A/N—Christine's not necessarily discounting all hope of a relationship with Raoul, but she's 28 and knows it's better to proceed with caution. Meg's warning is also leaving her a bit paranoid. Raoul isn't used to women not falling at his feet, because hey, what's not to love? Gorgeous, rich, hard working, charming, nice... Oh yes, I love Meg here too. She's a lot of fun to write, sassy and outspoken, very self-confident, the friend who will help you hide the bodies afterward.

Onward...hope you enjoy!

The Measure of a Man

Chapter 10 Dr. V Explains, Preparations

2016, 2017

The end of the summer term raced toward them like a speeding semi—overloaded and unavoidable. Christine had finals in all three classes, as well as a problem set due in Stat, a paper in Euro, and hours to put in at the listening lab for French. She managed to see Raoul for lunch most days, and they were able to carve out a couple hours one Saturday afternoon to go walking in the park, just to have a few minutes to de-stress.

"Econ is going to be the death of me," he muttered. "That man does not seem to realize that most of us do have other classes or jobs." He leaned back on the park bench, stretching and popping his back. "God, I need some time at the gym, but it's not happening this week."

She moved to stand behind him, her hands massaging his shoulders and neck. "You're way too tense."

He shut his eyes blissfully. "You have no idea how good that feels. I think I need a new pillow or something; my neck is so stiff."

She completed her massage and leaned down, wrapping both arms around his chest and kissed his cheek. "Come on, let's walk."

They wandered the length of the park, crossing the high-water bridge and returning along the trail discussing their plans during the intercession. Raoul was heading home to Seattle for the three-week break as Philippe had demanded his presence at the office in order to take a short vacation for himself. "I won't be able to get away at all," he sighed, "but it will keep my mom and brother happy. For at least a few weeks, anyway. What are you doing?"

She paused to touch a smooth tree branch. "I'll probably go up and stay with Meg a couple days at some point—it's my turn to go see her. Probably ought to check with the people who are leasing my parents' house. Going to that concert in Boulder, of course. And then getting ready for the fall term, I suppose." She shrugged.

Raoul's face had tightened at the mention of the concert. "I still don't like that much. It just seems a little odd, him paying for you to go down there and all."

Christine sighed. "I'm just driving him down; it's no big deal."

"But what if…"

"Raoul, I'm the one driving the car. I have a cell phone. We'll have to stop for gas plenty of times. We'll be in a big hotel in a major city. He's a nice guy. It's fine."

"I still don't like it," he grumbled.

She grinned suddenly at him. "Don't be all Neanderthal on me. It's a gorgeous day, and we don't have much time left. Race you to the pavilion!"

Christine let the Task Rabbit office know she was accepting only the errands from Dr. Valerius and Dr. Martin until finals were over. Oddly, Dr. Martin was silent.

One sunny afternoon she had a grocery delivery to Dr. Valerius and sat talking for a few minutes afterwards. The older lady offered her the usual tomatoes, cucumbers, and zucchini from her backyard garden, and Christine gratefully accepted the fresh vegetables. The zucchini were at the stage where the vines had completely taken over one section of the garden and were threatening an incursion on the others. The dark green cylinders ranged in an ominous array from pickle sized to having delusions of becoming baseball bats. Dr. V was desperate to give them away.

They were sitting in the front room comparing notes from their days in the classroom when an idea occurred and her thoughts raced. The late Dr. Valerius had been in the music department. There was just a chance…

"Well, I'd best be going," Christine said with mock cheerfulness, crossing her fingers silently at the white lie. "I still have to go by Dr. Martin's house after this." She scooted to the edge of her chair.

As usual, Martha Valerius caught the name. "Dr. Erik Martin, perhaps?" she asked curiously.

"Yes," Christine said, feigning surprise. "Do you know him?"

"Oh yes. If it's the same man. He was a friend of my husband's once. Have you met him? A very tall man?" she asked delicately.

Desdemona was twining herself languidly around her ankles. Christine made a pretense of bending over to scratch the cat's chin, hiding her face. "Yes. Very tall, dark hair."

