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What she lacked in skill, she made up for with enthusiasm. About half of her food ended up smeared on her face or clothing, with another quarter decorating the kitchen table. Very little food seemed to actually make it into her mouth. Even so, she was finished and playing with her silverware before either adult was done.
"She doesn't eat much, does she?" Rebecca said.
Desmond stiffened. "No. I don't think any child does, at that age."
She hadn't meant the comment as evidence of Gillian's illness, but that's obviously how he'd taken it. Trying to clarify what she'd meant would only sound awkward.
She couldn't help staring as he took a third helping for himself. Where did he put it? The turtlenecks and clinging silk shirts he favored would have ruthlessly exposed the least ounce of body fat, had he possessed any. Which he didn't.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"No." She swallowed and studied the table, mortified to be caught staring. "I was just wondering how you stayed so thin."
"I have a very high metabolism."
"Oh." Should she say more? Or was that a part of his illness? He didn't seem to feel any need to elaborate. If she continued with this topic, she'd end up offending him. Normally, she wouldn't care what he thought of her, not if she could get information for her story. But her feelings of being connected to him, united in pursuit of a common goal, were too new and precious to risk trampling. Better just to drop it.
"Uh, you want any help with these dishes?"
"There's no need," he answered automatically, then reconsidered. "If you could rinse them and stack them in the sink, I can start cleaning up Gillian."
"I'm not dirty, Daddy," Gillian protested, showing him the hand she'd managed to keep clean. "See?"
Rebecca had to hide her smile behind her napkin.
"You did a wonderful job of staying clean, sweeting," he told Gillian, with a perfectly straight face. "But I think you should have a bath anyway."
"I don't want a bath. I don't need one, Daddy, `cause— "
"Bathtime Pooh will be very lonely without you."
Gillian considered this new information, her little face screwed up in concentration. Then her eyes lit up. "I'll give Pooh a bath. I don't need one."
Desmond coughed, not looking at Rebecca. Gillian just grinned, confident that her solution made perfect sense.
"All right," he agreed. "You can give Pooh his bath. But I think it would work best if you were in the tub with him."
"Okay, Daddy."
He pulled her out of her booster seat, careful of the food smeared across her shirt, and carried her out of the kitchen. Their departure left Rebecca strangely sad, and she sighed as she started gathering up the dishes.
She'd devoted all her time and energy to her career, first putting herself through school, then working two jobs while she established a reputation as a dependable freelance journalist. Every liar, cheat and crook she'd exposed along the way had strengthened her conviction that people couldn't be trusted. Now she realized she may have made a mistake by focusing on the seamier aspects of society. What else might she have been wrong about?
Her few relationships with men had been brief, fed from the scant time and energy left over from her work. Assuming that any relationship was bound to fail, she'd ended them before she could be betrayed. How different might her life have been if she'd trusted one of those men enough to stay with him? Might she be married by now, with her own little girl?
She rinsed the last dish and stacked it on top of the others, pleased that her hand didn't shake. She didn't have time for a husband, much less for a child. No point regretting her decisions now.
She looked back at the table. The dishes were taken care of. What about the leftovers? Should she leave them out? No. They might spoil. She'd cover them back up and put the casserole dish in the refrigerator.
Moving a carton of milk aside to make room, she discovered a collection of black glass bottles. Their arrangement echoed the precise rows of Gillian's medicine bottles, and she turned one to read its label. These belonged to Desmond.
She stuffed the casserole dish onto the shelf and wandered into the living room. How sick was he? He looked healthy enough, except for being so pale. But then, except for being so thin, so did Gillian.
Laughter and splashing sounded from across the living room. Rebecca turned away. Now was the perfect time to sit down and write up her story. Yet she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, she sat down on the couch and leafed through a discarded coloring book, in a vain effort to distract herself.
The pages depicted classic fairy tales, with smiling princesses standing before beautiful castles. The sting of imminent tears pricked her eyes, and Rebecca set the book aside with a sigh. When she was a child, she'd dreamed of finding her Prince Charming. The image of her prince changed with her moods, but when he rode up to greet her, dressed in his royal finery, he invariably resembled the photographs of her father in his uniform. Her mother's stories had filled Rebecca's head with visions of her father as a proud, brave hero, who had given his life for the country he believed in. But that man had been as much an illusion as her daydream prince.
The gurgle of the tub brought her back to the present. When it stopped, she could hear Desmond's voice rising and falling in smooth, melodic phrases. She couldn't catch the words, but knew from the tone that he had to be reading Gillian a bedtime story. The ebb and flow of sound soothed Rebecca as well, lulling her into a drowsy stupor.
