CHAPTER 12 FIRST STEPS

"Ese arroz esta cocido" – "That rice is cooked." Some people would describe their simmering attraction and inevitable love for each other like that…a forgone conclusion, destiny, fate. Whatever some people would call it, they had no name for it, they only knew they were in it. The rest of the world was a blur. That late winter/early spring when from the time Oliver got her from the train to their present moment, was an endless blur of them loving each other. Neither of them had felt like this in their lives. They were in their own small world. She and Oliver had talked through her scaling back responsibilities so that she could take that job at the college. New York University added Grace Farrell's name to their faculty roster. Oliver hired two secretaries to keep up with Grace's normal productivity. He hated the learning curve. They were nice enough, he honestly paid them very little attention, he was in such a distracted state all the time. She was teaching three days a week, all day long on those days. She had five separate classes of students, lectures, planning and work. It was so much work – even part-time. She was still learning the university job herself and trying to be productive at the estate. She and Oliver got to work together two days a week. He was always so happy when she came in. They caught each other alone as often as they could outside of the office and outside of work. They usually saw each other – alone – a few days a week. Definitely Friday nights, Saturdays and most of the time, Sundays. They both enjoyed the sweet tugging of want that her working – even part-time outside of the estate made them both feel. Oliver was an incurable romantic. She thought about this side of him that had been revealed to her – through his acts of thoughtfulness, with how loving and considerate he was, she reveled in the knowledge that he was such a sweet, romantic man. It all made perfect sense now to her. He had shut himself off from the world because if he couldn't have true love, he would have none at all. He – and SHE – had both been willing to be solitary rather than be with a false partner, or a loveless love. This made her love him even more – if that were possible. With every departure, they were made surer still of their love and attachment. She had found his lost love letter to her on her office chair after that pivotal Sunday night when they revealed their true feelings to each other. His letter made her very secure in the knowledge that he loved her the same way she loved him. In it, he had indeed poured himself out to her. One evening when they were out on a date, she showed him his letter and how she kept it with her, and how much she adored it. He was surprised. He suddenly realized that he had lost it. He had always just assumed that he had put it in his office. He told her: "Every word is true." He laughed a little, wondering aloud about the "what if" he had lost it elsewhere in the house. "What would they say? (imitating Mrs. Greer): "Oh, Mr. Warbucks is in love with Miss Farrell. Oooooooh.! Do tell!" They laughed about this. She absolutely adored this playful side of him. She said to him, smiling at him, playfully: "So, you did not mean to leave it on my chair? Where had you thought you put it?" He looked at her, with a conspiratorial grin, he said to her: "The next time we are at the estate, I shall show you the rest." She looked at him, puzzled, and asked: "The rest?" He smiled as he said: "Yes, the rest. I have written several. I have just never known how to tell you about them. Until now. The cat is out of the bag." She looked at him, lovingly, and told him: "You are the sweetest, most loving man, Oliver." He shook his head and said to her: "I am nothing special. I am an ordinary man who has fallen in love with a very extraordinary woman. I could no more stop myself from falling in love with you, Grace Farrell, than I could stop the rain from falling." He kissed her sweetly with these words, his hand lightly holding her wrist, his other touching her face. She kept his note on her at all times, usually tucked into a tiny pocket in her wallet. She would read it over and over again, wistfully running a finger over his signed name. His birthday had been in March – the nineteenth. He had turned forty-four. She had presented him with a handwritten birthday card, complete with her artwork on it. She had sketched the New York City skyline in ink. Her work was in Navy ink, the lines were so precise. There was a geometry in this picture on his birthday card that he had never seen in her work before. (Shortly after his birthday had passed, he had this card framed. From that time on, he always had it on is desk.) She gave him chocolates, and she had found him a beautiful leather wallet that she had engraved, stamped into the leather inside: "O.E.H." She also gave him a small wind-up train toy – commemorating how the train station evening had changed them. He was very touched by this. He told her: "I haven't had a soul celebrate my birthday in years….thank you, love…this is so wonderful. I love everything.." He was not lying – he had not celebrated his birthday in a long time. In previous years, before their love, he intentionally ignored his birthday and did absolutely nothing for it and would have been a grouch about it anyway. Back then, he would think to himself "the only birthday present I could possibly want is across the desk from me, damn it.", referring to Grace. But that was the past. He was living in the now, and she was his entire 'now'. They spent that time before the summer came getting to know each other, talking into the night, not 'talking' into the night. He did give her his love letters after showing them to her. They were compiled over the previous six months or so, all of them describing something that had happened, something she had said that made him laugh, he would tell her of how she looked that day. How the way she walked near him or away from him made him swoon. He used the word 'swoon' because he meant it, she made him weak. She made everything else fall out of focus. She had unwittingly helped to tear down some of the walls he had built. He found himself weak and vulnerable with