Martha Valerius nodded. "How is he, these days?"

Christine looked up. There was an odd tone in the old lady's voice. "He's very thin," she said slowly. "Very pale. Actually, he doesn't look well at all."

The elderly lady nodded sadly. "I'm not surprised. He's had such an unfortunate life in these last few years."

She continued to scratch the cat's ears, holding her silence, counting on her employer's willingness to talk.

"He was married, you know, to Carla Guiducelli, the opera singer." She gave Christine an inquiring look, but the girl shook her head. "No? Well, ten years ago she was an up-and-coming singer, quite well known in musical circles here in the state, just beginning to get noticed by the larger houses. She was a pretty thing, all long fiery red hair and green eyes, and such a lovely figure. She was stunning, oh my yes, and he was besotted with her, even flew her around on his little plane…one of those Cessnas or Pipers or something. I remember it had four seats and he was so very proud of it."

"What happened?" Christine asked softly.

Dr. Valerius's eyes grew sad. "They crashed in the mountains somewhere outside of Cheyenne. There was a bad storm. The crash left him badly injured. Frankly, I can't imagine how either of them ever survived, but they said it was due to his skill as a pilot." She paused. "Have you ever seen his face?" she asked delicately.

Christine shook her head. "No, but I've noticed he wears a mask or a prosthetic, sometimes. Why?"

"My dear, he hasn't got a face. I've never seen him, myself, but Stephen did, one time, when he went to visit in the hospital. He said it was awful, like something from a horror movie. Smashed and scarred and twisted, hardly any skin or muscle left."

Christine blanched. "Oh my God," she whispered, horrified.

"Please don't ever mention this, that I told you," the elderly lady pleaded.

"No, of course not," she soothed. "But I'm glad you've let me know. I'll be very careful what I say around him." She paused. "What happened to his wife?"

Dr. Valerius's faded blue eyes were sad. "My dear, she died a little while later. From complications of the accident, they said."

Christine hugged the old lady at the door. "Thanks for giving me a heads-up. It really helps."

Martha Valerius smiled. "You're welcome, my dear. And here…take him a zucchini."

That evening, Christine pulled the laptop toward her and began a series of Google searches.

Carla Guiducelli

Fresh Talent in Horrific Crash

Singer Injured in Winter Storm

Carla Guiducelli in Mountain Accident

And others. She randomly clicked on one link. A news article loaded, showing two photos, one of the wreckage of a small plane, strewn across a rocky hill. Another was that of a woman. Christine leaned forward and clicked to enlarge it.

Dr. Valerius had not exaggerated. Carla Guiducelli was beautiful. Clutching white furs around her face, with full lips, smoky green eyes, and red hair upswept into an elaborate style, she leaned into the camera pouting. Another photo showed a woman her father would have described as a "Pocket Venus," all lush curves and a come-hither expression right out of a film noir actress. Feeling vaguely sick, Christine clicked the grey X in the top corner.

No wonder he didn't want to fly. And now there would be all of those people at this Opera fundraiser, remembering Carla…and looking at her in comparison.

.

"Ms Daae?" That wonderful deep voice carried well over the phone line. "Pardon the interruption of your evening. I thought it might be appropriate if we discussed the upcoming trip, perhaps over dinner tomorrow night. Are you amenable to that suggestion?"

"Yes, that's fine," she replied. "Where would you like to meet?"

There was a slight pause. "I thought perhaps my house, if you are comfortable with that. I don't often go out in public." His voice had tightened unmistakably.

"Your house is fine. Do I need to bring anything?"

"No, just yourself." She could hear the faint echo of relief. "Do you like fish? Or veal? Chicken?"

Was he trying to impress her? "Fish is fine. Or chicken. No veal…I don't eat baby animals. Our science teacher at the school where I taught always joked that birds and fish were the descendents of dinosaurs, and since their ancestor ate mine, I don't mind returning the favor." She was rewarded by a low chuckle.

