Donovan's Child (5 page)

“If you absolutely have to lurk at my elbow, pay attention.” He turned back to the monitors, began clicking through the views. “Have you noticed?”

This close, she could see the hair follicles of his just-shaved beard. His skin was as golden and flawless from beside him as from several feet away. He must get outside now and then, to have such great color in his face. And his neck. And his strong, lean hands. “Noticed what?”

“It lacks a true
parti.
” The
parti,
pronounced
par-TEE
, as in
We are going to par-tee,
was the central idea or concept for a building. In the process of creating a building design, the
parti
often changed many times.

She jumped to her own defense. “It does not lack a
parti.
”

He sent her a look. “You never mentioned the
parti.
”

“You didn't ask.”

“Well, all right then. What
is
the
parti?
” He let out a dry chuckle. “Nestled rectangles?”

Okay, his guess was way too close. She'd actually been thinking of the
parti
as
learning rectangles
. Which somehow seemed ham-handed and far too elementary, now he'd taken his scalpel of a tongue to it.

“What's wrong with rectangles?” She sounded defensive and she knew it. “They're classrooms. Activity rooms. A rectangle is a perfectly acceptable shape for a classroom.”

“Children deserve a learning space as open and receptive as their young minds.”

“Oh, wait. The great man speaks. I should write that down.”

“Yes, you should. You should carry a notebook around with you, and a pen, be ready to jot down every pearl of wisdom that drops from my lips.” He spoke with more irony than egotism.

And she almost laughed. “You know, you are amusing now and then—in your own totally self-absorbed way.”

“Thank you. I agree. And you need to start with some soft sketches. You need to get off the computer and go back to the beginning, start working with charcoal, pastels and crayons.”

“Starting over. Wonderful.”

“To truly gain control of a design,” he intoned, “one must first accept—even embrace—the feeling that everything is out of control.”

“I'm so looking forward to that.”

“And we have to be quick about it. I told the Foundation we'd be ready to bring in the whole team in six weeks.” He meant the builder, the other architects and the engineers.

“Did you just say that
we'd
be ready?”

“I decided it would be unwise to go into how I won't be involved past the planning stages.”

“Good thinking. Since you know exactly how that would go over—it wouldn't. It won't. They're counting on
you
.”

“And they will learn to count on you.”

“So you totally misled them.”

He looked down his manly blade of a nose at her. “Better that they see the design and the scale model and love it first, meet you at your most self-assured and persuasive.
You can give them a full-out oral presentation, really wow them. Make them see that you're not only confident, you're completely capable of handling the construction on your own.”

“Confident, capable, self-assured and persuasive. Well. At least I like the sound of all that.”

He granted her a wry glance. “You have a lot of work to do. Don't become
overly
confident.”

“With you around? Never going to happen.”

Loftily, he informed her, “March one is the target date for breaking ground.”

She put up a hand, forefinger extended. “If I might just make one small point.”

“As if I could stop you.”

“I can't help but notice that suddenly, you're all about not wasting time. What's that old saying?
‘Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.'
”

“The tight timeline has nothing to do with my planning, poor or otherwise.”

“Planned or not, you're the one who kept us from going ahead months ago.”

“Since you seem to be so fond of clichés, here's one for you. Can we stop beating the same dead horse? Yes, I put the project on hold. Now I'm ready to get down to work.”

“And the timeline is impossibly tight.”

“That may be so.”

“How generous of you to admit it.”

“But in the end, Abilene, there is only one question.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Do you want to make a success of this or not?”

Okay. He had it right for once. That
was
the question. “Yes, Donovan. I do.”

“Then go back to your work area, get out your pastels, your charcoal, your fat markers. And stop fooling around.”

F
rom that moment on, for Abilene, work trumped everything else. From nine—sometimes eight—in the morning, until after seven at night. Donovan supervised. He guided and challenged her. But he fully expected her to carry most of the load.

It would be her project in the truest sense. Which made it the chance of a lifetime for her, professionally. And also absolutely terrifying.

She drove herself tirelessly and mostly managed to keep her fear that she might fail at bay.

Donovan was not always there in the studio with her. He would set her a task or a problem to solve and then disappear, only to return hours later to check on her progress, to prod her onward.

Often during the day, when he wasn't with her, he took his personal elevator down to his underground gym to work with one of his physical therapists. Now and then,
she would see them, Donovan's trainers. And the massage therapists, too. They were healthy, muscular types, both men and women. They came and went by the kitchen door. Anton, the cook, who was big and barrel-chested with a booming laugh and long gray hair clubbed back in a ponytail, would sometimes feed them after they finished putting Donovan through his paces.

Donovan seemed dedicated to that, at least, to taking care of his body, to making it stronger—though he continued to do nothing to heal his damaged spirit.

Or, apparently, his broken relationships. As had happened the first night, people Abilene never saw showed up at the front door to ask to speak with him. Olga or Ben always answered the doorbell when it rang. And they always sent whoever it was away.

More and more as the days went by, Abilene found herself wondering about that. About the people who cared for Donovan, the people he kept turning his back on. She would wonder—and then she would catch herself.

Really, it wasn't her concern if he refused to see former friends. She didn't even
like
him. Why should she keep wondering what had happened to him? Why couldn't she stop puzzling over what could have made him turn his back on other people, on a fabulous career?

There was the climbing accident, of course. That seemed the most likely answer to the question of what had killed his will to work, to fully engage in his own life. It seemed to her that
something
must have happened, some thing that had changed him so completely from the out going, inspiring man she'd admired from a distance back in college into someone entirely different.

