members would be attending a Library Committee dinner and lecture that evening. Occasionally a man or a couple approached him, and they had the sort of bland, well-mannered social conversation Charles was so good at, and Vivienne hated. Charles knew only a few members well, and a rehash of last year’s America’s Cup Race complete with slides was apparently not of sufficient interest to lure them in from Connecticut this steamy June evening.

A flurry of activity drew Charles’s attention to the wide stairs leading up into the room. A tanned white-haired gentleman of about sixty was heading into the Model Room on the arm of a lean, weathered, yet handsome woman. The crowd which had gathered to greet him on his arrival thinned slightly as he tacked to port, and Charles was startled to recognize the well-known industrialist Hiram Stone. A long-time member of the club, Stone was a keen ocean racer and an avid supporter of the sport. It was natural that his appearance in the club would create a certain amount of excitement. But it wasn’t simply because of Stone’s celebrity value. It was because Stone was dead.

Every newspaper and magazine in the country had carried the story of his massive stroke two weeks before. His valet, who had found the body, had been interviewed at length, describing again and again how he had come into Stone’s room with early-morning tea. “Stone-cold dead in his bed!” had become a comedy catchphrase, thanks to the man’s media hunger and the David Letterman Show. Stone’s children by his first marriage had been widely quoted too, especially after they declared their intention to challenge Stone’s will, which left nearly eighty percent of his personal estate as well as the controlling interest in his mammoth interlocking corporations to his current wife, Claire. Stone’s second in command had immediately taken over Stone’s business responsibilities - apparently such an emergency measure had been arranged between the two men years ago - but refused to comment. Claire, too, had been silent. In fact, she’d disappeared. So, quietly, had the body.

And now here she was. And somehow, here was Hiram too. Intensely curious, Charles rose and made his way toward the knot of people surrounding the great man. Stone was smiling in a vague yet friendly way, like a candidate at a fund-raiser. Claire was doing most of the talking.

“. . . a miracle, really . . . hard to believe, but it’s true . . .”

Charles slowed his pace and listened.

“. . . he’d had these attacks before, but we always kept it quiet . . . called him, and he flew in at once . . . revolutionary technique, of course, I don’t understand it . . .”

“Excuse me, Mr. Spencer-Moore.”

One of the front desk clerks had moved discreetly to Charles’s side. “Miss Laker, sir. She’s arrived.”

Club rules required that members escort their guests beyond the marble entrance hall. Thanking the man, Charles began to make his way upstream through the group of people still clustered around the Stones. Mrs. Stone had turned her attention to a thin, earnest-looking younger man wearing a club tie.

“Quite right,” she was saying. “All that publicity was very ugly. Unnecessary too, as it turned out.”

She smiled radiantly at her husband.

“This is Hiram’s first outing since . . . it happened,” she continued, turning back to the young man. “Here, among friends.”

Now Charles was past them, descending the red-carpeted stairs toward Vivienne, who was chatting amiably with the desk staff. She was decorously dressed in black linen slacks and a white silk blouse, set off by a patterned scarf tied loosely around her neck. Her hair was pulled up and back, revealing the graceful curve of her neck. A softly patterned black-and-rust blazer, worn casually unbuttoned, completed her outfit. Charles smiled approvingly. The first time she’d met him here, she’d worn acid-green striped leggings and an oversized black sweater tunic. He’d turned her right around and marched her back out onto the street.

During the two days since her double date with Angela, Vivienne had found she’d missed Charles rather a lot. Once more she’d banished her doubts about the viability of a future together and instead had concentrated her energies on the positive parts of their relationship.

Now she grinned as she saw him, and went forward to meet him partway up the stairs. They kissed, and he began to compliment her on her choice of costume, but she interrupted excitedly.

“They said at the desk that Stone is here!”

Slightly miffed, Charles stopped in mid-sentence, then gave in to the inevitable.

“He’s here, all right,” he said. “Let’s get you a drink and then you can have a look at him.”

They continued down and around the staircase, past the little room which had for many years been home to the America’s Cup trophy, and down a few steps to the large dark lounge. Most of the tables were empty, but members crowded along the bar which ran the length of the room. Drinks were no longer served in the Model Room except during special parties; instead, you got your drink at the bar downstairs and then carried it up.

Here too the talk was of Stone’s resurrection, but no one seemed to know any more than Charles had already heard.

“Let’s go up,” said Vivienne as soon as her drink was served. “I wonder if he’ll remember me.”

Charles looked at her in surprise. “You know him?”

“No, of course not!” Vivienne laughed. “I was introduced to him once at a party about a year ago. He tried to put his hand on my ass, but I moved too fast.”

Charles looked disgusted.

“There were only about three hundred people there,” she continued. “I don’t really think he’ll remember. I mean, it’s not as though he actually made contact or anything. . . . Oh, lighten up, Charles!”

“It’s not funny,” he said.

“Sure it is,” Vivienne told him. “Happens all the time. I’m getting pretty good at taking evasive action.”

“It’s cheap,” said Charles.

“Well, don’t tell me. Tell him.” And she headed for the door.

Upstairs, the crowd around the Stones had dispersed, and the couple had seated themselves with several friends at the banquette Charles had relinquished when he’d gone to claim Vivienne. There were only four banquetted windows, and they were in high demand.

“Shall we dispossess them?” Charles asked with a smile.

“Evict a captain of industry? Heavens, no!” Vivienne answered. “Hey, he looks pretty good for a dead person.”

“I’ll just reclaim my drink,” said Charles, and they made their way toward the windows looking out onto Forty-fourth Street. Stone still wasn’t talking much, but he seemed to be enjoying himself, looking around at the room and the people as though to say, “By God, I’m still here!”

He studied them curiously as they approached, and smiled politely as Charles identified his drink among the bottles and glasses on the table.

“He didn’t recognize me,” said Vivienne mock-sadly as they retreated to a pair of club chairs across the room. “I guess ass-grabbing is nothing special to him.”

Charles was not amused.

“Or maybe he’s trying to leave his old life . . . uh, behind, if you’ll excuse the expression,” said Vivienne. “The time I met him, he was reeking, and I mean reeking, of booze. And now I see he’s on Perrier. Even the blue veins in his nose are gone. Just goes to show what a near-death experience can do for a person.”

Charles smiled, but only just.

“You’re unusually dour this evening, sweetie,” Vivienne told him, patting his hand in a way he genuinely detested. “Is my slip showing or something?”

“Just thinking,” said Charles. “Nothing to do with you.”

“You can’t imagine how much better that makes me feel,” Vivienne teased. But in fact she did feel relieved.

Suddenly Charles seemed to come to a decision. He put his hand on top of hers to prevent any more of those odious little pats, and with his free hand reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a small flat package wrapped in shiny pink paper. He put it in her lap, then looked steadily into her lovely, questioning eyes and spoke softly.

“Not a bracelet. Not earrings. Something far more precious than that. Open it.”

Her hands fumbled blindly with the wrapping paper, her eyes riveted on his as he continued.

“To my love, my wife-to-be. May you always be as lovely as you are today. And now you will be!”

She looked down at the torn paper and the flat box beneath it. Slowly she removed the cover and pushed aside the tissue paper. She stared in confusion, then raised her eyes again to his.

“It’s empty,” she whispered.

“It only looks empty,” said Charles. “You see, my darling, I’ve given you . . . a secret. The most wonderful secret in the world!”