"Fish it is, then. Have you any allergies I need to be aware of?"

"Not a thing," she assured him. I'll see you tomorrow."

"6:00-ish, then. A bientôt."

"A bientôt," she echoed. He had remembered she was taking French.

Rather nervously, Christine dressed for dinner at Dr. Martin's house. "Be comfortable," he'd said over the phone, yet she was anything but. Finally, Christine selected a blue short-sleeved sweater and slim cream-colored pants with sandals. Surely that combination would work. She could always toss her navy cardigan in the car in case his house was as cold as the university classrooms.

He met her at the door before she could ring the chimes, dressed casually in a long-sleeved dark green polo shirt and tan slacks, and the facial prosthetic. "Ms. Daae. Welcome."

"Hello." She stepped into the living room and looked around with a smile. "You've added some furniture since I was here last."

"Yes." He turned toward the kitchen. "Please, make yourself at home."

A new dark brown leather sofa with a matching side chair now occupied the center of the room, turned to face the grand piano. A fireplace dominated the far wall, and heavy draperies hung at the windows, pushed to the sides to let in the summer sunlight. She lowered her purse to the coffee table and was drawn in by the wall of bookshelves.

"Can I get you a glass of white wine?" he called from the kitchen.

Christine flicked her braid over her shoulder. "Yes, please, but only a little, and if it's not too acidic. I'm afraid I'm not much of a wine person." She ran her fingers lightly along the bookshelves. Travelogues, histories, mythology, several classics and biographies, a few best sellers, hundreds of volumes, all showing signs of use. He was apparently quite well read. But for all the books and new furnishings, it was still an oddly impersonal room. No photographs sat on the fireplace mantle, no art or pictures hung on the walls.

"Here, try this." She had not even heard him approach. Christine took the fragile stemmed glass and sipped the golden wine tentatively, then smiled.

"Um. This is good, Dr. Martin, thank you."

He dipped his head with a faint smile, and encouraged, she continued. "I said I'm not much of a wine-drinker, and it's true. We'd always have this terrible boxed wine at faculty get-togethers, and it was awful. Like aged in plywood for fifteen minutes awful."

"Philistines," he scoffed but there was an amused twinkle in his dark eyes. "Do enjoy this, then. I have to keep an eye on the oven."

From the doorway between the kitchen and dining area he watched her slim figure explore his bookshelves and gently touch the gleaming piano before drifting over to the corner where a new small table and chairs sat, a partially completed chess game on the surface.

"Do you play?" he asked, and she shook her head, turning to cross the room to him.

"No, but I enjoy watching."

"Chess would be deadly dull to watch."

She titled her head up, smiling tantalizingly. "I enjoy watching the players."

.

Dinner consisted of a baked fish dish, tender and flaky, surrounded in a golden-brown mysterious sauce, fresh green beans, a basket of various types of hot rolls, and iced tea. He held her chair as she sat down.

"I didn't bring you this," she teased, and he smiled.

"No, a friend was at the farmers' market yesterday, and thoughtfully gave me a call. He ended up staying for a while, hence the chess game."

"Cloth napkins, too," she smiled, unfurling it into her lap.

"One should make an effort, don't you think?" The dark eyes gleamed as he picked up his fork.

Christine took a bite and shut her eyes in pleasure. "Dr. Martin, this is wonderful. You're a fantastic cook."

"I am pleased you like it," he said gravely. "Do you mind discussing the trip while we eat?"

"Not at all. When do you want to leave?"

He got up and went into the kitchen, returning with a tablet. When it powered up, he pushed it across the table to her. "I thought we'd stay at the St. Julien—it's where the meeting and concert will be held. If that's fine, I'll reserve two rooms for us tomorrow."

"Looks fine," she said, flipping through the photos and informational pages. "Pretty nice, in fact."

"It should be. I want to attend the society's meetings that afternoon. You don't need to accompany me unless you just want to. I'd recommend you take some time and explore Boulder. It's an interesting city. We'll drive my car, if that's acceptable, and it will be at your disposal on Saturday while I'm busy."

