A. Colucci - Seeders

“Of course it’s your personality that’s the problem. Zero confidence.” She slid off the desk, fell onto the bed, and watched him deflate. “Oh, it’s not your fault. That kind of thing is genetic. Although, I can’t even believe Colin is your dad, he’s like your opposite.”

Luke suddenly wanted her out of the room. He started taking apart the computer with the screwdriver, banging the plastic and making a lot of noise, hoping she’d leave.

Monica stretched on the bed like a cat. “Colin’s a good guy.”

“Not always.” He snuck a glance in her direction. She was doing it again, stroking her flat stomach and gazing at the ceiling. Why did he keep trying? She was obviously a tease and there was no hope of winning her over. He had been trying every day and now he was angry. He threw the screwdriver on the desk and stared at the wall. “Don’t you think it’s weird that my dad invited you to stay with us? Just asked some stranger off the street to live with him?”

“Colin isn’t a stranger. I’ve known him for years. When my mom got busted he didn’t dump me on CPS. He’s like a father figure.”

Luke’s face burned hot, and he muttered, “What, are you screwing him or something?”

There was a flutter of movement, and then a slap hit his face like a wet towel.

“ Oww, ” he said and held his cheek.

Monica stood over him. Her eyes were moist, but there was only rage in her expression. “I told you, he’s like my dad, you idiot! I don’t screw anyone, you piece of shit. I have a boyfriend for your information.”

She fell back on the bed, turning to the wall and wiping her eyes.

“Sorry.” Luke tossed a box of tissues.

“Forget it.” She kicked the box with her foot.

They didn’t speak for a long moment, and then calmness came over her body. She sniffed. “You really think I’m pretty?”

Muffled shouts of anger came from the living room and Luke bolted for the door.

Colin stood over Isabelle with a dark expression and threw out his arms. “Sure, look at you! Can’t walk a few blocks for cigars, but you want to fly off to some island for a month.”

“Two weeks,” she shouted back.

Luke stepped between his parents, with Monica several paces behind. “What’s going on?”

Isabelle wiped her eyes and Colin backed off. The sight of Luke had a neutralizing effect on both of them.

Isabelle sniffed. “My father passed away.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“He lived on an island, remember?”

“No.”

“Well, he left it to me in his will. And I’ve decided we’re going there for a vacation.”

“ You decided,” Colin said.

“It will do us all good. You can come too, Monica.”

“Whatever.”

“You coming, Dad?”

“No, I’m not. But, hey—go ahead, all of you. Take the kids, since I won’t be around. I’ll be doing my job, paying the bills. No need to include me in the discussion.”

“It’s only a couple of weeks.”

“That’s not the point! You didn’t ask me. You just told that lawyer what you want to do, without an ounce of respect to me. He thought I was some jerk.” He paced the floor and stopped in front of Isabelle. “Don’t ever talk to me like that!”

“I can think for myself.”

Colin grabbed her shoulders.

Sean had been silently watching from the couch, but now he sprang forward and ran headfirst into his father’s chest.

Colin stumbled over a potted fern. Anger seized him as he recovered his balance and grabbed the boy by a fistful of shirt. “Cut it out, you freak!”

Sean struggled to get loose.

His father backhanded him across the face.

“Stop it!” Isabelle shouted.

Colin looked shocked. He’d never hit any of his children before, never had to.

“Hey, leave him alone, Dad,” Luke said.

Colin let go and Sean fell to the floor. He crawled backward and scurried like a crab to a chair. He climbed up on the cushion.

“Yeah. Okay,” Colin said. His dazed expression vanished and he went tight-lipped to the dining room table. “Go ahead and take your vacation. All of you. I don’t care.” He slumped in a chair. “Stay as long as you want.”

There was a red welt across Sean’s face, but he seemed to be okay. He was reading the book again. Isabelle knew that any criticism now would only make things worse, so she joined Colin in the dining room.

“Let’s not make a fuss,” she said in a small voice, to no one in particular. “We’ll just enjoy our dinner.” She sat at the table and picked up the bowl of string beans.

Luke said, “I’m not really hungry.”

“Me neither,” Monica echoed.

“Great.” Colin stabbed his beans. “Well, I’m eating.”

The teens walked down the hall and parted at their bedrooms.

Isabelle held her breath and spoke softly without looking at her husband. “I was thinking, you could join us on the island for a couple days, maybe on the weekend before we leave.”

Colin didn’t answer, but took a bite of meat. He looked up from his dinner plate. “I’m sorry, Sean, okay? Come eat dinner.”

The boy kept reading.

“ Now, Sean.”

Sean looked up from the book and Isabelle gave a small nod. He joined them at the table and they began the meal in silence.

Isabelle swept her foot over to Sean, tugged at his sock.

He smiled and toed her back.

DR. JULES BEECHER GAZED AROUND the Garden Terrace Room of the New York Botanical Garden, nervously drumming his fingers on the crisp white tablecloth. The Institute of Plant Neurobiology was counting on him to raise some serious money. They had arranged the dinner at an expensive venue, inviting two hundred reporters and prominent scientists in the hopes of elevating their status and generating more funds.

The principles of plant neurobiology had long been considered on the fringes of acceptable science and largely ignored by the press. However, the last ten years had revealed some astonishing facts about plant signaling abilities. Most recent was a groundbreaking experiment undertaken by Jules and his team that produced such remarkable data it caught the attention of the public, and therefore the media.

Quite simply, Jules had discovered that plants could—in their own way— talk .

Still, he felt ill at ease with the eleven men and women sitting around the spacious table eating salad from expensive china. They weren’t the usual crowd he knew from scientific journals. This was the mainstream press, reporters from National Geographic, Smithsonian, Discover, Wired, Newsweek, The Washington Post, The New York Times Magazine . Most were nicely dressed and courteous, except for the scruffy-looking man from National Enquirer sporting a Mets T-shirt, beard stubble, and a serious attitude. Already he’d complained about the air-conditioning, lighting, and music. Jules didn’t know how a gossip columnist had wormed his way into the mix, but he didn’t care. There was no doubt this group on the whole could garner the coverage needed by the institute. They had all come to see a forty-five-minute documentary that accompanied his paper titled “The Underground Communication System of Environmental Stress Cues in Plants.”

Edward Schroeder, director of the institute, had seated Jules with the national press because he was fairly good at making technical jargon sound understandable and interesting. Also, Jules was British, an Oxford scholar, and he felt that might give the event an international flair and convey a sort of credibility.

Nonetheless, Jules felt awkward among his guests, like a somber giant at a table of lively school kids. He was abnormally tall, six foot eight in loafers, and his shoulders stooped from years of bending down to converse with colleagues. But he had a striking face: sharply chiseled features of his Anglo-Saxon ancestors and haunting amber-colored eyes that blinked a mixture of melancholy and intellect. His straight black hair was long and unruly, giving him a laid-back appearance and he had a warm smile that made people like him.