Five Stethoscopes 6 Secrets: A Novel

By Rose Mary Stiffin

Synopsis for Five Stethoscopes, 6 Secrets by Rose Mary Stiffin, PhD

Six women's paths cross in medical school as five of them strive to become medical doctors, sometimes against all odds. Each one must succeed, and their mentor must ensure their success. But each one of them carries a secret. Everyone has a secret. Some are innocuous; others are far-reaching and can cross both moral and ethical lines.

Meet six women living in Lincoln, Nebraska, five of whom are attending a new medical program. Their mentor, Dr. Elizabeth Hoslin, encourages them and loves them as if they were her little chicks under her wings. But she has a secret that even she is reluctant to admit.

Connie keeps her secret hidden in a drawer. Glory's past shaped her dark secret. Candi's secret is haunting and unbelievable, crossing both ethical and moral lines. Amaryllis has a secret that could eat at her like a cancer. Will true friendship and love enable her to share her secret? Jo doesn't even know she has a secret. When she discovers it, will it destroy or strengthen her?

Five Stethoscopes, 6 Secrets is Stiffin's sixth novel. If you like discovering secrets that are both warmhearted and frightening, getting to know characters you will not soon forget, then you will love this saga.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: May 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649521262

Book preview

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Five Stethoscopes 6 Secrets

A Novel

Rose Mary Stiffin, PhD

Copyright © 2020 Rose Mary Stiffin, PhD

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2020

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events locations, institutions, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or produced in any manner whatsoever without written permission by the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews or interviews. For information: address Rose Mary Stiffin, PhD at [e-mail].

ISBN 978-1-64952-125-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64952-126-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Acknowledgments

A special thanks to…

All of my students, all of who have in some way become my legacies. I am so glad to know that we have produced more than five doctors! You have been my inspiration and I do pray I inspired you. Thanks to AM for always being the willing reader and commentator. Thanks to my parents, not because they helped me with this novel in any way, but because they saw something for their six children beyond the cotton fields. I shall be forever grateful for their vision. Last but certainly not least, I thank all of my readers who have supported my previous novels. I thank you in advance for the support I hope that you will give this one, my latest child.

YEAR 1

Chapter 1

Dr. Hoslin

The class was nothing like I expected. Biochemistry of the Immune System was a complete surprise.

I had already checked the roster and knew this class was a pilot run dreamed up via emails, attachments, meetings, votes, and finally, approval at the board level. My supervisor, Dr. Jonathan Griffiths, had been recently promoted to vice chancellor of Diversity and Inclusion. He and I, along with several other deans directly under his supervision, were instrumental in getting the new program and its classes off the ground. The forty or so students in this class were part of a cohort during their seven years or—please, God, no—more in our MD/PhD program. I knew fifteen of them were African American, and Dr. Griffiths decided I would be a great role model for them. I didn’t say that, coming up, I had no professional role models to study biology, to go to college, to do my best. I had my struggling parents as the best role models, who knew the best way up for me, since I could not sing, dance, or act, was through education.

So, what was it about this virgin class that caught me completely unawares? It was all female. Where were the men? I was part of diversity and inclusion. Talk about the irony. Would this class run? Surely not. It was not too small, but I was in the office of Diversity and Inclusion, having worked hard to secure Dr. Griffiths’s old position of dean in the same school. Shouldn’t I be including some males, too, some non-White Hispanics, a few Native Americans? I had some diversity in race and color but not gender. I would return to my office and shoot Dr. Griffiths an email telling him that this class was poorly advertised, was lacking in the very thing we promoted to be effective, and that it must be canceled. Since students accepted this year could choose the old program or this one, perhaps the males gave this one a wide berth. Maybe they thought it was beneath their efforts or required more than typical gross memorization.

Unlike other dual-degree MD/PhD programs, this one, at the newly established medical school in Lincoln, Nebraska, would have the students simultaneously progress through the program as both a medical student and a PhD candidate. This meant, ambitiously, that entering first-year students would be assigned research rotations, take classes, and do their rounds in varying fields of medicine. In the beginning of their second year, they would be white-coated. There had been pushback from some of the students about the ceremony itself, since many considered the monogrammed jacket to be part of their work clothes, like scrubs, and nothing they would be seen in public wearing. I still remembered my own joy at wearing my white jacket in the lab, back when I was a PhD student and postdoc.

The entire program would take the same length of time as other similarly degreed programs, but it was structured to expose this cohort of (I was sure, terrified) students to all the demands, at a naturally reduced course and workload per semester, of a regular MD/PhD program.

What stopped me at the door was the collective look of hope on their young faces. The look that asked if their being here at this medical school in Nebraska was the right decision for all of them. For all of us.

I closed the door, faced my class, and introduced myself, though I was sure they already knew who I was. Some M2 or M3 had talked to them. My reputation always preceded me.

