“She didn’t go to Barcelona,” said Bascado. “She’s at the hotel.”

“Yes?”

“And she met Eric.”

Talmidge’s first reaction was annoyance; he hoped Eric wouldn’t tell her anything. Then he began to wonder.

“You think it was planned?

“Who can say? Vincente said they were holding hands. His English is not good, he doesn’t know what they were saying. But they went to her room afterward.”

Talmidge looked relieved. “Just sex,” he said. “Good. I thought it might be more serious. Still, you’d better tell Vincente to keep an eye on them.”

“Ever hear the story about the famous theatrical producer and the road company? No, of course not. Well, the producer’s road manager comes to him, very concerned. ‘Have we got problems!’ he says. ‘All the boys in the chorus are screwing all the girls, the ingenue is screwing the leading man, and the star is screwing the stage manager!’

“The producer is calm. ‘Not to worry,’ he says. ‘That’s perfectly normal. But if the screwing leads to kissing, then we’ve got problems!’

“Talmidge was still chuckling to himself as he left his office for morning rounds. He was further amused to catch sight of Eric, tired and slightly hangdog, hurrying to the nurses’ station to grab a quick tardy look at the patients’ charts. Just sex, he thought. Not to worry.

Eric was preoccupied during rounds, and afterward Talmidge had to remind him to return the charts to the nurses’ station. Eric took the charts from Talmidge, then hesitated. He didn’t know why he should be so nervous; he hadn’t had an afternoon off since he’d started at the Institute. And with no procedures scheduled for the day, Talmidge surely wouldn’t object.

Clutching the charts, Eric trailed Talmidge down the hall.

Finally, Talmidge stopped and looked back at him. “You wanted something, Rose?” he asked testily.

“Er, yes. That is . . . I haven’t had much time off since I got here, I mean like a whole afternoon or anything, and I wondered whether you could, er, spare me today. I mean, just for a little while. I’d come back for evening rounds . . .”

Talmidge studied him. Still just sex? Or was the screwing leading to kissing? Only one way to find out, he thought. He smiled kindly. “Of course, Eric,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. Why not take off right now? Just be back by seven.”

“Sure, absolutely!” Eric promised.

He headed for the main doors, then remembered the charts and retraced his steps, passing Talmidge on his way to the nurses’ station. Talmidge’s smile had died, and a look of deep suspicion now darkened his face.

For a moment, Eric was taken aback; then he told himself not to be foolish. Talmidge had been so nice about allowing him time off. Surely this change of attitude couldn’t have anything to do with him.

The old stone exuded a dank, musty smell; the stairs were slanted and worn with age. Pale light flickered through slits and breaks in the thick walls, illuminating the interior of the old church like a patchwork quilt.

They scrambled up the last few yards and, clinging to what handholds they could find, stepped cautiously into the ruined belfry. Vivienne gasped at the view; spread out before them was a landscape which seemingly had not changed in a thousand years.

“Don’t let go,” Eric cautioned her. “I don’t want to lose you now!” The floor through which they’d climbed was rotted and broken. “I guess we really shouldn’t be up here.”

Vivienne smiled at him. “I’m glad we came,” she said. “It’s incredible!”

For a moment, they stood looking into each other’s eyes. Then without embarrassment she turned away and gazed out over the rolling hills again.

When she’d woken that morning, Vivienne had felt distinctly uncomfortable about what had happened the night before. She’d felt disloyal to Charles, yet what had bothered her even more was how deeply she had felt drawn to Eric.

She was faintly embarrassed at the thought of seeing him again. It had all happened too fast. I should never have agreed to meet him today, she’d thought then, capturing her tawny hair in a black velvet band.

Yet when she’d looked from her window onto the square below and seen him drinking coffee at the cafe table where they’d agreed to meet, her feet fairly flew down the stairs. And when she’d looked into his eyes, it was like coming home.

Now, as they stood together in the isolated ruin, she felt at peace for the first time since she’d read the letter in Charles’s study. The Institute was still a horror to her, but now she had a partner, someone who knew what she knew and felt what she felt.