regard to her, because he was head over heels in love, and he knew that love would win. One of his previously unsent letters, written to her in the months before they spoke at the train station, he had written to her: "Grace, Love wins. I am writing to you as my love, my confidant, my lover in fact – yet, we have not had a conversation about 'us'. Forgive me if you do not feel the same way. I think I feel love from you. I am not sure. You are loving and kind to everyone. It is hard for me to discern whether you are being kind to me the way you are with everyone else. I do not know. But here on this paper, I can tell you that I love you. I love everything about you today. You came in and made me smile – you brought me a pastry from the kitchen, and when you set it on my desk, you had a very loving look on your face, you smiled at me like nobody else. You were radiant. You are always radiant. Am I crazy? Do you feel it, too? I hope so. I miss you every moment – even if you are only across the hall. That is worse sometimes because I can barely keep my eyes off of you. Forgive me if I stare too long. I am in love with you, hopelessly. I am powerless. Yours forever, Oliver" That one made her get up from her seat and hug him very long and very tightly. She was so touched by his letters to her – in the before time – he was poetic and funny and all love in those letters. They became sacred to her. She kept them in her own locked box in her bedroom. She had started to give him little notes from her own heart. She would carefully slide an envelope across his desk toward him, as she placed his letters and correspondence and contracts to the side. Her envelope would simply be marked: "Oliver". He would smile at her, taking the letter from her. He would open it at his desk later in the morning, waiting for the right time when he was sufficiently left alone. He would read hers and write his back to her. He would seal it in an envelope, walk across the hall to her office and stand in her doorway. She would usually be looking at the door for him before he even arrived. She knew his walk, she knew his presence. He would politely hand her an envelope on which he had written simply: "Grace". They became very good at communicating through written word, finding that exchanging small notes or letters was a nice way to express themselves to each other during the workday, the week, any time that they couldn't speak openly. Mondays and Tuesdays were tough. They were surrounded by staff, they had to play catch-up from the week previous, she still had lessons to plan and schoolwork to do, he had a stack of letters, phones calls and other items to handle waiting on his desk. The letters from her to him at the office had started because one particular Monday was a veritable storm of bad news. He had been hit with phone calls and newspaper headlines regarding the economic catastrophe that seemed to know no end in the U.S. in 1932. On his desk were various letters of inquiry from various businesses of his that had shut down, due to the economic strangle hold that the Depression had on the average person who was not a billionaire, or the average person who was not a Bryn Mawr debutante college graduate with money. It was lost on neither of them just how serious the economic situation was. Aside from inside information regarding his businesses and the economic climate and forecast, the media, his colleagues who had lost everything but their shirts – Oliver knew from his own dealings, stocks, and accounts that they were all in for a rough ride. He was stoic – hold fast!, and diversified. Poverty and trauma that goes with it were never far from his mind. He would talk to her about it, his fears and his worries. He worried about the populace at large, but after having sat on two board meeting for the New York Board of Orphans, they both knew just how dire their help was needed in regard to people who essentially had no rights – kids who were vulnerable and even suffering. Oliver inquired about how it all worked, that is, he asked Mr. Donatelli that question. He asked him how did the board know the statuses of the orphanages and which ones were the most in need? Were there orphanages that had infrastructure issues that he could immediately fix? Infrastructure as in furnace, or water heater, or windows, general repairs – that sort of thing. Oliver had a plan to put his own money into the New York Board of Orphans in the form of doing that kind of work, but also, in doing so, employing local people for the work. His angle was to always create good jobs – not hours wasted for pennies, but good wages. Oliver was quietly generous to anyone he employed. Unemployment in the United States that year was nearing 23 percent. Joblessness, homelessness, orphanages and foster care over utilized and overcrowded because of parents seeking work elsewhere, parents abandoning their children and a ton of other reasons so many kids would be in the system, as compared to before the stock market crash of 1929. During that morning, after a little dust had settled, Grace put a small note in front of him. From her. It read: "Oliver, darling, I know you are upset with the events taking place in the world right now. While I would caution you to not take on the entire world's problems – which you are incredibly good at doing, I want you to know that I believe in you, I know that your heart is pure. Rest in the knowledge that you have someone at your side, fighting the good fight with you. You are not alone in this. We can make a good difference. Never fear. I am proud of you. I love you. – Grace" This kind of thoughtful note put wind under his feathers. He would smile and read her note several times, keeping it open on his desk all day. He would quietly walk over to her office later, tip his head into her doorway and say softly: "Thank you. ..and, you are right…we can make a good difference." He smiled at her. His arms were stretched up in her doorway as he held onto the doorframe. She looked at his body as he stretched, his jacket revealing his form. He was simply delicious to her, she was lost in thoughts of him. The power of notes and love and communication were amping up their relationship every moment.