I consulted the roll. In a week or so, I would know each of them without having to consult an electronic page on my laptop.

Tell me about yourselves. Names, where you’re from, why you’re here. I stood tall, five feet eight inches, and wearing three-inch sling-back heels put me an inch within six feet. And when you tell us about yourself, I want you to stand, I want you to project your voice. Remember, in just a few years, you’ll be addressing a patient and he or she needs to hear your every word! I got a titter of laughter, but not from everyone. I’d used this tired old joke before at the other university down in Georgia for eight years and usually got a few laughs.

You, I pointed to an apple-faced girl with ample curves but not heavily built, with a slight overbite and a helmet of brown hair, thick enough for two heads of hair. She stood. I was immediately unimpressed with her attitude. She seemed to shrink within herself, even though she was standing quite erect, about my height in stockinged feet. It was her eyes that shadowed, as if she were keeping the light from them, as if keeping them from meeting mine somehow protected her. And tell us what type of doctor you want to be, what area of research interests you. During my whole one-year tenure here, the students were often stunned by this request, forgetting that they, if successful, would one day be practicing MD/PhDs at the end of our program.

Constance Hampton…Connie. I’m interested in oncology—women-related oncology and immunology. She surprised me by smiling shyly. I remember from undergrad that cancer is tied to the immune system, so if I know immunology, I might be a better oncologist. Or an ER doctor…I haven’t exactly decided… As if this little speech took all her breath, Connie Hampton deflated back into her seat.

I said nothing. I learned early on: let them talk. Often, they revealed their own truths and capabilities. They would write their own future.

Yes? I pointed to Connie’s right-side neighbor, a very pretty girl, petite, with impossibly long and straight hair. A weave or a very expensive all-lace wig.

She popped from her seat as if on a spring, full of pep and exuberance. "I’m Candice Gordon but you all can call me Candi, with an i. I would not. And I will find a cure for cancer. So, I want to be an oncologist, like Connie, and study cancer biology." She gave us all a smug look and sat down.

How old was she to be this naive? She had graduated college, so at least twenty-one. A cure for cancer? People wanted to blame Big Pharma for no cures for cancer, not knowing that one or a dozen things could go wrong in a cell to cause it not to die, to keep it growing and dividing. A protein, a piece of DNA, missing, rearranged, added on to. Anything could go wrong in a cell and the result was cancer. A cure? Again, I kept my mouth closed, but the soft smirk from her neighbor told me I hadn’t kept my eyes silent.

And you, miss? I indicated the—okay, I couldn’t in all fairness think of Candice Gordon as an idiot—ingenue’s smirking neighbor.

Glorious, or Glory to my friends, Lawson. I haven’t decided yet. She settled back down languidly, her eyes and voice at half-mast.

Could you stand again, Ms. Lawson, and speak louder? I’m not hard of hearing but, I swear, I could barely hear you.

Candi nodded vigorously. Not only was this Glorious person talking to herself, she was talking in slow motion. I watched her mouth form the words.

She stood once more, all grace and fluid. I’m interested in health disparities. She sat again and I consulted my roster, even though I had heard her clearly. Her mother christened her Glorious. Really? What had her mother been smoking? I replayed her voice in my head. No. Was Glorious high herself?

Then there was Amaryllis, who, while telling the class she was from down in B’more, had given herself that name because she wanted to make up for her very common surname of Jones.

I want to practice family medicine and study hematology, understand more about sickle cell and lupus…for certain reasons. She was pretty, with a head of bushy curls she had tamed into a thick braid that stopped midway her back. She was built like a world-class athlete, tall and lithe, one giant muscle.

The introductions went on and every girl gave me reasons they would be the best doctor ever trained here. I commented little, again letting them speak their minds. Their truths.

The last to stand was Josephina Grayson. Though she spoke as quietly as Glory had, she spoke with authority and clarity.

Call me Jo. Everyone does. She added, with a glimmer of grim humor. Josephina is a mouthful. I want to do medicinal chemistry and specialize in holistic medicine.

So, a naturopathic doctor? I nodded. Interesting, interesting.

Since I wanted us to be a unit, I knew trust would be a key factor. What better way to gain trust than to be open and honest?

Okay, I said, with a long sigh, I want you to write on a slip of paper the following: where you’re from, what you accomplished unrelated to sitting in this room, and something no one knows about you. I heard a low mumble and quickly added, Not a secret in the sense that this is something you prefer to keep to yourself…Okay, I’ll go first, telling you all something no one knows about me. I took a deep breath. For ten years, I’ve been happily and faithfully married to Idris Elba. There was an audible gasp of disbelief. I smiled broadly. "Of course, Idris Elba doesn’t know that he’s been happily and faithfully married to me." Actual guffaws. Everyone began furiously writing, some with pensive looks, others with mischievous grins. If nothing else, they knew I had a sense of humor.