“About Talmidge,” she said, turning to Eric. “The reason I came here . . .”

But Eric shook his head. “Please,” he said softly. “Not the Institute. Not today. Let’s forget all that for just one afternoon.”

“But the whole reason I came . . .” She broke off abruptly. She was being selfish. These weeks must have been awful for him. We can talk about the Institute tomorrow. Yes, I’ll stay till tomorrow. She felt a vague sense of disquiet; tomorrow is Friday. I said I’d be home last night. But now more than ever, she didn’t want to talk to Charles. She had too much to sort out. But not now, she decided. She wouldn’t think about it now. She was too happy.

She leaned over and kissed Eric, and the floorboards squeaked in protest. Eric held her against him, inhaling her fragrance, her nearness. A mouse ran across the floor and disappeared into what was left of a wall. “We’d better get down,” he said at last.

At the bottom, they climbed through a half-rotted door out into the sun-filled churchyard and seated themselves on a low stone wall.

“I love it here,” Vivienne told him, breathing in the spicy scent of the wild, overgrown grass. “It’s so . . . pure.”

Eric smiled at her. “Most of my friends back home would find all this a little primitive,” he said. “But I know what you mean. I love it too.”

Suddenly Vivienne spied some bushes overhanging the wall a little way beyond them. “Blackberries!” she exclaimed. She hopped off the wall and went to investigate.

Eric watched her, amused and charmed.

“Come on!” she soon called to him. “There’re hundreds of them!” And she held out a purple-stained handful of fat ripe berries.

They picked and ate their way down the shallow slope of the valley until at last they came to a small clearing. Eric flopped onto the grass and pulled Vivienne down next to him. Their hands and mouths were purple with fruit.

“We’ll bring a picnic tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll have to work all day, but we can have an early dinner before evening rounds. I know a great spot, if you don’t mind a little hike.”

Vivienne laughed. “Do I look as if I’d mind a little hike?” One of her shirtsleeves had been torn by brambles, her sneakers were dirty and grass-stained, and a faint sheen of perspiration covered her flushed, smudged, happy face. Eric thought she looked very beautiful.

“You’re not like I expected you would be,” he said. “I mean, being a model and looking so perfect. You’re a lot more fun. More, uh, real.”

“You’re a fan of reality, are you, Eric?”

“Perfect people are boring,” Eric told her. “Besides, I like being able to see the little girl in you.” He twirled a wayward tendril of her hair on his finger. “You must have been quite a handful.”

“Well, I had spirit!” she laughed. “Still do.”

“Good,” Eric said. “Otherwise you never would have come here. And I probably would never have met you,”

The veiled reference to the Institute caused Vivienne to fall silent, and Eric to consider the time. He was due back for evening rounds in an hour.

“I’m usually finished around nine,” he said. “Meet me at El Lobo for dinner?”

But Vivienne shook her head, suddenly overwhelmed by confusion and guilt. She was supposed to be investigating the Institute; was Eric’s letter alone enough to justify her trip? And Eric himself - was he just a pleasant interlude? And if that was all he meant to her, wasn’t he too good, too trusting, for her to hurt him? She needed time to think about what, exactly, she did or could feel for him. And then, of course, there was Charles.

“Not tonight,” she told him softly. “Not that I wouldn’t like to,” she added, seeing his disappointment. “It’s just . . . a lot has happened, very fast. You, for example.” She smiled at him and touched his cheek. “You’re a fan of reality, right? Well, I’ll be honest with you. I . . . I’m supposed to marry a man back home. I think we’re both having second thoughts about it, but I need to sort it out a little more in my mind before I see you again.”

She could feel Eric withdraw from her, and she experienced a feeling of loss so deep it rocked her.

“I understand,” Eric said neutrally. He began to get up, but she reached for his sleeve.

