"Doctor Martin. That was a superb presentation. As usual."
"Thank you. The theory of Computation of Protein Structure Function Relations isn't exactly a barnburner for most people," she replied pleasantly.
"Let's just say it's a whole lot more interesting when presented by someone so...pleasing to the eye."
Constance Martin, who preferred to be called Connie, earned her PhD in the narrow field of Theoretical and Computational Chemistry at the age of 26. Now 38, she was a tenured professor at UCLA and had published numerous scholarly, peer-reviewed papers in her chosen area of study.
She and her team had spent the last year carefully putting together the data for this most recent paper which she'd just presented at a prestigious seminar attended by other PhDs interested in that narrow branch of chemistry.
The man who was flattering her was one of the most well-know scientists in the profession, and he, like nearly every other man who'd ever met her, had been intrigued by her combination of intelligence and beauty.
Connie Martin was brilliant. Math and science had always come easily to her. In terms of looks, she was a natural blonde who wore her hair between chin and shoulder length, hair which framed a beautiful face with alabaster skin and clear, blue eyes, and perfectly straight, white teeth. She was a shade under 5'8" tall, and weighed somewhere around 120 pounds, give or take, on any given day.
The lab coat she religiously wore tended to hide some of her finer feminine attributes such as a pair of nearly symmetrical, C-cup breasts, a narrow waist, and most of her long, shapely legs and nicely-curved ass, a word she occasionally used to describe that part of her anatomy.
She wasn't a prude by any means, she just agreed with the old saw about profanity being the domain of the weak-minded. Then again, she was well aware that the occasional, well-placed expletive could say in one word what would otherwise require an entire paragraph of prose. On rare occasions, she would shock those who didn't know her as she flatly delivered one.
A two-word combination came to mind to express her disinterest in this older man's interest in her, but saying 'fuck off' to someone of his stature could be detrimental to her own career so she only smiled and chose something more polite.
"You're always the charmer, Edward."
"Charming enough to perhaps finally convince you to allow me to take you to dinner?" he asked, pressing his luck.
"Edward. You know I don't date," she told him, even though she knew he was aware that wasn't true.
She did, in fact, date. She was just very selective in her choice of men when it came to dating, and Edward had no chance of never make the cut.
She was even less a snob than a prude, but there were lines she wouldn't cross, and dating a man she found completely unattractive was one such line. Even a man who could help her career in many ways.
He smiled in spite of the sting of rejection then said, "You are still the epitome of Churchill's take on tact, Doctor Martin. I must admit that while you essentially just told me to go to hell, I rather enjoyed the trip."
His blunt acceptance of his fate made her laugh but only politely, and caused her to momentarily think about even the possibility of going to dinner with someone like him—assuming it was just dinner—which it clearly wasn't.
The truth was, work took up most of her life. That part was true. Edward was not only a good fifteen years older than her, time had not been kind to him, and it was doubtful he'd ever been even close to her in terms of looks when he was younger and in his prime. Looks weren't everything, of course, but they were most often the catalyst that allowed for things like attraction, love, and romance to bloom, and the simple truth was, there was no attraction there whatsoever.
"I would never say such a thing to someone as distinguished as you, Edward," she told him, flashing that amazing smile of hers that always served to lessen the blow.
"Once again, I find myself much less disappointed by your most recent rejection than I normally would."
"There's someone for everyone, Edward. You know that, right?" she said in a way he wouldn't take as either patronizing or condescending.
"Perhaps next year?" he said with the slightest modicum of hope.
"Ask me then, okay," she said politely before excusing herself.
She pulled out her phone and took a quick look. It wasn't surprising to see a large number of texts, but there were also a dozen phone call notifications, and almost no one called her anymore. She opened the app and realized all of them were from her mother.
A sense of dread washed over her as she hit 'redial' and waited. Two minutes later she hung up the phone, too overcome with shock and grief to even move.
The next morning, she was on a plane to Charlotte, North Carolina, the city where she'd grown up and gone to college as an undergraduate before earning her masters and PhD at Duke University in Durham, 140 miles to the northeast of her hometown.
As she winged her way east, Connie fought back tears as she fondly recalled her life at home with her mom and dad. Her mother could often be cold, but she was mostly...aloof.
In sharp contrast, her father had been warm, genuine, and always interested in his only child, no matter how busy he was. And his sense of smell was unparalleled, at least in his world where perfume had supported their family, and her specifically, all the way through graduate school.
She'd been a daddy's girl growing up, and now, without warning, he was gone. It had been her turn to call that Sunday, but she'd declined in favor or putting the final touches on the paper she'd just presented. As a result, she'd missed the last chance she would ever have to hear her father's rich, baritone voice and the laugh she so dearly loved.
*****
One Day Later. Mint, Hill, NC. Just East of Charlotte.
"Okay, Sweet Pea. Go see Nana."
"Good morning, Lexi! How's my favorite girl in the whole world?"
"Nana? Can I go play?" the two-year old, who was closer to three, asked without answering her grandmother's question.
"Of course you may. I need to talk to your father anyway."
Once the little girl was out of sight, Marilyn Lane could tell her son needed to say something.
"Is everything okay?" she asked.
"I don't know, Mom. I'm not sure if you've heard, but I just found out Mr. Martin passed away."
"Oh, my heavens! When?"
"Yesterday from what I was told. He was in his office at work, and evidently he had a heart attack."
He didn't need to add, "Just like Dad."
His mother had been with his father when he passed away from the same thing a little over a year ago. And as awful as that had been, her son, Adam, lost his wife, Kristi, during childbirth a little under three years ago himself. Women weren't supposed die giving birth in 2015, but as he later learned, it still happened more often than most people knew, and Kristi Lane had been one of them.