This was my first class of the semester, forty fledglings I’d have to teach to fly and fly high. Of course, I’d get help from their other professors and the medical doctors who would train and teach them. But I would be the linchpin to keep them on task.

As I discussed the syllabus—Amaryllis Jones groaned over the bulk of it—an image flashed in my head. A bird sitting on freshly laid eggs. If they were hatchlings, in a real sense, I was the mother hen.

Could we be a murder of crows? No. We were not uniform in look, indistinguishable from each other by the untrained eye. I saw them as young chicks. They would peck away for knowledge, greedy to learn. Like those birds from my grandparents’ yards down in Georgia, when cornered, those feisty birds used all their defensive weapons to achieve victory, their beaks, wings, and claws. They did not go down without a fight. Neither would these birds.

For some reason, five of them struck a chord with me. The twittering Ms. Gordon and that cooing Ms. Lawson were doves. I had no idea about doves’ behavior, except that they were used as sacrifices by the early Jews. Jo, Amaryllis, and Connie struck me as iron-willed, fighters if forced to. Three feisty hens, two preening doves. The rest, whom I would nurture and encourage, were the supporting cast, part of a grand production that, without them as chorus, was bound to fail.

Even though it was the first day of class, I did not dismiss them early. They would have a full fifty minutes of lecture and they would understand the rigor in which I taught and expected them to learn. So, they were birds. They would have to fly, as well as their ponderous and small wings could take them.

I would send no email to my superior.

Just over a year ago, over thirty and decidedly single, but not for lack of trying, I met my current supervisor, Dr. Jonathan Griffiths, an MD/PhD who saw patients as well as taught anatomy and physiology and who had just closed his laboratory due to increasing administrative duties. We met during my interview for the position I held until last month, director of Minority Research and Medical Studies. I had taught for seven years at the small HBCU on the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia, but wanted to stretch my wings more. I knew I wanted to work with minority students, preferably females, and I knew I would have to find a PWI that wanted what I had to offer—diversity in both race and sex. I would be a beacon to draw others to their programs.

The job required a move halfway across the US, into a state that had less than 10% Blacks. But the salary was more than twice what I was making, and there was the possibility of advancement from within, even the enticement of a well-equipped laboratory and start-up funds. I could not say no to the phone call inviting me out to Nebraska for an on-site interview.

I met them over dinner, an interview cleverly disguised as a great meal at a good restaurant. There, I met Dr. Griffiths and his supervisor, Dr. Marianne Simon-Gentry, who was vice chancellor of Diversity and Inclusion, as well as a couple of other people I immediately forgot. I was there to razzle and dazzle Drs. Griffiths and Simon-Gentry.

Dr. Simon-Gentry was forthright and abrupt, but I appreciated her directness. And she appreciated my enthusiasm for the job, my accomplishments, and my fire in the belly, as she called my unflagging enthusiasm for educating women and minorities. We discussed ideas, gave them gravity and meaning, a way for them to be realized when I took the position.

Maybe there was mutual admiration between us, the two women at the table, from disparate backgrounds, but we found commonality in our visons for the new programs. By the end of the dinner, I knew I had the job, even though no formal offer had been made. I had impressed Griffiths’s boss. How could I not be the number one contender?

But if it was admiration Dr. Simon-Gentry felt for me, I could only hazard a guess as to what Dr. Griffiths’s feelings were. During the meal-cum-interview, he asked no questions, either directly or as follow-ups from his supervisor or the other two men at the table. He listened, if I went by his intense blue-gray gaze, and he took in what was said, if I could go by his raised brows and quick nods. He made side comments to Dr. Simon-Gentry, who must have had the hearing of a dog, because all I could make out from his deep voice was a series of grunts and murmurings.

His only clear comment that I could recall was directed not at Dr. Simon-Gentry or me, but at the server, a young olive-skinned man who told us he was Joaquin. I asked for the Brussel sprouts, not the broccolini, thank you. His quick look my way enflamed his cheeks, but he gave all his attention to the food on his plate or to Dr. Simon-Gentry. I knew I had the job, but I would be working for him. Didn’t he want to ask me something that indicated he agreed with Dr. Simon-Gentry’s assessment of me? Was there something she left out in her questions that he should address, delineate?

Perhaps he was like an old colleague of mine, somewhere on the spectrum of autism, maybe undiagnosed Asperger syndrome: high functioning, intelligent, and completely uncomfortable around new people, socially awkward, seemingly unaware of his sexuality. But he wore a wedding band; he was married. He seemed capable of speech, just not able to talk to me.

Perhaps he was shy, though I doubted it. He laughed at the little jokes someone at the table made, and generally paid attention to his surroundings.

He never looked directly at me for more than a second. When I spoke, I made eye contact with everyone at the table, my eyes going left and right, including him in my field of vision, but he never addressed me or maintained eye contact.

Perhaps he was a racist.

