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father," Beau said.
"They're not exactly in the mood to talk to
you," she spit back at us. "In the midst of our
mourning, you two had to make problems."
"There are some terrible misunderstandings we
must try to fix," Beau insisted, and then added, "for
the sake of the baby more than anyone."
Toby gazed at me. Something in my face
confused her and she relaxed her shoulders. "How's Pearl?" I asked quickly.
"Fine. She's doing just fine. She's with Jeanne,"
she added.
"She's not here?"
"No, but she will be here," she said firmly. "Please," Beau pleaded. "We must have a few
minutes with your parents."
Toby considered a moment and then stepped
back. "I'll go see if they want to talk to you. Wait in
the study," she ordered, and marched down the
hallway to the stairs.
Beau and I entered the study. There was only a
single lamp lit in a corner, and with the dismal sky,
the room reeked of gloom. I snapped on a Tiffany
lamp beside the settee and sat quickly, for fear my
legs would give out from under me.
"Let me begin our conversation with Madame
Tate," Beau advised. He stood to the side, his hands
behind his back, and we both waited and listened, our
eyes glued to the entrance. Nothing happened for so
long, I let my eyes wander and my gaze stopped dead
on the portrait above the mantel. It was a portrait I had done of Paul some time ago. Gladys Tate had hung it in place of the portrait of herself and Octavious. I had done too good a job, I thought. Paul looked so lifelike, his blue eyes animated, that soft smile captured around his mouth. Now he looked like he was smiling with impish satisfaction, defiant, vengeful. I couldn't
look at the picture without my heart pounding. We heard footsteps and a moment later Toby
