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"This and that." She lowered her gaze and pushed her food around her plate. "It's not that interesting."
His mind heard what she did not say out loud. She'd profiled doctors involved in AIDS research, cancer research, and revolutionary heart bypass surgery. She suspected the nature of the Institute's research. And she hid her suspicions from him.
"What interesting things have you written about, then?" He forced himself to keep the conversation light. "Six-legged calves and dog-headed boys?"
Gillian looked up from the dumpling bridge she was constructing. "A boy with a doggie head?"
"No. No dog-headed boys."
Gillian persisted. "Any dogs?"
"No dogs for you," Desmond interrupted, recognizing his daughter's intent. "Not until you're well."
"Lots of dogs. Big dogs and little dogs and brown dogs and black dogs and— "
"When you're well."
She sighed, and stabbed another dumpling with her fork.
"I did do a story on a carnival, once," Rebecca volunteered.
That was promising. He remembered carnivals. Siamese twins, bearded ladies, and all manner of human oddities. If she accepted them—
"It was all about how the owners were taking advantage of the people attending. The county sheriff closed the carnival down after my story ran."
Desmond winced. No sympathy there.
"But didn't that put the carnival people out of work?"
"They could get other jobs. Honest jobs."
"Even the freaks?"
Rebecca frowned. "If you mean the side show acts, most of them were hucksters, no more unusual than you or me. The few that did have unique conditions would have been better served getting decent medical help than prolonging their suffering as a means of employment."
He winced again. No, he couldn't trust Rebecca with the truth. She'd spent too much time trying to overcome the differences in her background and upbringing to understand some differences could not be overcome.
Gillian saved him from continuing the awkward conversation, by announcing, "All done, Daddy."
He pushed his chair away from the table. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get her washed and put to bed."
"I'll do the dishes."
Scooping up his daughter, Desmond beat a hasty retreat.
When he came out of Gillian's room after reading her a story, he found Rebecca waiting for him in the living room. S
he sat on the couch, head bowed and hands clasped between her knees. Praying for salvation? He didn't know if she hoped for a repeat of last night, or feared what might happen between them. And he didn't dare lower his mental shields enough to find out. Especially since he'd yet to make up his own mind.
He cleared his throat to give her warning, then joined her on the couch.
"So," he said, forcing a carefree note of bonhomie into his voice. "How does being a freelance journalist differ from working for a newspaper or magazine?"
"Gillian's asleep," she said, still staring at her hands. "You don't have to pretend to be interested anymore."
Her opinion of him stung. "I wasn't pretending."
"I saw your expression. You looked like you were visiting a dentist, and he found a cavity. Don't worry. I'll spare you the drilling."