“No, you don’t,” she said. “I mean, I don’t understand myself.” She paused, her brow puckered with the effort of putting her feelings into words. “Look, I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I feel . . . close to you. I care about you, a lot. I never believed in love at first sight, so it’s kind of weird, but I really want to be with you. I want to be with you today and tomorrow and the next day.” She hadn’t planned the words, or even thought about them, but as they came out, she realized they were true. “But first I have to . . . make my peace with what came before.”

She took his hands between hers and held them tightly as she tried again to explain.

“I don’t want to just fall into an affair with you and then go home and marry someone else. You’re too good for that, and so am I. I have to make some decisions, hard ones. Let me make them tonight, and tomorrow we can start clean.”

Eric was silent for a time. She’s right, he thought. We’re both better than this. He disentangled his hands from hers and lifted them to her face. He leaned toward her and gently kissed her. “I really do understand,” he said tenderly. “You’re right. And you’re wonderful. And whatever you decide . . . I’ll be here for you.”

A rush of emotion swept over Vivienne; her mouth sought his as her arms went around him, and she pressed her body against him. But Eric gently pushed her away, “Tomorrow,” he told her. “Start clean. Your idea and a good one.”

He stood and pulled her to her feet. Slowly they ascended the rise to the old church and the waiting rental car, heady with emotion, their arms around each other.

Talmidge was absent from evening rounds, which Eric decided was fortuitous. His heart was playing volleyball with his stomach, and he doubted Talmidge would miss his confused, excited state, or the reason for it.

He went down the list of chores Talmidge had left for him; it was unusually long. There were even several cluster “bed checks,” which Talmidge ordinarily did himself. Funny, Eric thought. It’s almost as if he’d planned to keep me here, prevent me from seeing Vivienne tonight. And then he thought bitterly: Well, he needn’t have bothered.

When he finally left the Institute around eleven, he was exhausted. He drove slowly down into town, parking as usual against the wall across the square from El Lobo. Vincente and Felipe were seated at a table and waved a bottle of wine at him in invitation.

“No, gracias,” Eric told them. “I think tonight I need to sleep.”

Vincente smiled lewdly. “Ah, if I had such a rubia, I too would need to sleep, eh, Felipe?” And he winked suggestively.

Shit, thought Eric. He glanced up at Vivienne’s window; a faint light spilled out through the curtains.

“I wish!” he said truthfully. “But the rubia wishes to think about her novio in America.” He slid into an empty chair. “Maybe I do need a drink.”

Above them, Vivienne sat on the narrow bed, surrounded by crumpled paper. Sorting out her feelings was hard, but writing them down was impossible.

Did she love Charles? she asked herself for the hundredth time. Had she ever really loved him?

She pictured him, tousled and wet with spray that evening on the beach when he’d proposed to her. The imported sand, perfectly white and clean . . . the mansion behind them, bright with party lights . . . Charles’s dinner jacket slung over his shoulder, her shoes in his hand. Like an ad for some expensive men’s cologne, she thought. Our whole relationship was like that. Not real. He dazzled me and maybe I dazzled him too.

She reached for her pen and a clean sheet of paper. It would be easy to say that the Institute came between us. Or his mother. But no, those were symptoms, not causes.

She shivered at the thought of Charles’s family pouring money into Talmidge’s hands. Still, she refused to believe Charles was as callous as his involvement in the Institute implied. It was hard to defend him, yet she felt sure that if he could only be made to face the reality of it, to experience firsthand what was going on, he too would be appalled. There had to be a way to reach that other, better Charles inside him. But that wasn’t her job, not anymore.

Tossing the paper and pen aside, she stood up and walked to the window. Through the filmy curtains, she could see three men seated at a table below. One looked up, and she drew back: Eric.

A thrill of joy flooded through her, and a feeling of certainty, She turned again to the bed, determined to find the words to tell Charles of her decision, to free herself, and him.

Vincente turned to Eric in surprise. “She has a boyfriend? But when I saw you together last night, I thought . . .”

“Last night was last night,” Eric said. He looked up at Vivienne’s window again and saw her shadow suddenly withdraw.

