Free Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) by P.G. Lengsfelder

blustered, then quickly swallowed my laughter. But I knew he was right and I appreciated his support. I just didn’t know how to get there. Or how I could afford it.
    “Just saying,” he whispered. “You have a gift.”
    “You mean,” I said, waving my hands above my head and flaring my eyes in mock wonder, “the stuff of myths and legends, like a vardøger , some magic spirit?”
    Hurt pinned back his eyes and mouth. That was unfair of me. I didn’t know where that came from; he was merely trying to be kind and supportive. I changed the subject. “What about you? You’re always gathering information.”
    “I’m not systematic.” He said it like a little boy begging to be understood.
    “You don’t go out. You’re happy to read your Dickens.” A piece of me was prodding him to change.
    “He’s taught me all I need to know about out there. Taught me so much.”
    “About?”
    He thought for a moment. “About not looking away, not at the precious things.” He bowed to me. I knew then that he would never hurt me. As if again he’d read my mind, he continued. “Forgive me now for all the foolish things I will do in our relationship.”
    I inhaled his love, completely. “You’re forgiven.” Could I really be so indulgent?
    He bent ever so slightly to me, then glanced at the clock and said no more. He returned to his page. His hands didn’t caress the words the way they usually did; they were restless on the page. I went back to my textbook. A cool current passed between us. He wanted my advice, or something more, but didn’t ask. Would that come in time? Would it depend on my answer?
    ***
    I devised a test for myself and for Harold. Could he live in a city? Could I give up my work for him? And if I did, would he join me in nature?
    “I want you to come with me.” I rubbed his shoulders. I really wanted this to work.
    “Where?”
    “The afternoon in Itasca State Park.”
    “Ah, no.” He was anchored to the chair with a book in his lap.
    “It’s beautiful down there.”
    “Yes, I’m sure it is. What’s this all about?”
    “A geneticist at Stanford replaced myth with science —using fish skin!” Even thinking about it excited me.
    “Huh?”
    “He and his colleagues proved being blonde was a controllable genetic variation .”
    “Could be the end of blonde jokes.”
    “Could be. The same gene in the fish controls pigmentation in humans.”
    “I guess that gives you hope.”
    “More than hope. I’m on the right track. Don’t you see?” I coaxed him to let go of the book. “If I can isolate the ideal facial traits, controls for those DNA traits will be available within a few years.”
    “Creating a master race.”
    I scowled. “No, just a healthy start; a master face . Variations will naturally follow. Anyhow, can we talk about it down there?
    “No.”
    “If not Itasca, someplace outside? How about Little Bass Stump? That’s closer.”
    “Why so mysterious? What does this have to do with me?”
    “Do you trust me?”
    “Of course, but—”
    “Then please put that darn book down and come with me.”
    ***
    In the car I laid my scrapbook of celebrity faces in his lap, and I drove. Might as well be efficient. A captive audience.
    “What’s this?” His exasperation not well hidden.
    “Clippings from Momma’s magazines. Remember when I mentioned attraction to healthy genes? The research that posits that people are attractive because they look healthy to others, like they’d create healthy offspring?”
    “Don’t remember, you’ve got so much of this stuff.”
    “Look at them.” Decades of beauty: Redford, Newman, Cruise, Diggs, Clooney, Deere, Pitt, Bardot, Derek, Locklear, Lawrence, Berry, and more. “Look closely. Are they all healthy looking and therefore beautiful?”
    “I guess so.” He closed the scrapbook.
    “No, please look. Which ones are and which ones are not? And why? Like if you wanted to have healthy babies with them.”
    “I want to have a healthy baby