"Dr. Griffiths, I read your article in BJ." Biochemical Journal was not the high-impact journal like Cell or Nature that I thought the university would demand of its staff, but it was respected enough. The piece was a review article published four months ago on the current status of drug development and the need for medical doctors to be well educated on the newly-FDA-approved drugs. It was thorough and precise in the bulk of information provided in just six pages.

He said something, his eyes cast over my right shoulder. His chiseled face was crimson in color, but I could decipher not a single word he spoke.

Perhaps he was a misogynist.

But he spoke at length with Dr. Simon-Gentry. His attitude toward her was a blend of respect and affection, as if she were his older, favorite aunt. Still, he made no reference to me either by look or name.

More than likely, he was a shy racist.

The new medical school was in the heart of Lincoln, Nebraska. The city had about three hundred thousand residents. Of that over a quarter million people, less than twenty thousand were of Color. My quick mathematics told me that in its 96 mi² area, there was a one in twenty chance this man regularly encountered someone who resembled me. There was a real chance this dinner was the closest he had come to a Black person in months, perhaps even years.

I wanted this job. I was sure I had this job. But I would have to interact with him, answer to him, report directly to him. I could not let his reticence jeopardize my position, my doing my job the way I had for years: wholeheartedly and enthusiastically.

It took me two days to call his office, even though I knew I would receive a formal letter offering me the job and a contract to look over and sign before I made the move across country. I was not reluctant to make the call. I did not need to bolster my courage. I needed to calm down. All I needed was a definitive answer to my one question: Why didn’t you even look my way, asshole?

His secretary (or were they called administrative assistants there?) told me succinctly that the dean was out. She took my name and office number. She remembered me.

You’re our new hire. We’re looking forward to your joining us, Dr. Hoslin!

Yes, so am I. Please let Dr. Griffiths know I called.

Will do. Have a great day!

Would he deign to return my call? I was sure now he was a racist, a misogynist, maybe even—

My cell rang loudly on my office desk. I had been packing all day, books disappearing from shelves and into labeled boxes. I was shocked to hear his voice, clear and distinct. "Griffiths here, Dr. Hoslin. I’m returning your call. How can I service you? Be of service to you?"

I was unprepared for this question and I wondered at that weird slip. I had expected an impatient, dismissive tone, not this solicitous question that sounded genuinely kind and interested.

Why didn’t you speak to me during dinner? I blurted out, immediately regretting the question. I had been back in Georgia for a month and was busy preparing for the move. I shouldn’t have wondered about his behavior. I had the job. But I did.

Silence. Was this what writers called a pregnant pause? I waited nine seconds.

Elizabeth, Dr. Simon-Gentry has made her recommendations. The Board of Regents, the president, they’ve all approved of your coming aboard. You have the contract…or soon will.

I read between the lines, so to speak. He had not said he approved, even though I would be working directly under him. And who the hell was he to call me by my Christian name? We were strangers, yet he’d done what White men seemed to think was their right: he’d taken a liberty, minor though this one was, that was not his to take.

I’ll get back to my packing, then. And I’ll—we’ll see each other in a month.

Can’t wait. The line went dead, and I wondered about that tag line. It was what people said these days, like How are you? without really wanting to know, or Have a nice day! and couldn’t care less if you did or not.

Maybe I was being insecure, asking him that question that he still hadn’t answered. I wanted to do well on this job. I knew I could bring great ideas to that university. But I was stepping into a new world. True, my two terminal degrees were from predominately White institutions, but I was at an HBCU, had been for years, and loved what I had already accomplished. But this job resonated with me. I knew I could make a difference. Which went back to my impulsive question: Why was he so silent, almost hostile, at the dinner table? Yet he returned my call, to my cell phone, no less (when did I give him my cell number?), and assured me that the upper administrative echelon fully approved of my appointment.

But nothing on how he felt.

I removed three biochemistry textbooks from a shelf, eased them into a box, and thought of Dr. Griffiths. I had read up on him and Dr. Simon-Gentry. I knew she was educated on the East Coast but was from Illinois, a Midwesterner, which, she told me on an earlier phone interview, made her move to Nebraska that much easier. Dr. Griffiths had, typically, said little in his phone calls, asking me standard questions, volunteering nothing about his own path to the university. When I googled him, I learned that he was an MD/PhD, was raised and educated in northwestern Washington State, and had been at the university for eight years since completing both his residency and postdoc. He was a practicing physician, doing family medicine, and was a diligent researcher in both drug discovery and endocrinology. He alternated between teaching diabetes, endocrinology and metabolism and anatomy and physiology.

He could be a racist, I considered once more. Certainly, he was not out to be friendly and welcoming. He barely made eye contact, was silent as the grave.

