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No. He'd already worked past the time he normally returned home. He couldn't keep Gillian waiting any longer. Besides, Rebecca wasn't going anywhere.
He hurried through the dim corridors, lit only by the muted glow of after-hours safety lights. Slashing his keycard through a scanner, he passed from the lab section of the complex into the residential area. The hallway transformed into a ten-foot wide boulevard paved in green and blue terrazzo. The sky-colored ceiling receded, adding to the sense of openness, and he paused just long enough to take a deep breath.
The day's frustrations dropped away. He was almost home. He brushed through the bank of ferns screening an intersecting passageway, and opened the access door at the end of the hallway.
He sped up the stairs, two flights made of terrazzo, then another flight of wood as he ascended through the old farmhouse. One last scanner waited, opposite the blacked-out window. He triggered the lock, and stepped inside.
Gillian sat on the hardwood floor of the living room, her Little Mermaid coloring book and chunky crayons spread around her. She dropped her blue crayon with a happy squeal and launched herself across the room with the wild abandon of any three year old.
"Daddy!"
Sweeping her up in his arms, he spun her around while she giggled happily. He pressed his cheek to her thick black hair, savoring the moment, and smelled only crayons and paint. No lingering scent of vaporizer or sick room clung to her soft curls. Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he smiled down on her.
With her ravaged immune system, the slightest cold became a crisis. Every day without symptoms was a minor victory against her illness. Winning battles, but losing the war. Unless Rebecca could help her.
He forced away the fear that Rebecca would prove no more successful than previous donors, and turned to his housekeeper. Mrs. Waters commanded the room from the center of the white sofa, a pile of knitting in her lap.
"She was a perfect angel today, Mr. Lacroix," Mrs. Waters reassured him, her steel knitting needles flashing in and out of the pink worsted wool. Another sweater for Gillian, no doubt. Mrs. Waters clung to the touching belief that if Gillian could just be kept warm enough, she wouldn't fall sick again.
"I'm sorry you had to stay late."
"Your secretary called to warn me. I took dinner out of the oven and put it in the fridge so it wouldn't spoil. I can warm it up now if you like."
"You go on home. Your husband must be missing you."
"Not my Robert. He'll still be at his microscope and his test tubes." But she gathered up her yarn, ruffling Gillian's hair before she left.
Desmond put his daughter down.
"Do you know what Mrs. Waters made for dinner?"
"Sanna!" She shouted her term for lasagna and raced to the kitchen. Judging by her enthusiasm, she'd helped prepare it. She was growing into such an accomplished little lady. He only hoped she'd be given the opportunity to continue to grow.
AFTER DINNER, they played blocks, Desmond stacking the colored cubes under his daughter's strict direction. Then it was time for her bedtime story, and he lost himself in her enjoyment of the nightly ritual. Gillian drifted off just as Winnie-the-Pooh was setting out on the trail of the mysterious Heffalump, and Desmond marked the page for tomorrow. He tucked her in, brushed a kiss across her forehead and turned out the light.
For a long while, he just stood in the doorway watching her sleep. She was so small, so helpless. It was only a matter of time, unless he found an answer to the curse. Or once again, he would watch helplessly as someone he loved died.
He tried to distract himself with a book, but found himself staring at the page while letters chased each other in nonsensical patterns. The Jules Verne classic was one of his favorites, but Vingt Mille Lieues Sous Les Mers held no interest for him tonight.
A tap on the front door roused him from his bleak reverie. He hurried to answer, eager to put aside his depressing thoughts.
Philippe stood on the doorstep, his black leather jacket, black driving gloves, and mirrored sunglasses a stark contrast to the floral-patterned tapestry suitcase in his hand.
"Gillian's asleep," Desmond whispered. "We'll talk in my study."
He ushered his half-brother inside, taking a seat in the leather wing-back chair opposite him. Philippe tossed the suitcase onto the floor, the soft-sided luggage making only a muffled thump against the wood parquet.
"Evan reconnected the battery, and drove the reporter's car out into one of the canyons. No one can spot it from the air, but we'll be able to get it easily enough when it's time for her to leave." Philippe made a show of taking off his sunglasses, folding them and putting them away. He snuck a sidelong look at Desmond during the process. "Whenever that is."
Desmond looked away. Replacing the book he'd tried to read earlier, he studied his collection of Jules Verne first editions in the original French. Sometimes it seemed he and his half-brother spoke completely different languages, for all that they both used English now. How could he describe the dream that burned within him, when Philippe knew nothing of love? And if a spark of hope had ever shone in his heart, Philippe had doused it decades ago. He would never understand. Still, he deserved to be told something. Desmond turned back to him with a sigh.
"Dr. Chen says Rebecca might have the right blood chemistry to be a donor for Gillian. I'm keeping her here until he can determine that for sure."
"And then what? She's a threat. And every day she stays here, she's more of a danger. Get rid of her now, before it's too late."
"I didn't expect you to understand. But you can't ask me to give up without even trying."
"You have done nothing but try. And you are no closer to a cure than when she was born." Philippe spoke in a patient, reasonable voice that hovered dangerously close to condescending. "Enjoy the time you have left with her. Don't waste it on fruitless dreams."
