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She left the room, returning a few moments later with a cut glass bud vase. Turning on the tap, she filled the vase half way with water. Then she snatched the thistles from Rebecca and stuffed them into the vase.
Rebecca grabbed the vase away from Mrs. Waters. Holding it protectively close to her chest, she fluffed the leaves and readjusted the stalks. Mrs. Waters frowned, but didn't comment.
"If there's nothing else...?"
"Actually, there is one more thing." Rebecca glanced up from her flowers. Not surprisingly, Mrs. Waters was looking away from her.
"I thought there would be."
"I need a telephone book."
Mrs. Waters turned to her, eyes narrowed. "Who are you going to call?"
"I won't know that until I have a chance to look in the yellow pages." Rebecca fought to control her temper. Mrs. Waters worked for Desmond, not her. He might be able to talk to the woman about her attitude, but there was nothing Rebecca could do without making the situation worse.
"There's a directory in the study. It's in the drawer under the phone." Mrs. Waters shrugged and returned to rolling out her dough. "Not that it will do you any good. None of the shops deliver out this far. There's not much for a woman to do here, unless you're a doctor like Mrs. Lacroix was. I can't imagine what possessed you to say you'd stay on."
Rebecca gripped the vase and ground out a stiff, "Thank you." But as she left the kitchen, the housekeeper's words continued to echo in her mind. Possession. She remembered her first few confrontations with Desmond, and the sense that she didn't control her own words and actions. She leaned heavily against the living room wall.
She'd had that feeling of being out of control more recently, too. Last night, when she and Desmond made love, she'd felt that way again. Looking back, it seemed ominous that she hadn't questioned the gaps in her memory, when he'd been awake and she apparently hadn't. She'd also given in far too easily when he'd sidestepped the issue of his missing years. She recognized the symptoms, but questioned the underlying cause. Was she a woman in love, or a woman possessed?
Rebecca shook her head and marched into the study. She was letting Mrs. Waters get to her. She needed to treat the situation like one of her stories, uncovering the facts and exposing all the angles. Then she'd be able to make an informed decision.
She opened the desk and took out a legal pad, then sat down and started making notes. What evidence did she have? Desmond's lovemaking made her feel out of control and larger than life. He could coax responses from her body that she'd never even imagined existed. He'd asked her to marry him. He'd never told her he loved her. She'd saved his daughter.
She filled the page with facts, but was no closer to an answer. If he'd made love to her and asked her to marry him before she'd donated bone marrow to Gillian, Rebecca might suspect an ulterior motive. But after the operation was over? He had no reason to keep her around, except the obvious.
He loved her. Just as she loved him. The only power clouding her thinking was her own fear of betrayal. She had to trust him. She had to believe she could depend on him. Because if she couldn't trust the man she loved, she'd never be able to trust anyone. And a world without trust was as bleak and unappealing as a world in which no one ever helped anyone, and no one loved anyone. She'd spent the last ten years in that world. She didn't want to go back.
DESMOND WALKED into the board room, already filled with the doctors and researchers heading up the various branches of Institute activities. He took his seat, as the individual conversations slowly faded into silence, and swept his gaze across the assembled division heads. He stopped, staring at the man sitting halfway down the right side of the table. Philippe.
Damn. Of course Philippe would be there. As Head of Operations, he oversaw the Institute's residential housing, building maintenance and procurement departments, among other things. He presented monthly status reports and fought for his share of the budget along with the medical and research department heads.
Maybe Philippe wouldn't make any trouble. If they could get through the meeting on a strictly business footing, there would be no opportunity for him to cause a scene. Desmond stood and called the meeting to order.
Each department head stood in turn and presented charts outlining successes and detailing why they needed additional funding. Desmond hid a smile. In all the meetings he'd attended since the founding of the Institute, no department head had ever admitted to a failure, or asked for less money. But none of the increases surprised him, and he nodded acceptance after each presentation. Until Philippe spoke.
"And we need thirteen hundred to repair the west elevator shaft in building three," Philippe finished his summation.
Desmond frowned. "We repaired that shaft a few months ago. Why does it need more repairs?"
"Because the side bracing buckled again."
"What? When?" He leaned forward. "Why did you wait until now to tell me?"
Too late, Desmond realized he'd given Philippe the opening he'd been looking for. If Desmond didn't stop him, Philippe would try to enlist the doctors in his fight against marriage to Rebecca. Desmond had to keep Philippe's comments in neutral territory. Or better yet, get Philippe to sit down and shut up.
"It happened the morning after your daughter's operation," Philippe announced. Then he added, in a thought directed at Desmond,
When you were busy screwing around.
Desmond gripped the table hard enough to bruise the wood, but allowed none of his fury to color his voice. The other attendees hadn't heard Philippe's thought, only his words. Philippe was trying to provoke a reaction, but Desmond refused to be baited.
"You should have contacted me."
"I tried. Your housekeeper said you didn't want to be disturbed." We'd already taken care of the problem by the time you finished taking care of—
"We'll discuss this later. After the meeting."