Sometimes, he would personally drive her to the campus early so that they would have more time together. He would walk her to the door to the College building where she taught. He would tuck into a secluded corner with her, kiss her passionately, her hands finding his waist. As they departed for the few days, he would produce a note, neatly folded and tied with a red satin ribbon. Or, he would send her flowers – to her office, signing them " Tu me manques. Je t'aime. O.", which means "I miss you, I love you." She taught in the Spring and Summer session of 1932. She had procured a very small studio off campus that enabled her to walk to her classes. She was the only female math instructor, and one of three female professors. There were times when she was the only woman in the room, amongst older, male scholars who harbored resentment about women infiltrating their hallowed halls. She was used to handling men in the public and professional setting, she was well-equipped from her experience with both her family's business, and her job at the estate, to handle men who thought they were smarter than her and that she was just there on looks. They found out very early into her first semester teaching that she was not only smart, but competent beyond reproach in her area of study. She knew statistics and with it, she brought an excitement about bell-curves and empirical rules, she was able to teach in such a way that her students not only got the concepts and components of formulas clearly, but her excitement about math inspired them to be more involved. Her students' grades were exceptional, and she was reviewed very favorably. The Dean was suspicious that perhaps this was all too good to be true, thinking that she was marking her students less rigorously. He stopped in her office one late afternoon on a Friday and asked to see her latest statistics exam. Grace smiled at the Dean. His name was Dean Thomas Kenworthy. He was an experienced scholar and educator, he was in charge of the mathematics department, and he considered every square inch of the university his domain. He had been voted against in his bid to NOT hire her. His reasoning was archaeic: "She is not going to be able to reach these young men in her class. They are going to be all distracted by her looks and her legs." His remarks were met with scoffs and a gasp from the other professors in attendance. One of them, an English professor a few decades younger than Kenworthy said, as he cast his vote FOR hiring her: "I personally would love to see her looks and legs teach a stats class this year. I say we hire her. She is more than qualified." He was grinning at Kenworthy who was steaming mad. Now, Kenworthy was in her office, asking for her exams and taking a good hard look at her curriculum.

