The Mentor by Sebastian Stuart Page A

someone different—a mischievous little girl who cuts school to sneak into the movies. Maybe she isn’t a virgin after all. Maybe she could teach him a trick or two. Not that he makes a habit of being unfaithful to Anne. In the twelve years of their marriage, there’ve been maybe half a dozen times, all when he was on the road and the opportunity was just too ripe to pass up—Charles flashes on that grad student in San Antonio who knocked on his door at two in the morning with a bottle of wine in one hand and a gram of coke in the other. Christ, she was hot. In awe of him. Like Emma. Like Anne.
    “Did I get any interesting mail today?” he asks.
    “There was one, from a woman in Colorado.”
    “Yes?”
    “She wants to have your baby. She asked if you could send a specimen for in vitro fertilization.”
    “Believe it or not, I’ve had requests like that before. What did
I
tell her?”
    “You told her you couldn’t.”
    “Why not?”
    That wily smile plays at the corners of her mouth again, and a flattering blush rises in her cheeks.
    “Because … because you had a vasectomy five years ago.”
    “I beg your pardon?!”
    “You told me to use my discretion. I figured she couldn’t argue with … that.”
    He chuckles. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
    Emma takes too big a bite of her salad. She sits with her back straight and her legs pressed together—a strange hybrid of re-pressed librarian and runaway street kid. Would she make love like a librarian—or like a street kid?
    “Who
are
you? Tell me a secret,” Charles says.
    Emma reaches for a piece of bread, opens a tiny tub of butter, and methodically butters the bread. “I don’t have any. I’m not exactly the stuff of great fiction,” she says without looking up from her task.
    “Let me see.… Grew up in a suburb of Chicago. Father a geology professor, mother a second grade teacher … only child … testing yourself in Manhattan before you go back for your degree in psychiatric social work.”
    Emma laughs. It sounds forced. She’s so easy for him to rattle. He must remember that and be gentle with her. He imagines opening her blouse, lifting it off her shoulders.
    “Well, I am an only child,” she says.
    “And the rest?”
    “I had an uneventful childhood.”
    “There’s no such thing as an uneventful childhood.”
    “I grew up in western Pennsylvania. Nothing but cows and coalmines. I suppose you could say I’m here in New York to test myself. I’ve always been fascinated by the city. And here I am.”
    “Mom and Dad?”
    “Just Mom and Dad.”
    She pushes at her salad with her fork. Her shy evasions only increase his interest. They could knock off early one afternoon, have a few glasses of wine. He’d go slowly, never putting his pleasure before hers. Afterward she’d nestle her small body against his and they’d talk, share a sweet and tenuous intimacy. It could well develop into an affair. Just for a month or so, a month of sex and longing and solace.
    “I’ll tell you one thing, Mom never served mayonnaise with our french fries,” Emma says.
    “She didn’t know what she was missing.” He holds out the tray and she nibbles at a single fry.
    “I still prefer tartar sauce,” she says dryly.
    Charles smiles at her and she returns his smile. There’s a moment of silence, their eyes remain locked, and then she looks away.
    Suddenly Charles wonders about her stability. She seems almost to be trying on different aspects of her personality as if they’re hats and she isn’t sure which ones fit. And something in the tightness that sometimes creeps into her voice hints at a well-concealed rage. This girl could be trouble, might do something inappropriate. He could see her, strung out and pathetic, accosting Anne in front of the building. Bad news. Emma is terrific as a secretary, but potentially disastrous as a lover. It’s not worth the risk, not now. Just another distraction.
    Emma reaches up and