Vincente hollered over his shoulder toward the doorway, and a waiter appeared with a cloudy glass which he filled with wine from the bottle on the table and presented to Eric before disappearing back inside again.

“Salud,” said Eric and drained half the glass.

“Salud,” they answered. Felipe sniggered, and Vincente looked at him with disapproval. “Don’t mind him,” he told Eric. “He does not understand about love.”

* * *

In the room above, Vivienne gathered up the discarded half-written letters. I can’t send him any of these, she thought wretchedly. I owe him more than bare words. I’ll tell him myself when I get home.

Tearing them into strips and then into pieces, she dumped them in the small wastebasket under the sink.

“Dear Charles, you were right to postpone our wedding . . .”

“Dear Charles, I realize now how far apart we were in so many ways . . .”

“Dear Charles, please forgive me, I think I have fallen in love with someone else.”

Angela sat in her cubicle, doodling on a booking sheet and listening to the rain sheeting down outside the office window. Summer is traditionally a slow time in New York, and although she tired easily these days, Angela disliked having nothing to do. It gave her too much time to think.

The doctors told her she was doing well, but still she worried. What if they were wrong? What if the cancer came back somewhere else? At work, she was always happy and positive; nobody likes a drag. But inside, she often felt scared. And the only person she felt comfortable talking to about it was Charles.

Ever since the night of Vivienne’s phone call, Charles had been commuting often between New York and Boston, more or less living in her apartment. He’d commandeered several dresser drawers and half her closet space, and threatened to replace the rest of her furniture with family heirlooms. But the joy she felt at seeing his head on her pillow in the morning was matched and sometimes exceeded by the guilt she felt about Vivienne.

She felt even worse whenever she recalled their long-distance argument over Charles’s offer of what Angela insisted on thinking of as a genetic blueprint. How could she have said those things to her best friend?

She sipped her tepid coffee and wondered where Vivienne could be. Yesterday evening Angela had gone to her apartment with flowers, but the doorman said she was still away. Since then, Angela had called nearly every hour, but she always got the answering machine.

Surprisingly, even Charles hadn’t heard from her. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and managed to look both guilty and annoyed whenever she mentioned Vivienne.

Angela tried not to think about what would happen when Vivienne did return. Despite Charles’s protestations, Angela believed that once Vivienne was available again, she would lose his love and Viv’s friendship. And wasn’t that a fitting retribution for her disloyalty to her friend? Yet she couldn’t bring herself to give Charles up before she had to.

The adhesive of the bandage itched terribly, and Angela rubbed the skin around it ineffectually. Another source of guilt: Brian Arnold had taken the cell samples for the Institute yesterday.

The intercom buzzed, and Angela reached for the phone, knocking over the half-empty Styrofoam cup. Damn!

“Angie, it’s Marcella. Amazingly enough, someone’s actually shooting something important this month. What’s Vivienne’s schedule for early next week? Oh, and they’ll want to see her first thing tomorrow.”

Blotting furiously, Angela explained that Vivienne’s schedule was clear but Viv herself was still out of town.

“That shoot finished two days ago,” said Marcella testily. “Where is she?”

“I, uh, I don’t know,” Angela admitted.

“Well, call that boyfriend of hers, Charles Somebody-Somebody. He’ll know. Get a phone number for her.”

“He hasn’t heard from her either,” said Angela.

A pause while Marcella’s antennae picked up the vibes.

“You two been comparing notes or something? Never mind. I’ll stall them for a few days, see if she turns up. And I thought she was one of the reliable ones,” Marcella muttered as she disconnected.

Angela got some paper towels from the bathroom and wiped up her desk, then dialed Charles’s number in Boston, something she’d never done before. Having worked her way through a receptionist, a secretary, and a personal assistant, she was at last rewarded by Charles’s clipped voice sounding impersonal and peevish.

“Yes, okay, what?” he said.

