Pictures of the Past by Deby Eisenberg Page A

that wasn’t at first sight, was slowly and carefully nurtured.
    It was her last semester of college. It was his last class to teach as a graduate student, prior to receiving his MBA. Sometimes he found it exasperating. “Accounting for Non-Business Majors.” Yes, he was teaching bright students, but they were generally in the literary and fine arts sectors. This class was for the layperson— regarding how to really exist financially. In other words, if you finally landed a role in a Broadway play, wrote a screenplay, or sold a painting, how should you successfully handle that first windfall, in case there were bleak times ahead? He always thought he should walk in the classroom the first day and simply say, “I have three words for you—hire an accountant,” and then not show until the final exam where he would hand out papers that ask—"what are the three words that sum up the class?” You would get an A if you wrote “hire an accountant.” But, of course, he couldn’t do that. That would be condescending, and even a little mean, two qualities that did not define Richard Stone.
    And since he was teaching this course almost by rote after having taught two classes for each of the previous three semesters, Richard was quite caught off guard by this young woman in the front seat, right aisle. Oh, he was familiar with beauties. NYU was, after all, a premier school for the budding actors and actresses of the time. But most of the girls, especially, were thin little waifs who acted like they wanted to be anywhere else but in his class. And he was used to rejection by beauties. In fact, he was recovering from a major setback in the romance department. A girl, Sharon Lee Stein, who he had dated for two years, who seemed to like his quirky humor, his just-above-nerdy looks, his Wall Street potential, left him (with a ring in his pocket) for another man.
    So now he was completely surprised by this enchanting young woman in the front row, staring at him with eager eyes (for his knowledge). For Richard Stone, the feeling was as if he had been hit by a car. It was that rush of anxiety that overpowers you when you see it coming, the deep thud inside upon impact, and then the relief that you have survived, and that you will be OK. But in cases of love, there is the potential that you might even be better than ever.
    Later, as his mesmerized state abated, he began to analyze her powerful attraction. She was beautiful, young, and radiant looking, yet it was evident she had a certain maturity to her. And he kept feeling he might have recognized a slight vulnerability behind that self-assured façade. Whatever her story was, he knew he wanted to be part of it. He set his goal to attain Rachel and he knew he would structure a plan as he would any project for his graduate degree. Soon Richard would have his MBA from the university and he had already accepted an offer from the financial analysis department of the Goldman Brown Trust.
    In class, he tried to be professional, tried not to look at her too much. But it was almost impossible. The thick waves of her hair, her large, inquisitive brown eyes, the way her sweaters clung to the beautiful curve of her breasts, made it a challenge to concentrate. Eventually, he tried to think of teaching just for her (without looking at her), as the eccentric student mix went in many distracted directions and only Rachel seemed to be responsive and to soak in his lesson. In a sense, the class reminded him of the years he spent teaching junior high math, while awaiting his draft status. They were not the preteen gum chewers and letter passers, but the actors were “acting out,” whispering about tryouts and rehearsals, the dancers were stretching legs and pointing toes, and the artists were doodling or sketching instead of taking notes.
    Finally after the first month, Rachel, to his amazement, actually stopped Richard on the street to talk to him. “I don’t know how you do it—I mean teach