I added another book, this one on immunology, to the growing stack in the box. That was when I decided: he’d regret his cold treatment in the worst way. I would be the best director of Minority Research and Medical Studies the university ever had—true, I would be the first director of Minority Research and Medical Studies at the university, but that was beside the point! I would recruit and help educate brilliant minority students, not just Blacks! I would bring in those non-White Hispanics, recruit Native Americans from their tribal colleges. All would become doctors. All would be successful. Yes, he would see that I was right for this position. Plus, I thought, a smile playing around my lips, I’d seduce him, just for the hell of it.

The idea of seducing him was a joke, made to myself. Of course, I would not. Of course, I could not. Sometimes, I thought of the damnedest things just to make myself laugh.

I sent him an email a week later; it was innocent and innocuous in its content. The response I received was just as mundane. I followed that email a week later with a particular question about the position that had not been clarified in the paperwork or interview, with a humorous sideline at the end, just to see if he would acknowledge it. Although he answered, giving more detail than necessary about my question, he did not acknowledge my witticism. I waited a week, followed that email up with a phone call, informing him that I would be in my new home within a week, and my office within two weeks, that I couldn’t wait to get started.

We can’t wait either, Elizabeth. And, again, the phone went dead.

I sent Dr. Griffiths an email as soon as I settled into my new home, a three-bedroom, three-bath townhome that was almost twice the size of my condo in Marietta. I did not need this much room, but one of the bedrooms would be quickly converted into an office-entertainment room, large enough for friends to gather and watch movies projected on the white wall. The price of the place was the deciding factor. Although my old place back in Georgia had been decidedly cheaper, the square feet per dollar was well worth what I paid. Besides, I fully expected to have family members visiting, and the extra space would come in handy.

Dr. Griffiths’s response was businesslike and to the point. No waste of words. I thought about my silly plans of seduction. I could lose my newfound, ideal job. He could report me. I could be sued for sexual harassment. Just plain silly. I had reacted the way some women do—Okay, you don’t like me, I’ll make you like me! That was not me. I would do my job, be the best I could be, and keep my distance.

My administrative assistant was a young woman with bright blond hair and an equally bright pair of green eyes. She was younger than thirty and asked me to call her DeeDee. Her given name, I saw on her desk plate, was Desdemona Hollingsworth.

"My mother was going to study acting—Othello was her favorite Shakespearean play—and, well, I came along! She gave her laugh, a long giggle, really, then said, She still does community theater, so I guess I wasn’t a total nail in the coffin." Another whooshing giggle.

We went over my schedule, made sure I knew the layout of the sprawling campus, and had access to the people I would eventually be meeting with on a regular basis.

Could you call Dr. Griffiths, DeeDee? I want to make sure he knows I’m here.

Oh, no problem. He called already, left a message. He’ll be here in ten minutes. He said he wanted you to have time to catch your breath. It was eight thirty. He was already here? I thought I was arriving early this chilly Monday morning.

He had already called, was already here. One thing was now certain: instead of a nine-to-five day, I would have to start an hour earlier and maybe go an hour later.

I wore a forest-green dress and black leather heels, both precisely perfect for work but, I thought, still flattering. No cleavage, no high, tilting heels. My makeup was flawless but also understated. No red lipstick or thick lashes. My hair, still short from the big chop I had done a month ago, formed a dark-brown cap on my head.

He knocked on my door, having already come into the anteroom where DeeDee was settled behind her neat desk. I had forgotten that he was tall, over six feet by at least two inches, blond and blue-green-gray-eyed, but his blond hair had the tint that suggested he would have a reddish beard. His eyes were clear, pale that, in certain light, gave the impression that they were colorless, and still in other lights, they shone like silver. I remembered all this as I shook his hand. Had he been this fit? He looked like he ran or swam daily, no extra flesh seen on his long, lean body.

He didn’t smile. Elizabeth, welcome aboard. I indicated a chair at the round table in my spacious office and he sat, clearly waiting for me to join him.

Thank you…Jonathan. I looked at him, waiting to see if he would pick up on the fact that I never invited him to address me with such familiarity. I caught the first glimmer of a smile. And was he this handsome at that dinner?

He had an iPad and a small leather briefcase that he opened. We sat at the table, almost shoulder to shoulder for nearly an hour, poring over details of my job, what we both expected me to accomplish.

Finally, after two hours, he closed his briefcase and powered down his iPad. Any other questions, Elizabeth? He gave a wisp of a smile that transformed his otherwise stern face.

Other than why you think I’m invisible? I wanted to scream in his face, but I remained silent, shook my head.

He gathered his belongings and stood. I stood also, almost eye level with him. Almost. He looked down at me. There’s a decent cafeteria on the second floor. I usually eat at my desk, but if you want to come down around twelve, I’ll introduce you to some more of our colleagues. Our, not my, not your. Such a simple word told me he placed himself among, not above, the other administrators, professors, and researchers.

