Anew: Awakened Part 23

"Ian didn't get along with him. Do you know why?"

"Marcus was a poor excuse for a husband, intolerable really. I imagine that put Ian off him."

"There was nothing else?"

"Not that I know of." More gently, Edward adds, "You could follow your own advice and ask Ian yourself."

I swallow against the lump in my throat and summon a false bravado. "I would but he's gone to ground. And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why that is either?"

My brother rises and hands me back the link. "I think it's something you're going to have to figure out for yourself." In a rare burst of candor, he adds, "When it comes to matters of the heart, that seems to be the case for all of us."

I hope that he is thinking again of Marianne but I don't ask. My brother has shared as much as he's going to for now.

I bid him goodnight and leave but I can't help reflecting that both Ian and Edward keep far too much to themselves. However well-intentioned their motives, that needs to change.

Whether they accept it or not, my life is ultimately my own responsibility. I am not about to sit back pa.s.sively and let others decide my fate.

Adele sleeps in the next morning as usual and Edward is off to the office. I breakfast alone, then decide to take a walk.

It's a beautiful day, the sky cloudless and bright. A soft breeze carries the scent of the nearby ocean that, hidden though it is by the soaring walls of the city, still makes its presence felt. I step out the door determined to shake off the dark mood that has stalked me since the events at the polo club.

Lifting my face to the sun, I close my eyes for a moment and just breathe. Being able to perform that simple act still strikes me as miraculous. I wonder if I will ever be able to take it for granted.

To awaken to the world as an adult, gifted with knowledge but not experience, swamped by sensation, overwhelmed by desire, left to find my way as best I can--all that has challenged me to the utmost.

Although I've deliberately chosen not to dwell on my origins, I am all too aware that I am a new kind of being in this world, born both of human tragedy and technology that can be considered inhuman, calling into question as it does what has been the one certainty in human life--death.

What meaning does the death of the body have when so much beyond it can be preserved through the replica process--knowledge, will, desire, memory, experience, entire ident.i.ties continuing on? We are copies, to be sure. Soulless, those who fear us would say. But what does that mean? Are we not real? Do we not dream? Yearn? Even love?

If you p.r.i.c.k us, do we not bleed?

I don't feel like a threat to anyone. On the contrary, I am all too vulnerable--physically, emotionally, in every possible way.

My arrival in the world seems so unlikely, depending as it did on decisions made by people I will never know going back decades. Might I not leave this existence just as capriciously?

On this sun-warmed day, when last night's rain has washed every leaf and blossom clean, I refuse to dwell on such dark thoughts. They may skulk after me toward the avenue as I begin my walk but I will not so much as glance over my shoulder to acknowledge them.

I have just set out when I notice a young man approaching the staff entrance. He is drably dressed in a brown uniform rather than the dark blue with burgundy piping that is worn by McClellan retainers. But it's not his clothing that draws my attention.

Workers in general strive to remain inconspicuous. They walk at a purposeful but decorous pace, keep their expressions blank, avoid eye contact, and so on. This young man is the exception. He is clearly in a hurry and appears agitated.

As I watch, he waits at the entrance off to the side, bobbing from one foot to the other as he is scanned. When the door opens, he looks relieved. Quickly, he reaches into an inner pocket of his tunic and withdraws a slim white envelope. With a quick exchange of words, he hands it to a man who I recognize as Edward's valet.

The encounter lasts less than a minute before the door closes again and the young man departs. By the time he reaches the avenue, he has regained control of himself enough to blend in with the other workers. I follow him with my eyes but quickly lose him in that ma.s.s of anonymous figures.

Briefly, I wonder why in an age of instantaneous electronic communication, anyone would be delivering a message by hand. But the question slips from my mind as I stroll along the avenue and into the park.

Without consciously intending to, I gravitate back to the playground. It is a school day so the older children I saw before are absent. Only the youngest are there.

Watching a little boy not more than two years old laughing gleefully as he pours sand out of a bucket, I feel a strange tugging at my heart. He's there with his mother. She smiles at him adoringly as he grins up at her.

Someday I hope to be able to watch mothers and their children together without experiencing such hollow yearning but for the moment, I need to keep moving. A little beyond the playground, I stop as I hear the trumpet call of an elephant resounding among the trees. I've heard it before, starting my first day in the city, but now I'm determined to find the source.

The path I take winds around through a copse of white birch until it comes to a high brick wall divided by a wrought iron gate. Immediately to the left of the entrance is a sign that reads: "The Zoological Gardens". Hours of admission are listed below.