"Ooh, they have a spa and afternoon tea. I might just do that instead," she mused aloud.

"Whatever you would like. I've looked at the maps; it's at least an eleven-hour drive. Would you be all right with us leaving the day before, rather than trying to get up and leave at some horribly early hour? It would mean two nights in Boulder, though."

She nodded. "It's fine. We're on intercession and I haven't anything else going on."

"Your family?"

Christine turned the fork in her fingers, staring down at her plate without expression. "I don't have any, really, except for a best friend from my ballet-lesson days. My parents were killed last year in a bad auto accident, and I was…am…an only child. I have a couple elderly aunts and very distant cousins, but that's it. We're not close." Her voice was very flat and even.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding genuinely distressed. "I did not mean to bring up a painful subject."

She blinked hard, several times. "No, it's ok. One of these days I'll get over it."

He reached across the table and touched her arm awkwardly in comfort. "One never really gets over it," he said grimly. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"Ms. Daae." She looked up. Dr. Martin looked gave her a faint, apprehensive twisted smile. "There is one more thing I wanted to discuss with you, before the trip. It's a…rather personal matter. No no, not with you, me," he said hastily, at her alarmed look.

She nodded slowly and he took a deep breath. "I'm sure you've noticed…this," he gestured uncomfortably toward his face, and she nodded again. "I wear a …facial prosthetic as my face is …injured, badly…from an accident." He swallowed. This was more difficult than he'd anticipated.

Christine set her fork down. "Go on," she said gently, and he nodded, his voice tired.

"I wear this one when I'm out in public…or like with you, tonight. But it has to be glued on, and it's rather uncomfortable…hot, and painful and itchy, after a while. When I'm here alone, I either don't wear it at all, or there is a special porous plastic mask I use. I think you saw it, once, when you first came out here with a delivery."

She nodded. "Yes, I remember that. It was white."

"Yes." Erik forced himself to breathe again. "If it wouldn't make you uncomfortable, I'd prefer to wear that one while we drive. I'll have to wear this during that Saturday for the meetings and concert, and I'd really rather not have to endure it three days in a row."

There, he'd said it, made himself vulnerable to this young woman he barely knew. His fist clenched tightly against his trouser leg under the table, and he looked up.

Her face was sympathetic. "That's fine…I don't mind. In fact, if you'd rather not wear it at all while we're in the car, it won't bother me."

"No!" She jumped and her eyes widened, and he made an effort to control his voice. "No…I'm sorry, but no. You will never see my face. It is…badly damaged, not pleasant at all to look upon. And painful…I need to keep it covered." He fought to keep his voice level, calm. She didn't know…how could she? Beneath the mask, his face was monstrous, distorted, ugly. And she would never need know. He spoke again. "But thank you…it was a kind thought."

He deliberately turned the conversation to other topics afterwards; music, the renovation of the Student Union basement, and changes in town since she'd last lived there. Dessert turned out to be homemade Crème brûlée with mixed berries on the side, and Christine expressed her appreciation.

"This is delicious. Here I was feeling pretty smug about my own cooking skills, but you've put me to shame. However did you caramelize the sugar?"

"Under the broiler," he admitted. "I had to watch it like a hawk. Burnt the first trial anyway," he said, and she laughed.

He declined her offer to help with the clean-up and escorted her to the porch. "Thank you for coming over and working out the details," he said. "I'm quite looking forward to this trip. I haven't been out of town quite some time."

Christine smiled up in to his dark eyes. "I enjoyed it. We'll have to do dinner again sometime."

"Yes. Goodnight, Ms Daae." She gave him another brilliant smile and was gone.

.

So…a bit more background here! Please do let me know what you think!

Next week…shopping and a road trip!

For this week's author spotlight, I'd like to send a shout-out to Wheel of Fish. Her story Unsung had me haunting my inbox for more updates, and her story-in-progress, The Ivory Tower, is certainly intriguing!