Ignoring her daughter's obvious discomfort, Mrs. Martinetta asked, "Do you like Italian food?"

"Say yes," several of the family said in unison.

"Just say yes." Angel had an air of resigned ac¬ceptance.

"I love Italian food," Rett said. "Give me a spignotti e aglio or pollodora scallopine and I'm in heaven."

Mrs. Martinetta glowed with satisfaction.

Angel was looking studiously at her plate. "It would seem you're coming to dinner."

"Yes, I think it's a date."

Angel turned to her in a panic. "Don't use that word. We'll be married between the tiramisu and the coffee."

Rett opened her mouth to ask for clarification but Mrs. Martinetta sighed loudly, looked at her eldest daughter and observed that Angel was her only child not yet settled down. Someday, maybe she would be

lucky enough to know that all her children were happy. Angel's siblings snickered.

"Okay, I understand." Rett gave Angel a long, direct look, then said loudly enough to be overheard, "It's a date, then."

"You shit," Angel had muttered, but her lips had twitched.

It was a date. Meeting the whole family officially on their first date — Rett had sung to herself all the way home and awakened on Monday morning with a smile. She'd showered and dressed, grabbed the packet of reunion materials to read, finally, and headed for the nearest waffle restaurant. After that she had promised herself a long walk and at least an hour of practice. The Wiffenpoofs were going to do several selections at the reunion dance on Saturday night. A practice session was set for Wednesday at lunchtime. If she wanted to keep her voice in flex she needed a good practice.

She read every word about Angel in the materials, but the few short paragraphs only whetted her appetite. Angel's undergraduate biochemistry degree from Cal Poly had been followed by an M.D./Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins. Education alone accounted for nearly twelve of the past twenty-three years. After her medical residency, she'd gone on to be an investigator on the Human Genome Project, whatever that was. Then the short bio stated she'd been awarded the National Science Award for leading a team of UCLA researchers who had isolated the genetic sequence that created a predisposition for ovarian cancer.

Rett had nothing else to do with her time and any excuse to avoid seeing her mother was a welcome one.

Minnesotans had always prided themselves on their public library and school systems. With a phone call she discovered that the nearest library did indeed have Internet search engines available.

A search for "Martinetta, Angelica" had returned over a hundred hits. Twenty or so were from UCLA's Web site, another twenty from CNN news articles and the rest from other university and medical research sites. Rett scrolled down until she found a CNN article about the most recent National Science Award. The article was too sketchy to be of much help in understanding Angel the scientist or the woman, but it gave her a link to the Journal of the National Cancer Institute, which had published the paper that had led to the award.

She followed that link and found she had to subscribe to read the paper. She went back to the original hits and finally found her way to UCLA bios of some of its professors and even discovered a head shot of Angel. She cursed herself for not thinking of going to UCLA's Web site a couple of months ago, but the path to the pictures was a long and involved one that she probably wouldn't have known to follow. She gazed at the posed photograph. Angel looked so serious and so damned intelligent.

That was when her stomach first felt a chill. Then she found the Web site for the Human Genome Project. It was a modest undertaking — an inter¬national team of researchers were just trying to create a map of the three billion genetic pieces that made up the human body. Angel had done a stint there and Rett was now reading a paper she'd written during that experience.

When Rett looked at skin she saw color and

texture. What must Angel see? Pairs of banded chromosomes, DNA coiled in double helix strands? What was it Angel had said that first night? That everything a person could be was already written on her genes. Thirty billion gene markers made up one human body. Thirty billion pieces of information to understand a single human being. The scope daunted Rett, but apparently Angel thrived on the challenge of mapping the essence of humanity. Angel was trying to understand the blueprint of human existence, what some people might call the mind of God.

Endonuclease proteins . . .

Rett swallowed hard and fought down a feeling of panic. The fragile woman's body she had held in her arms, with thighs of silk and fingers of pure magic — that small, passionate creature had a mind that could understand the universe's most secret workings.

Recombinant DNA . . . genomic sequence . . . autonomously replicating, extrachromosomal circular DNA molecules ...

It was terrifying. What would they talk about on long winter nights that Rett could possibly com¬prehend? Every science class had been a struggle for her. She'd never taken math beyond simple geometry. Angel was a medical doctor, too. She probably under¬stood how vocal cords worked better than Rett did.

How does anyone compete with the universe?

The sequence-tagged sites were compared to the full genome duplication in the daughter cells .. . Rapid and highly specific amplification was achieved by successive rounds of primer annealing, strand elongation and dis¬sociation.

She closed the document window, packed up her things and bolted for the car.

She had no energy for anything as adventurous as a walk. Her thoughts turned in circles as she wound aimlessly through the area surrounding the motel several times. She walked until her sandals rubbed a blister on one ankle. She hadn't thought to change to walking shoes. She limped back to the motel and found it mostly deserted — it was already eleven, checkout time for most people.

She would forget all about Angel for a while if she practiced. Of course she would. She plugged in the Casio keyboard, played her Mozart fanfare and concen¬trated.

Feel your feet on the carpet. Feel the carpet on the floor. Feel the blister you shouldn't have gotten —

Damn.

Breathe in, breathe out. Her lungs obeyed and she vocalized middle C, holding it. Full voice, half voice, a whisper. There. She hadn't thought once about Ang —

Damn, damn, damn!

Screw note practice, then. She played the opening chord for "She Believed in Me" and found herself humming "Angel of the Morning" instead.

She wanted to heave the keyboard against the nearest wall.

She threw herself on the bed instead and stared at the ceiling. Just deal with it, she told herself. Okay, the woman is a certified genius. But she's a woman,

just like you. She obviously finds you physically attractive — yeah, but there has to be more than that.

Good God, she thought, her friends will think I'm the empty-headed bimbo Angel keeps around for relaxation.

She rolled on her side. Don't do this to yourself, she scolded. That's just your mother talking. You are not a bimbo. You are not a lightweight. So you don't know a genome from a gerbil — what the hell difference does that make? It's probably a fact that not one of Angel's friends knows every word to "American Pie" and can sing the entire song on pitch a capella. Maybe they have stared the mysteries of the universe in the face, but they have probably never cradled a couple of hundred people in the warmth of their voice and felt that warmth come back as applause and cheers.

Maybe they would find a way to help millions of people live longer, pain-free lives. Give me a little more time, she thought, and I'll make millions pause in their daily grind and I'll give them a reason to smile, to let music lift them up for a minute or two.

There's nothing lightweight about that, she repeated. Just let go of your inferiority complex and let go of it now. Art is not more pure than science and science is not more worthy than art. Art is why people want to live and the desire to live is why Angel is trying to cure cancer.

You need each other. So there.

She sang the crap out of "American Pie" just for good measure.

* * * * *

Denton's Diner had always served awesome sand¬wiches. Walked and sung out, she tossed a swimsuit and towel into the car and headed for Woton for a late lunch. After that, any beach was on her menu. A little time in the sun wouldn't hurt her. This was a vacation, after all.