She said: "Oh, yes. I have some graded exams, would you like to see them, Sir?"

She handed him several from her desk. He took them and said "I am sorry to bother you like this, Miss Farrell, but I want to make sure that your exams are properly challenging." He accepted the exams. Unaffected, she was confident in her curriculum and her materials, she was not at all offended or taken aback. She was puzzled, though, because Kenworthy must have seen her instruction plan for the semester well before the first exam took place.

As the Dean looked at some of her students' work from her most recent exams, he saw the formulas, and hand-written work that they attached, as per her requirements. "Show your work." Her exams were a challenge to even the most confident math students in her classes. Those students were getting 'As', but it was no cakewalk. She was certainly not giving her students less than the education they deserved, and she was confident in her work, her plan for the semester, and was about to show the Dean her syllabus and instructional goals for the semester. As she handed him two neatly organized

files, she said to him very directly: "I would have thought you'd seen this before." She was pleasant and neutral as she said this, implying that perhaps it was an oversight. Kenworthy looked at her files very briefly and shrugged. With this, he handed back her files, and said: "Miss Farrell, I do not need to see your semester plan, and I am sorry to have bothered you with this. I see that you are quite serious in your work.." he hesitated, and continued: "I .. thought…that your classes grades were….too good to be true…..I have not seen such a high percentage of 'A' work in that stats class in many years.

I have to say, Miss Farrell, I am impressed." The older man smiled cautiously at her, and she thanked him for taking the time to talk to her. "Always the diplomat…" she thought to herself. The fact was that Dean Kenworthy was suspicious of her teaching acumen because of the simple fact that she was a woman. He had a hard time believing that she was as competent as she seemed. He was a sixty-eight-year-old Dean of Mathematics at a historically male-dominated university. The Dean was born in 1864, and he was mystified by the very presence of Grace Farrell. It was beyond his reasoning as to why she was involved in math at all, and why she was not married and having someone's babies, and

staying the hell out of a man's world. He did, however, come around. He would sit in on her lectures, and he saw what her students saw: Grace.