I've never been to any such place. For that matter, the only live animals I've seen are those in the wilderness beyond the palazzo and the pampered pets of all varieties who appear on the city streets, invariably better dressed than any of the worker cla.s.s.

Excitement fills me as I hurry through the gates. This could be exactly the diversion that I need.

My eye is caught first by an octagonal stone enclosure open to the air and topped by a jetting fountain set atop tiers of stonework over which water cascades. A strange sort of barking arises from it.

I approach but stop suddenly as a long, sleek body speeds through the pool below the falls. Another quickly follows. I'm at the edge of the enclosure when a dark shape suddenly hurls itself into the air, clambers on top of one of the stone terraces, and wiggles its whiskers at me.

A sea lion! I can put a name to the creature but the actual sight of it is astonishing. What an improbable animal, so graceful in the water, so ungainly on land. And so adorable as it rears back on its tail and claps its flippers as though inviting me to give it a treat.

I'm tempted to stay and see what it will do next but the rest of the zoo beckons. For more than an hour, I wander among puffins and penguins, snow monkeys and red pandas, elephants and polar bears, all real, all there right in front of my eyes. The sights and sounds are fascinating but the smells... Whew! The gra.s.sy scent of hay in the elephants' huge enclosure is pleasant enough but it's overwhelmed by the sour musky aromas of oil and urine that more than a few of the residents use to mark their territories.

I back away hastily from the fox habitat but not before the smell brings tears to my eyes. The flood of sensory input is beginning to wear me out. I'm in search of a free bench near the sea lion enclosure when a ripple among the mothers and nannies redirects my attention.

The Norse G.o.d from the polo match is standing nearby, watching the cavorting animals. Without making any effort whatsoever, he's attracting a great deal of female attention. I suppose that's inevitable given his looks. But I'm only interested in the strange sensation that I had when I noticed him in front of the club house.

I've encountered him before. I just have no idea where or why it could conceivably matter. Yet it seems to all the same.

As though in response to my gaze, he turns in my direction. His quick start of recognition mirrors my own. He hesitates only a moment before crossing the distance to where I am standing.

Inclining his head graciously, he asks, "Miss McClellan is it?"

He's as tall as Ian and equally broad through the shoulders. Sunlight dances off hair that looks like spun gold. His features are cla.s.sically handsome--square jaw, chiseled cheekbones, and a mouth that looks as though it's made for temptation. I can understand why the women are staring.

Surprised that he knows my name, I nod. "You have me at a disadvantage, Mister--"

"Hayden Carstens." His smile is disarming. "You were at the game last week."

Flushing at the thought that he might have seen Ian dragging me off toward the Rolls, I nod. "Yes, that's right. You were guarding Ian's back when he made the winning goal."

Hayden looks pleased that I noticed but he also shrugs. "He's done the same for me. Although to be honest, I have enough regard for my own safety these days that I would have done almost anything to stop that game from going into overtime."

"These days? You didn't always?"

He looks rueful at what he has let slip. "Let's just say that I'm newly emerged from my wild child phase. Admittedly, it ran a little long and involved some seriously stupid shi-- excuse me, nonsense on my part but I survived and that's what counts."

I'm wondering what was riskier than a polo match played so aggressively that it drove a jaded crowd to a screaming frenzy when he asks, "What brings you to the zoo?"

"Curiosity. I've never been here before. How about you?"

"I grew up a block away. This was pretty much where I hung out when I was a kid. I have so many memories--"

He frowns as though troubled by something but a moment later his mood lightens again.

"This morning," he says, "I suddenly got to thinking about the scotch bombs they sell here. I don't know why they popped into my head but I loved those things. The problem is I can't remember what they taste like so I thought I'd come over and find out. Care to join me?"

I can't resist his grin. He seems so simple compared to Ian, so uncomplicated. Still, I hesitate. "That depends. What are scotch bombs?"

He looks at me in mock dismay. "You're kidding? You've seriously never had one?"

"Never. What have I missed?"

"Only the best thing ever. Come on, I'll show you."

Five minutes later, I'm sitting on a bench across from the large musical clock near the main entrance to the zoo as Hayden pours part of the contents of a red-white-and-blue box into my palm.

"There are two ways to do this," he says. "You can just toss it in your mouth all at once and get the full experience right away. Or you can pick pieces out and enjoy them one by one." He sits back and waits to see what I'll do.

I decide to go all in and toss. The combination of b.u.t.terscotch-coated popcorn and peanuts dusted with coconut and red pepper flakes is definitely unique in my experience. Not to mention extremely chewy. But it's also crunchy, sweet, sticky, spicy and altogether enjoyable even if I am coughing before I've barely swallowed.

