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"Good morning, Rebecca." He slid his foot forward just enough to keep her from slamming the door shut in his face. His vacation had been good for him, as he looked calm and relaxed. "Is Desmond at home? I need to speak to him."
"No. He's not." She tried to shut the door anyway, but only succeeded in banging his shoe.
He pushed the door back open. "It's important. Do you mind if I wait for him?"
"Yes."
He caught the door as she tried to close it, forcing it back open with easy strength. "I realize I made a poor first impression on you. But since you're going to be here until Gillian makes a permanent recovery, we'll have to at least learn to tolerate each other."
She let go of the door and stared at him, feeling the blood drain from her face and icy foreboding close around her heart. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that's a long time to carry a vendetta, especially one that doesn't accomplish anything."
"No. What did you mean about Gillian?"
"I'm sorry. I thought you knew. The bone marrow transplant was a temporary solution. She'll need another in a few years. And until a more exact donor can be found, she'll keep needing transplants every few years."
"A more exact donor?" She studied him with all her senses, even that vague intuition she sometimes had about people, searching for signs that he was lying. He was telling the truth.
"Doctor Chen told Desmond that if the two of you were to have a child, it would— "
"Stop!"
Philippe broke off in mid-sentence, widening his eyes in surprise. "I'm so sorry. I thought you knew that's why— "
"Liar!" She fisted her hands at her sides. Philippe's wide eyes and contrite tone of voice didn't ring true. He was neither surprised nor sorry. But the patent falseness of his apology only underscored the truthfulness of the rest of his words. Shaking with suppressed rage, she whispered through clenched teeth, "Get out. Now."
As soon as he stepped back, she slammed the door shut. He was a vicious, hurtful snake in the grass. He'd known she was here alone, probably using the same locator program she had. So he'd come over, with his lame excuse, just to tell her the truth about why Desmond had married her.
Rebecca sank into the soft folds of the leather couch, stunned by the magnitude of Philippe's revelation. Desmond had already proved he'd do anything for his daughter. He was more than capable of marrying someone he didn't love, just to keep her nearby.
Her reporter's instincts digested Philippe's story, searching for flaws, even as Rebecca puzzled over what she would do if he was right. She had no doubts that he'd spoken the truth, as far as it went. Gillian wasn't permanently cured, and would need a future transplant. Dr. Chen probably had mentioned that a sibling of Gillian's would make a better transplant donor than Rebecca. But just because the facts were true, didn't make the interpretation of those facts true.
She bolted upright. Philippe insisted Desmond had married her to have a child, who could act as a donor for Gillian. But Desmond had emphatically insisted they take precautions so that Rebecca didn't get pregnant.
Her shoulders slumped. That didn't prove anything. He might have hoped he'd already gotten her pregnant. Or he might have wanted to wait until a certain time to have another child.
The way she saw it, she had two choices. Believe Philippe, believe the worst about the man she'd sworn to honor and cherish all the days of her life, or confront Desmond and demand to know the truth of the situation, the whole truth, without any prevarication. When she put it like that, it was obvious that there was no choice, not if she wanted to break out of the pattern set by her mother. She had to confront Desmond.
Going back to the computer, she printed out a copy of the route she should take to reach him. The path highlighted two sets of stairs, reminding her that she'd be going underground. She clenched the piece of paper in a tight fist, and fought against her memories.
She'd been eight years old. A heavy rain had shifted a block of shale, exposing a cave. Always adventurous, she'd crawled in for a look, but hadn't been able to pull herself back out. The shale had crumbled and splintered as she tried to hold it, slicing her hands until she had to take a rest. Then the rain had returned, shifting the block of shale again and closing the mouth of the cave to a narrow crack she could never escape through. Worse yet, the saturated walls of the cave started crumbling and collapsing, covering her in cold, wet mud. Unable to see in the darkness, she'd groped for another exit, and her questing
hands had encountered the bones of the last creature to fall into the cave.
She'd screamed herself hoarse, but no one came to rescue her. She spent the longest night of her life, waiting to die, convinced she would die alone. When the searchers had arrived the next morning, she barely had the strength to call to them.
She hated going underground. Every time, no matter what she told herself beforehand, she suffered through those anguished fears of dying a slow, lonely death, and her body being abandoned to rot.
Startled by a new interpretation, she repeated it aloud. "Being underground is just the trigger to the real fear, of dying alone and forgotten."
If she allowed her fears and insecurities to separate her from Desmond, that's exactly how she would die, alone and unremembered. No matter how much fame she achieved through her work, when the moment came, there would be no one by her side to mark her passing.
Terrified that she might already have waited too long, she grabbed up her keycard and rushed out of the apartment.
DESMOND FOLDED yet another piece of paper embodying a pointless tenet of bureaucracy into an origami bird. Setting it next to the analysis of projected demand versus actual use of various supplies, whose wings drooped sadly, he picked up another memo. This Japanese paper folding had been a great fad a few years back. He couldn't recall exactly how many years it had been, but he'd been rather skilled at the time. The only forms he remembered now were the bird, a jumping frog, and a piano.
He added the newest bird to the flock already collected on his desk, and picked up the paper scrap he'd torn off when he'd squared up the memo. A frog would make for a nice change of pace.
