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Five frogs later, the amusement value of jumping them over each other had worn thin. His thoughts turned back to the problem he'd been struggling with since he retreated to his office. What was he going to do about Rebecca?
He could tell her the truth, the full truth. Despite Philippe's predictions, Desmond didn't think she'd pronounce him an agent of Satan and try to cut off his head or burn him alive. That kind of thinking had gone out with hoop skirts and powdered wigs. He wasn't afraid for his life. He was afraid for the quality of his life.
What would it matter if she spared him, if he had to live with her revulsion and contempt? Oh, she tried to hide her feelings behind a mask of cynicism, but at heart she was a loving, compassionate woman. That's why her mother's betrayal had hurt her so deeply. She'd loathe and despise him; for what he was, what he was forced to do to survive, and most importantly, for lying to her. After all, he'd had plenty of opportunities to correct her misapprehension of his nature. He hadn't. Not even when they'd made love.
He snatched up another piece of paper and started folding. It kept his hands busy while he thought, and he needed that. Otherwise, he feared he'd start breaking things, just to relieve some of his frustration.
His other choice held even less appeal. He could refrain from telling her, go back to her and pretend that everything was normal. No doubt he could concoct some sort of explanation for why she'd bitten him while they made love. She'd stay with him, and love him, until the disease claimed her.
He remembered Olivia, lying wasted in her bed, too weak even to lift her head when her daughter was brought into her room. If Rebecca had any sort of open cut, even just biting her tongue or the inside of her cheek, and they made love...he forced aside images of her dying in his arms. He couldn't go through that again. He wouldn't go through that again. More importantly, he couldn't betray his wedding vow to her that way. He could not be the agent of her death.
There was always a third option. He could send her away, without telling her the truth. That way, he'd preserve her life, and keep the Institute and its work secret. But with her insatiable curiosity, she'd uncover the truth behind any story he tried to tell her. With her telepathic powers, he couldn't even try to use mental suggestions. She'd break through them eventually, and be twice as determined to discover what he'd been hiding. The most he could gain in that situation was time. Time for the researchers to find Gillian's cure. Time to establish a new life and a new identity someplace where Rebecca would never find him.
He jumped paper frogs over paper birds. He'd have no trouble losing himself in New York City. Or Chicago. Desmond sighed and pushed aside the frogs. It was a perfect solution, except for one thing. He couldn't do it.
He'd vowed to honor Rebecca. How much honor was there in taking away her freedom of choice? In forcing foreign thoughts into her mind? In denying and decrying their love for each other? The answer was obvious. None.
Whatever path he chose, he'd spend the rest of his life without her. But there was only one option that would let him live with himself. He had to tell her the truth. And pray that his daughter wouldn't suffer for it.
Looking around the room, his gaze was caught by one of his brother's paintings. Ancient trees dripping Spanish Moss screened a darkened plantation house. Trees, moss and building were all painted in shades of gray. In the painting's only spot of color, field hands in gaily patterned clothes danced with wild abandon around a blazing fire. If you looked carefully, you could just make out a shadowed face in one of the house's windows, watching the merriment below. The panoply of life, from which the cursed were forever excluded.
Desmond buried his face in his hands. It wasn't fair. Given time, of which he had an abundance, he could find someone else to love, a brief dalliance to take his mind off of the woman he'd sent away. But he'd never find anyone else like Rebecca. She was his one true love, his soul mate, his completion. She was the other half of his heart. Life without her would be mere existence, as colorless and devoid of light as the painted plantation.
He could torture himself by watching her from afar, spying on her life without ever being a part of it. But even so, how long could that last? Another fifty years? Then she'd be gone, forever. And he'd go on, eternally alone.
He'd have Philippe, if they could ever work their differences out. But that thin companionship paled beside dreams of a wife to love and cherish. All the things he loved about Rebecca, the way she could raise his spirits with a witty comment, encourage him with just a word or a touch, comfort him just by being there; he would lose it all. Never again would she whisper to him after they'd made love. Never again would she come to him, eyes shining, and tell him of the articles she'd written. He'd even miss her early morning, pre-coffee grizzly bear antics.
He had to tell her. But he could put it off for a little while, yet. He could go home, take her in his arms, and finally tell her he loved her. He could see the light in her eyes one last time. One last time before her love changed to horror and disgust.
The outer door buzzed. Bernice wouldn't be working on a Saturday, so it must be Philippe, returning from vacation. Desmond sat up straight. He couldn't let Philippe see him like this.
The inner door opened.
"Rebecca," he breathed. He rose and stepped around the desk, drawn to her despite his best intentions.
She glanced around the office, refusing to look at him, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans. "Nice office. Directing a research institute must pay well."
"It has its benefits."
He stood in front of her, unsure of what to do. He wanted to take her in his arms, or at least hold her hand. But he couldn't. Not with her hands stuffed in her pockets like that. She clearly didn't want him to touch her. Instead, he gestured toward the painting she was admiring.
"It's one of my brother Roderick's. Take a closer look if you like."
"Thank you." She slipped her hands out of her pockets as she walked. "He wasn't a real cheerful guy, was he?"
"No. Not really." His heart was breaking, but she could still make him smile.
Rebecca reached out to touch his cheek, but pulled her hand back before she brushed his skin. She stared down at the floor. "I'm sorry if I insulted your brother."
"Rebecca. Dear heart." He caught up her hand and carried it to his lips, pressing a kiss against her fingers.
He continued to hold her hand tightly, while she lifted her gaze to look at him. The pain and doubt in her eyes slashed at his heart. He kissed her fingers again. "You did no more than speak the truth. The truth can be unpleasant, but no matter how much it hurts, knowing the truth is better than believing a fantasy."
She tightened her fingers on his, and gave a sad smile. "I said that, didn't I? When we were discussing the transplant operation for Gillian."
"Yes. And I think the time has come for you to hear the truth."
She pulled away from him and paced the perimeter of the office, her arms crossed before her as if she'd caught a sudden chill. "I had a surprise visitor a little while ago. Your half-brother, Philippe. He had some truths for me, too."
