Trust Me

“Well, maybe it is in a way. I’m so worried about him, you see.”
    “About Stark?” Bess asked.
    “Just when I thought he was learning to trust other people,” Desdemona said, “this stupid mess with Dane McCallum had to happen.”
    Juliet frowned. “What in the world are you talking about?”
    “Stark feels responsible for what occurred at the Limelight.” Desdemona looked up from her tear-soaked napkin. “He thinks that he made a terrible mistake when he trusted McCallum. And he believes that I almost paid the price for his failure in judgment.”
    “Oh, dear,” Bess said.
    Desdemona wadded up the napkin. “This incident with McCallum has convinced Stark that he was right not to trust people, not to take chances. In the future, he’s going to be more emotionally cautious than ever.”
    Kirsten’s eyes widened. “Are you telling me that he doesn’t even trust you now?”
    “No, that’s not it. The real problem is that he doesn’t trust himself.”
    “What do you mean?” Bess said.
    Desdemona gazed at the crumpled napkin. “Don’t you see? He won’t really be free to love and let himself be loved until he learns to accept the fact that he has real human emotions and needs and that he can make mistakes.”
    “Are you telling us that you’ve finally realized he may not make a proper Wainwright after all?” Henry demanded.
    “I don’t know.” Desdemona gazed morosely down into her half-finished latte. “For years people have told Stark that he’s a human computer. I think he’s begun to believe it. Being a human computer is a nice, safe, invulnerable thing to be.”
    Kirsten looked thoughtful. “I think I see where you’re going with this.”
    Desdemona gave her a shaky smile. “Poor Stark. He knows he’s got a brain, and he knows that people respect him for it. But he doesn’t want to admit that he’s got emotions and feelings, too. Every time he’s allowed those emotions and feelings to influence him, he’s gotten burned.”
    Kirsten raised her latte. “I imagine that, to his way of thinking, the McCallum incident is just one more example of the foolhardiness of allowing himself to trust.”
    “Exactly,” Desdemona said. “He trusted McCallum, and look where it got him.”
    “You’re afraid that the McCallum situation undid all the work you’ve done to get Stark to become more human, aren’t you?” Kirsten asked gently.
    “Yes,” Desdemona gazed morosely out the window. “He’s a work in progress. Sort of like an ice carving that’s only partially completed. I can see the potential shape, but the outlines are still blurred and uneven.”
    “And cold?” Celia inquired softly.
    Desdemona recalled the frozen expression in Stark’s eyes. She shivered. “Yes.”
    Celia’s eyes were shadowed with concern. “Be honest, dear. This is no time to make a mistake. Your future happiness is on the line. Are you having second thoughts about going through with the wedding?”
    Bess scowled. “If you are, now is the time to get out.”
    Desdemona looked into the worried faces of her family and knew that Bess spoke the truth. Realization struck her with the force of a blinding spotlight.
    “Oh, my God,” Desdemona breathed in horror. “This must be what the other fiancees went through.”

    Stark contemplated his future father-in-law. Benedick was posed near the office window, the embodiment of old-fashioned paternal concern. It would have been amusing if Stark had not been in such a foul mood and if he had not had a strong suspicion that Benedick was not acting.
    “I won’t deny that I’ve had a few doubts about you right from the beginning, son,” Benedick said deliberately. “Always felt that my daughter should marry someone who was more like her than you appeared to be.”
    “Let me guess. You wanted Desdemona to marry someone with artistic sensibilities?” Stark asked very politely.
    “Not necessarily.” Benedick gazed out over Elliott Bay. “My only concern was that she be happy. I thought she would be happiest with a man whose nature was more akin to her own. A man who would be at ease with a woman of strong emotions and warmth of feeling. A man who was capable of similar emotions and feelings.”
    “Someone with the soul of a poet?” Stark suggested.
    “Well put.” Benedick appeared pleased. “Well put indeed.”
    Stark drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Someone who was from the theater world, perhaps?”
    “I won’t deny that I