“Marcella’s looking for Vivienne. For a job,” Angela said uncomfortably. “I’m worried about her too. Aren’t you?”

“Vivienne can take care of herself,” said Charles, feeling vaguely guilty.

“Maybe,” Angela replied. “But she was due home yesterday and she hasn’t even called. Couldn’t you . . .?” She wasn’t exactly sure what she expected Charles to do, but somehow she felt he was in a better position to find Vivienne than she was. “I mean, you know the people at the Institute . . .” Angela trailed off.

“She’ll be all right,” Charles told her. “She’s probably doing a little sightseeing, or maybe her flight was canceled or something.”

“But wouldn’t she have called?” Angela persisted. “You don’t think she’s . . .?”

“She’s what?” said Charles, annoyed.

“Well, in trouble or something.”

“Look, Viv’s a big girl. She’s fine. She’ll probably get in tonight. I bet she calls in the morning.” And then we’ll have to tell her about us, he thought.

“Can’t you do anything?”

“I don’t see what,” Charles told her with a mental shrug of his shoulders. It occurred to him that he might call the Institute and check, but he dismissed the idea. Vivienne would resent it, and he didn’t relish it much himself.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he told Angela. “Now, I’ll meet you at the Pierre around eight, don’t forget. Oh, and I love you. Don’t forget that either.” He hung up quickly before she could reply.

Angela cradled the phone with a bittersweet smile, torn between worry for her friend’s well-being and a desire for her never to return.

Don’t think about it! she told herself fiercely. She got up and prowled around the office, looking for some kind of distraction. In the reception room, she found a two-day-old copy of the New York Post and carried it back to her desk.

“Coed Raped in College Dormitory . . .” “Guard Dog Killed in Bronx Robbery Attempt . . .” I won’t read the bad news, Angela thought, turning pages.

“Hiram Stone’s Widow Inherits All.”

Wasn’t Stone that rich industrialist who’d nearly died a few months back? Angela scanned the story. Stone had had yet another stroke, this one fatal. In the interim between strokes, Stone had apparently made a deal with the children of his first marriage, and tightened up the original will that had left so much to his second wife, Claire. The reporter hinted slyly at a possible romance between Claire and Stone’s second in command.

Slow news day, Angela thought and turned to the comics.

In the conference room beyond Charles’s decorator-designed inner office, four powerful and influential men awaited his return. Let them wait, he thought moodily.

Angela’s call had unsettled him.

These days, any talk of Vivienne produced in Charles an unpleasant confusion of guilt and resentment. Seeing her through Angela’s eyes had made him realize what a special person she was, yet he felt more strongly than ever that they were ill-suited. How right he’d been to postpone the wedding.

Surely she must see that too, he thought. There were so many basic things they disagreed about. All that nonsense about the Institute, for example. The Institute. Charles’s flash of anger turned suddenly to guilt again, and worry. Talmidge was used to worshipers at his shrine, not hysterics. Could she be in some sort of trouble? No, he thought. Ben wouldn’t dare.

Maybe she’s having a fling with a photographer, he told himself hopefully. Maybe she’s fallen in love with someone else. That would certainly make things easier for Angela and me.

His feelings for Angela still surprised and overwhelmed him at times. Had she changed so much since he’d first met her - “the fat one at the agency” - or had he? One thing had surely changed: the specter of his mother was gone for good. And Charles had never felt so free.

Angela, he thought. Damaged and imperfect and thoroughly appealing. So brave, and yet so vulnerable. There was so much he wanted to show her, to do for her. That job of hers, for example; might Marcella be receptive to an interesting investment offer in exchange for a promotion for Angela? It would have to be very discreet; Angela would kill him.

The intercom buzzed, startling him out of his reverie. Charles punched the “talk” button before the caller could speak. “Hold your water!” he barked. “I’m on my way!”

He pushed back from the highly polished walnut desk and stood and stretched. Should he call Talmidge? He wavered for a moment, undecided. Give it another day, he thought; see if she turns up. Time enough for phone calls if she doesn’t.