Like the vast majority of her students, the Dean saw how she engaged her classes in her lectures. She was able to illustrate with no confusion all of her concepts, she would write formulas on the board and would explain each and every element. Very early on, she implored her classes to take copious notes. She told them to "Arm yourself with information. Class: If I am writing this information on the board, YOU should be copying it, and asking questions if you have them. Please, do not be shy. We are all here to learn." By including herself as a cohort to her classes, she softened the line of intimidation that a lot of students feel toward a college professor. Like she was at the estate, Grace was approachable. Her accessibility was part of the reason that her students were doing well, they were "all in" with her class. She explained to some of the women in her classes that it was even more important for them to really do well, understand the concepts and formulas, and get the to the "why" of mathematical formulas and methodology. She wanted them to be empowered the way she was. She knew what a rare concept that was to the world, but not to women themselves. Women have been in the workforce and in academia for centuries. Grace knew she was very fortunate, and she wanted to pay it forward. She was an advocate for her students of any gender, but when she had the young woman aspiring to be a scientist or a nurse or a doctor – even a humble teacher like her – she was on notice. On notice to be sure of their successful learning, knowing that their real success would be in their ability to take her exams. She set her first exam in two parts. It was a two-day, proctored exam: each day, students had two and a half hours to sit in her lecture hall and do their best. She allowed notes, she allowed formulas and she allowed blank paper, pencils, slide rules and any tool for doing the actual work. However, students were not allowed to speak to one another at all – you could hear a pin drop in her lecture hall. The exam was proctored – two professors walking the aisles and looking over shoulders. Her classes and exams were not easy. The exams were nerve-wracking just by their settings. Her first test about confidence intervals, means, standard deviations, data processing and interpretation was nothing but work. If a student was vigilant and took all of her notes, did the homework and studied the concepts, asked questions and paid attention, they would do very well, but would do well only by working for the entire two and a half hours. Work they did, their written formulas, calculations and notes put to paper by them during the exam was a part of the requirement for her. She checked their work, graded exams with real feedback. She would review the exam the very next week, talking to them respectfully and letting them know that her job was to teach them. She humanized herself to them, and it motivated them. Her goal was to impart the knowledge and passion for math that she had, and, she knew that not every student in her classes was into math. A lot of her students were getting through it because it was required for their degree. She was not naïve, but, she was honestly invested in imparting real knowledge and skill to her students. She worked with all of her heart to make this happen. A lot of the time, on the days she was on campus, she had several of her students sitting in the ante room of her office, waiting to have a conference with her, wanting to ask her questions about a concept, or just get her help. She often had to come out to the waiting area and ask them a common question, like: "Is anyone else here to ask about sample and population standard deviation calculations?" A few hands would go up and she would corral them into her office and have an impromptu teaching session. "Take notes! Practice these…." And she would quickly give those students needing extra time with a concept some navigable problems to practice, and then she would actually follow through. She would remember each student's name and she would follow up with them, ask about their work, review it and do it all over again until they got it. If her student was doing the work, trying to understand, she would do whatever it took to help them learn. Math was natural for her. Like walking. It was just how her brain worked. Math and mechanics, and art and music. Spatial concepts, artistic practice in sketches, and watercolors – Oliver had not yet seen any of her painting… textiles, simplicity, inclusion, decency, always love. Those were facets of Grace. She was doing well at the University. She was a success. Her Dean had warmed toward her. He colleagues respected her – she was her usual self at meetings with them, however, it was almost unfair to them because Grace's business acumen and exposure to all of the entities, people, places and things in her work history with her father's business and with the Warbucks Estate, and Warbucks Industries had made her a top-tier professional – she came prepared with notes, facts, and input. She was smart enough to stay in her lane, but she was on point, involved and knew her subject matter and her cohort. Grace was a force. Grace was a success. Grace was also starting to feel exhausted. She loved her work both at the estate, and the university. Her romance with Oliver had been such loving fun – she felt like she had a secret boyfriend on weekends. He was as involved with loving her as he ever was in loving his empire. Grace was always astounded by him – when she thought he could not be more romantic, he was. On a Friday afternoon, he showed up in the group outside her office, waiting for a conference with her. Normally, he would have been waiting for her at the curb, standing by his car. He had seated himself by the far wall. She had picked up his scent, but she thought her brain was playing tricks on her. When she went out to get another student, she saw him. She blushed and smiled. He beamed back at her, holding a bouquet of petite roses. He waited for thirty minutes, listening intently as she spoke with the students. He had never taken a class like hers; his math skills were high school and business – very basic business math. He hired accountants for the heavy lifting, and he knew that someone like Grace was rare. She had a gift. She was a gift. He was always so impressed with her brains, and now, he was seeing her at work. It made him proud of her. He was even more enamored and turned on by her. He loved how she was in control of her world at the university.

Finally, he was the last 'student' in her waiting area. As her other students filtered out, she stood in the doorway of her office and smiled at him. She said: "Is there a math concept I can help you with, Sir?" He got up and walked toward her. He said: "I have a math concept that involves kissing you repeatedly." He gently walked her back into her office and closed the door behind them. They were barely in the room, and they were locked in each other's arms. He kissed her passionately, repeatedly and all over. She could not get enough of him. Finally, he gave her the roses. "These are for you, love. I thought they were lovely and that you should have them." She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him again. "Thank you…they are beautiful. I love them. And you." He took her out to dinner from there, they talked and caught up. He told her how he missed her. She got lost in his eyes, telling him that she ached for him all the time. It was true. This was how they felt. Love was in power. Love won. It ruled Oliver and Grace that season and made them burn their candle at both ends for several months. They couldn't have been happier.