I eat at my desk, too, but I’ll be there. Back in Atlanta, I ate at the university’s cafeteria, and once or twice a month, I took the time to have lunch with friends who were not university employees. But maybe I wanted him to see my dedication to my job early on.

Right. You cut your hair. He disappeared from my office before I could respond. I supposed he left the building, heading to his own office. I fingered my short cut, wondering…

At noon, promptly, I was at his table with a group of men, of all races, it seemed, and a couple of women. I made a mental note: We need to recruit more women, regardless of race.

Guys, Dr. Elizabeth Hoslin. He nodded in my direction.

"Qu’est-ce qui se passe?" He gave a wide smile to a pretty, dark-haired woman, who answered him in her accented English.

He looked at his watch deliberately. I’ll let you get acquainted. He left the table. That was how he invited me to have lunch with him?

I smiled at the people at the table, ready to get acquainted with my new colleagues.

Dr. Griffiths speaks French? I knew he’d asked her what was going on, but my French was from middle-school classes. I would never be able to hold a real conversation with her.

The woman laughed. Even her laughter sounded accented. Oh, very badly, but I pretend that he speaks like a native. His accent—she made a face—"so American. It should be, Qu’est-ce qui se passe? So bad." She laughed some more but I said nothing. I could not tell the difference in his way or her way.

But he is a great man! I envy you working in his office.

Everyone at the table echoed her sentiment. Really? I wanted to say he had said almost nothing to me and was still standoffish, even, to me, rude. He knew these people, though, probably had known them several years. He and I were strangers.

At six thirty, he popped into my office like a genie. DeeDee had been gone nearly an hour. She didn’t work late to impress me.

Your first day?

I answered honestly. Pretty hectic, but I’m already loving it. Which was true. I thought some of the people at the table would have been contenders for my position, but they were all hard-core researchers and dedicated faculty. Administrative duties, other than overseeing grants, were not their interest.

He lingered in my doorway, one foot planted firmly in my office and the other in DeeDee’s.

See you tomorrow, he said. I was not surprised when he only glanced in my direction.

You know it. That was when he hesitated at the outer door, really looked at me, his gaze clear and questioning. Then, that smile that was brighter than Obama’s or Malcolm X’s. Or, considering his race, Julian McMahon’s.

I don’t think I do. Good night.

A few months passed with absolutely no change in my routine of meetings, classes, laboratory setup, interviews for lab techs, and more meetings and more classes. Jonathan Griffiths came and went to his office, often seeing me going to and from my office. He spoke, friendlier, but not as a friend. After all, he was my boss. Thank God, with DeeDee’s help and my devotion to getting the job done, whatever report he required or question he had, was quickly answered, so far, to his satisfaction.

At the end of my sixth month, in the middle of the coldest day in February, Dr. Griffiths stalked into my classroom as the class filed out. I had my lab jacket draped over my arm, with the intent of going to my lab to discuss a procedure with one of the graduate students who floated between my lab and their preceptor’s. I had students rotating through my lab but no graduate students to call my own yet. I would be recruiting some by the fall of the year.

Elizabeth, we have a problem. I still had trouble with his calling me by my first name when I decided that calling him Dr. Griffiths was best.

Yes? We walked to my lab. Hemant Patel, a Nepali grad student, was standing at a spectrophotometer, doing some assay. I was not on his committee, but he often came to my lab to ask me questions or to use my equipment, which was usually available.

Ollie can’t go to the meeting with me. His wife’s having a difficult time and he wants to stay by her side. We managed to cancel his flight and hotel, but I still need someone to go with Amie and me.

Dr. Oliver Rupert was a medical doctor who had chosen research over treating people, even though he did not have a PhD. He specialized in endocrinology, like Dr. Griffiths. He was in his midthirties, and his wife, a woman I had met only once, was heavily pregnant with their third child. I had heard her pregnancy was now high risk because of gestational diabetes.

Dr. Amilie Guerrier was a specialist in nutrition and metabolism, a PhD with three federal grants and a horde of eager postdocs and grad students. We met that first day of lunch months ago. She was French-born and New Zealand educated. Her husband was a handsome Kiwi who was what they called mixed blood, part European and part Mäori. We were becoming the unlikeliest of friends. The meeting, more of a large, brain-packed symposium and series of workshops, would be held in Atlanta proper, a short drive from my old job and home. I had been envious of the trip since I’d heard about the conference.

I waited, wondering what he was. Can you come, Elizabeth? I know it’s sudden, but you can help. In what capacity, he didn’t say, but I was familiar with the talks and seminars, and a few of the workshops sparked my interest and curiosity.

I knew I wouldn’t be presenting anything in Ollie’s stead, but I could make more contacts and network. It wouldn’t be a wasted trip.

Did the chancellor agree? She was his boss. But maybe he was making decisions on which personnel would make this trip.

Theresa’s fine with it, he said, again using Dr. Bolivar’s Christian name, too, and not her title.