Hayden laughs and hands me one of the bottles of water he had the foresight to also buy at the concession stand.

"You can tell a lot about people by how they eat scotch bombs," he says. His gray-blue eyes gleam with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"What if they just have the sense not to?" I ask but I'm already holding out my hand for more.

He obliges, filling my palm again before his own. "Then you can tell even more."

Tossing the handful back, he chews and swallows as his eyes crinkle with pleasure.

"Are they as good as you thought?" I ask, watching him.

"Even better. As I always said when I was a kid, the red pepper is an audacious addition to the insouciance of the coconut married to the complex flavor palate of the b.u.t.terscotch. When paired with the complimentary textures of the peanuts and popcorn, the results are sublime."

For the first time in days, I laugh. "You were a weird kid!"

He grins but doesn't deny it. "I prefer precocious but weird works, too."

"How did you go from budding gourmet to polo player?"

"I went off to school where I had the great good fortune to link up with Edward, Ian, and a few other like-minded miscreants who I'm still proud to call my friends."

"To be honest, I have a hard time seeing my brother as a troublemaker or a rebel."

"You'd be surprised," Hayden says. "But I take it you have no difficulty seeing Ian in that light?"

I feel myself blushing and look away for a moment to recover my bearings. "I know that he's had to chart his own course. He deserves enormous credit for achieving so much. I don't mean only his business but his philanthropic efforts as well."

Hayden shoots me a too-perceptive glance. "Interesting that you know about that side of Ian. The work his foundation does isn't publicized, by his choice. He's a good man for all that he seemed on the verge of losing it during the game. I can't help wondering what put him in such a state."

He looks at me as though he knows or at least suspects that I can provide the answer. Instead, I give into temptation and ask softly, "Have you seen him since then?"

Hayden nods. "He came out to the boatyard yesterday. We're laying the keel of a racing catamaran he's interested in."

"Is that what you do, build yachts?"

"Among other things."

He stares at me for a moment before he abruptly asks, "You and I haven't met before, have we?"

The sudden change of subject catches me off guard, especially since I've been wondering the same thing. Given the sensitivity of 'Cousin' Amelia's circ.u.mstances, I opt for a truthful if cautious response.

"If we have, I can't think where."

"Neither can I." He flashes a smile that, if I weren't so utterly absorbed in all things Ian, could take my breath away. Gallantly, he says, "I'm sure I'd remember you. So tell me, Miss Amelia McClellan, now that you've weathered the scotch bombs, what was your favorite indulgence when you were a kid?"

I search my mind but find nothing. When I fail to answer, Hayden looks aghast. "Please don't tell me you were one of those perfect little girls who never eat candy or skin a knee or learn how to burp the alphabet?"

"You can burp the alphabet?" I don't know whether to be impressed or revolted.

He nods with modest pride. "I'd do it for you right now but I don't want to make you swoon. Better we find you a favorite candy."

"Oh, no, I don't think so. It's not as though I'm still a kid and it can't be good for a person--"

"Three words," he says. "Chocolate marshmallow zonkers."

I sigh. He has me at chocolate.

I pop another yogurt-frosted raisin into my mouth and roll it around on my tongue.

"The citrusy tang of the yogurt complements the earthy sweetness of the raisin," I say, holding out the box. "Here, try one."

It's an hour later. Hayden and I are back on the bench facing the musical clock after a quick but profligate trip to the concession stand. He's shrugged off his cashmere jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. The remnants of a dozen packages of different candies lie around us. We are both decidedly sticky.

I've come to the conclusion that he truly is Ian's friend and that he has set out to get to know me because he's so concerned about him. There seem to be many reasons to like Hayden Carstens but I would if only for that.

He makes a face that in turn makes me laugh. "I'm a guy," he says. "I don't do yogurt."

"But you'll eat that?"

He's polishing off the last chartreuse sucker that he swears tastes like a fine French liqueur. Another box of scotch bombs awaits our attention. But before we can get to it, a vendor walks by, his hands filled with long cardboard cones surrounded by heavenly pink clouds smelling so wantonly delicious that my mouth waters.

I track him with my eyes much as I imagine a cheetah tracks a wounded hippo. "What is that?"

Hayden shakes his head emphatically. "You're not ready for that. Have another zonker."

"What do you mean, not ready? What is it?"

He sighs as though he knows we're both going to regret this. "Cotton candy. But that's heavy duty stuff. You've got to work up to it."