I smiled, thinking of the three-day conference. DeeDee told me earlier that everyone was returning not on the day the conference ended, a Thursday, but on Sunday afternoon and would stay in the city enjoying two days of sightseeing and touring. I’ll get DeeDee to make reservations now, I said, placing my lab jacket on the back of a chair in the equipment-crowded room and heading down the hall, with him dogging my heels.

The three of us flew down together, checked into our respective rooms, and met for dinner that Monday night. We didn’t have to travel to the venue of the conference, since it was held in several rooms at the Ritz-Carlton on two separate floors. Although Dr. Griffiths spoke less than Amie or I did on the shared ride from Hartfield, he was relaxed and cheerful, even getting in a joke occasionally.

We made it to our rooms by 10:00 p.m. that evening, tired from the flight, full of the meal we’d eaten, and ready to drop into our beds. We all said good night and went to our rooms. I showered, dressed for bed, and turned on the news, ready to let the drone of the anchor’s voice lull me to sleep.

A knock sounded and I went to the door. I had met a few of the attendees from other universities and industries at dinner. Could this be one of them, ready to talk about research?

Yes? I did not open the door, nor did I look through the peephole.

Elizabeth.

I opened the door to the voice.

Dr. Griffiths stood at my slightly opened door. Though he was dressed as he had been at dinner, he had lost his jacket and loosened his tie. He carried a laptop under one arm. He didn’t notice my baggy pajamas and thick socks.

You’re still up, he said unnecessarily, coming in and closing the door without my uttering an invitation to do so. Amie’s probably knocked out or talking to her husband.

I was watching the news, I said, indicating the wide-screen TV and the plastic face of the woman reporter.

Mm, he grunted, which did not tell me anything of his thoughts or reason for coming to my room. I want you to help me with my presentation. He caught my look and gave that ghost of a smile. I wanted to see his wide, toothy grin, but I guessed the little smirky smile would have to do. Please?

He set up the laptop, navigated to his presentation. The slides were crisp and succinct in the writing, as I expected of him by now. He used figures and tables to his advantage. He would speak for fifteen minutes and have a five-to-ten-minute Q&A period. He had a lot of information, mostly new data from the research he oversaw when he was dean, and, hopefully, results that would spark fervent discussions and questions.

Well? He finished and checked his cell phone clock. Just under sixteen minutes.

It was great, I said simply, meaning it. He was a dynamic speaker, excited about his work and willing to share it with others, as well as seek their expertise in muddy areas.

"As my dad would say, well, all right then…" He shut off his laptop but made no effort to leave.

All right then, I repeated, glancing at the bedside clock.

You lived in Atlanta, right? Any place you think we should check out after the conference?

"Marietta, actually…There’s so much to see—it is the capital…"

You’ll be our official tour guide! he said, giving that wide smile.

I don’t know about tour guide, but… What were we doing? He was not flirting. I was too tired to flirt. The yawn I couldn’t hold back escaped.

Jonathan Griffiths looked at me, his face now expressionless. He stood suddenly. I should go.

I stood slowly, still stifling a long yawn. See you tomorrow.

At breakfast, if that’s okay.

The conference included a light breakfast every morning. I said as much, asking if we would meet in the indicated conference room. He shook his blond head. I was thinking about a restaurant nearby. I saw it online.

Oh. I looked up at him, shorter by several inches now.

We can leave at seven and still make it to the first plenary session.

Um, all right. I’ll meet you and Amie in the lobby.

He shook his head. No, I’ll come by here at 6:50. It’s a ten-minute walk, the directions said.

Walking in February in Atlanta? Not nearly as cold as Nebraska, but I was not looking forward to that. Maybe we can Uber there? It’s cold.

Uber, he said in his usual taciturn way. He twisted his gold wedding band around, maybe unconsciously, until the trio of diamonds was on the underside of his finger. He gathered his laptop under his arm and left the room, with no wish for a good night.

I wondered about that turned-over ring until I fell asleep.

We breakfasted together, going over the finer points of his presentation, looking over other presenters’ abstracts to see which ones drew our respective attention. We went our separate ways, attending several presentations and workshops, seeing each other in passing at the luncheon, but meeting up later at Ag’s for dinner.

His presentation the next day was met with enthusiastic applause and questions that lasted into the afternoon break. Amie and I gave him a thumbs-up gesture that caused him to smile. He introduced us to a sea of mostly male faces, not as his subordinates, but as his fellow colleagues.

I arranged a tour of the city, including the museums they probably weren’t expecting to see. We went through the very neat house on Auburn and went to the MLK National Historic Site, walking around in silence. I didn’t know what they were thinking and wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

But, not to make it a Black tour, I took them to the Underground and we had dinner there. We went to Johnny’s Hideaway our last night there. Amie and I danced together, but we quickly got over our surprise when Dr. Griffiths joined us on the floor, twisting and turning to the driving and thumping music. Did he dance so uninhibited with his absent wife? Maybe I didn’t want to know.

We all sat together on the flights back, me in the middle on both flights, and we slept all the way to Nebraska. As the plane taxied in, I awoke with a start, to find Dr. Griffiths’s eyes studying my face. He looked out the window. We beat the snow, was all he said.

Once back, that Monday, it was as if the weekend never happened. What happened in Atlanta stayed in Atlanta, I thought, smiling to myself since nothing had happened. It was almost nine that evening when my phone rang next to me as I watched television and moisturized my face and hair.

Elizabeth, I have that meeting tomorrow and I need the report you did.

Did he even know the word hello? Dr. Griffiths, I’m home. I left the report on my desk… Did he think I would drive back to the university at this hour? I can email it to you. I have the electronic version.

I’ll drive by, pick you up, and we can go to your office so we can pick it up.

Or I can make sure you get it first thing tomorrow morning. I still didn’t understand why he couldn’t let me email him a version and he print it out.

There was an audible sigh over the line. Right.

I immediately went to my desktop, inserted my jump drive, found the file, and emailed it to him as an attachment.

Twenty minutes later, he was at my door. I was dressed in yoga slacks, a holey T-shirt, and flip-flops. He didn’t seem to notice.

It won’t take us ten minutes, I promise.

"Dr. Griffiths, I emailed you the report."

Yeah? Well, I’m here and I don’t have a key to your office. Ten minutes, max.

It took twenty. There was no small talk. There was no talk. I let myself into my office, found the report, and handed it over, all without words. If he couldn’t see the bullets that I fired at him with my eyes, he was blind and stupid.

I was back at my complex by ten-o-five. He insisted on walking me to my door. He lingered so long that I got the message: he wanted to come in.

Dr. Griffiths, would you like a glass of wine? He was blind and stupid, I guessed.

He said yes even before I could finish the question. I opened a cab I bought a few days ago, and we sat on my sofa, not talking much but somehow feeling comfortable with each other. I poured, we toasted silently, and we drank. I supposed I wasn’t as angry as I thought.

I’ll see you tomorrow, Elizabeth. We each had two glasses of the deep red, the whole bottle. I really like your hair. I was too surprised to answer, but like a magnet and filings, my hand went to my head, stroked the back.

Was he tipsy? Should I worry?

I let him leave, knowing, instinctively, that he would be okay driving. He had a strong constitution, I was certain.

It took about a year, but the beginnings of a stranger friendship than ours was impossible. I settled in. I really liked my career and my colleagues. I had friends, both on and off campus, thanks to my gym, book club, and Baptist church affiliation. I wasn’t a Bible-thumping fanatic, but I had my own faith. I got along with my students, even though they complained openly and frequently, but not in an official capacity. Most of them reluctantly respected and admired me.

But I still wondered about Dr. Jonathan Griffiths. Did we need to be friends? Did a deep and abiding friendship depend on equal ranking? I was his subordinate. Was it a matter of my sex? That would be too awful to consider. He was still…distant. Was it race? Could we only be better, closer, friends if I looked like him, in both race and gender? I decided it didn’t matter if we weren’t best friends. What mattered was that I did my job and did it well.

So, I concentrated on building a social life. I met men, through the gym, the church, online. I was a modern-day man-seeker.

I met Peter on a site that cost me a few hundred bucks, figuring the free sites gave you what you paid for.

He was not tall. He was not handsome. He was from Colorado and made the joke of how he ended up in Nebraska.

I turned left in the cornfield when I was driving east instead of right. That’s how I knew I wasn’t in Kansas.

He was interested in me. On our third date, he arrived ten minutes early in a red Saab. He had a bunch of flowers in his big hand. I had poured wine in two glasses to break the ice. I smiled at him, mostly because he thought to bring me flowers.

Where’d you get these? I saw no label from a florist shop or a supermarket.

Peter blushed as I took the bouquet and breathed in, noting the flowers had no scent, even though they were beautiful. I handed him a glass of the zinfandel. I picked them from my aunt’s hot house.

He held out his pale hand and touched my skin, and I smiled into his hazel eyes.

It might have lasted, could even have turned into a romance to be written about, talked over, applauded. I was open to it. I didn’t intimidate him, as my friends back in Marietta said I did with most Black men. I never understood how I could intimidate anyone.

Your education, my friends promptly answered.

And all I could think to say was, "Shit, I spent the better part of twenty years studying and being broke while I studied. How can that be intimidating to anybody?" But it seemed it was; the men in Atlanta came and quickly went, no matter how I tried to hold on.

Peter, it seemed, with his easy smile and easy acceptance of everything Elizabeth Hoslin, was too good to be true.

Too good. To be true.

He loved running his hands over my body, through my hair, pressing into my skin, as if searching for something hidden. "I love