She found she was constantly reminding herself that she was there to work, not to wonder what in the world had happened to Donovan McRae. She told herself to
focus on the positive. If she could pull this off, create a design that would wow the Foundation people
and
hold her own overseeing construction, her career would be made.

And there were
some
benefits to being stuck in the desert with Donovan—Olga, for one.

The housekeeper was helpful and pleasant and ran the big house with seeming effortlessness. And beyond Olga, there was Anton's cooking; every meal was delicious and nourishing. And the conversation at dinner, while not always pleasant, did challenge her. Donovan might not be a very nice man, but he was certainly interesting. Ben provided a little balance, with his dry wit, his warm laughter.

Abilene really did like Ben. As the days passed, the two of them became friends. Every night, he came to her rooms for an hour or two before bedtime. Often, he brought dessert. They would eat the sweet treat, and he would commiserate with her over Donovan's most recent cruelties.

And beyond the great food, the comfortable house, the very efficient Olga and Abilene's friendship with Ben, there was music. Anton played the piano, and beautifully. Sometimes after dinner, in the music room at the east end of the house, he would play for them. Everything from Chopin to Gershwin, from Ray Charles to Norah Jones.

One night, about two weeks into her stay in Donovan's house, Anton played a long set of Elton John songs—songs that had been popular when Abilene's parents were young. Anton sang them, beautifully, in a smoky baritone, and Olga, who had a good contralto voice, sang harmony. Abilene felt the tears welling when they sang “Candle in the Wind.”

She turned away, hoping Donovan wouldn't notice and torment her about it.

But it was never a good bet, to hope that Donovan wouldn't notice.

When the last notes died away, he went for the throat. “Abilene. Are you
crying?
”

She blinked the dampness away, drew her shoulders back and turned to him. “Of course not.”

“Liar.” He held her gaze. His was blue and cool and distant as the desert sky on a winter afternoon. “Your eyes are wet.”

She sniffed. “Allergies.”

He refused to look away. She felt herself held, pinned, beneath his uncompromising stare. She also found herself thinking how good-looking he was. How compelling. And how totally infuriating. “It's winter in the desert,” he said. “Nobody has allergies now. You're crying. You protect yourself by pretending to be cool and sophisticated. But in your heart, you're a complete sentimentalist, a big bowl of emotional mush.”

It occurred to her right then that he was right. And she wasn't the least ashamed of it. “Okay, Donovan. I plead guilty. I
am
sentimental. And really, what is so wrong with that?”

“Sentimentality is cheap.”

Ben, sitting beside her, shifted tightly in his chair. “Cut it out, Donovan.”

“Ben.” She reached over and clasped his arm. “It's okay.”

He searched her face. “You're sure?”

“I am positive.” She turned her gaze on Donovan. “A lot of things are cheap. Laughter. Honest tears. Good times with good friends. A mother's love. A baby can have that love by the mere fact of its existence. Of its very
vulnerability, its need for affection and care. Cheap is not always a bad thing—and I'll bet that when you were a child, you used to pull the wings off of butterflies.” She regretted the dig as soon as it was out. It wasn't true and she knew it. Whatever had shriveled his spirit had happened much more recently than his childhood.

He totally surprised her by responding mildly. “I was a very nice little boy, actually. Sweet-natured. Gentle. Curious.”

The question was there, the one that kept eating at her. She framed it in words. “So then, what is it, exactly, that's turned you into such a bitter, angry man?”

He didn't answer. But he did look away, at last.

And for the rest of the evening, he was quiet. The few times he did speak, he was surprisingly subdued about it, almost benign.

 

Ben brought her red velvet cake that night. “I figured you deserved it, after that dustup in the music room.”

“It wasn't so bad, really. I shouldn't have said that about him torturing butterflies.”

“It got him to back off, didn't it?”

“Yeah. But…”

“What?”

“I don't know. Sometimes, in the past few days especially, I don't feel angry with him at all. I only feel sorry for him.”

Ben put on a frown. “So then you don't want this cake….”

She grabbed for it, laughing. “Don't you dare take that away.”

He handed over one of the plates and she gestured him inside. They sat on the couch as they always did when he brought dessert.

She took a couple of slow, savoring bites. “I don't know how Anton does it. Red velvet cake always looks so good, you know? But as a rule, it's a disappointment.”

He nodded. “I know. It's usually dry. And too sweet.”

“But not Anton's red velvet cake.” She treated her mouth to another slow bite. “Umm. Perfect. Moist. And the cream cheese frosting is to die for. So good…”

Ben laughed. “You should see your face.”

“Can you tell I'm in heaven? Good company
and
a really well-made red velvet cake. What more is there to life?”

“You're happy. I like that.”

She gave him a bright smile, ate yet another dreamy bite of the wonderful cake. “You know, we really should go into that little town, Chula Mesa, one of these nights.”

He swallowed, lowered his fork. His dark eyes shone. “We?”

“Yeah. You. Me. Donovan.”

“Donovan.” Ben spoke flatly now. “Of course, Donovan.”

“No, really. I think it would be good for him, for all three of us, to get out of this house for a while. We could invite Anton and Olga, too. Make it a group outing.”

Ben wasn't exactly jumping up and down with excitement at the prospect of a night out with his boss. “Have you brought this up to him?”

“Just that first night.” She made a show of rolling her eyes. “You remember how well that went.”

“What can I say? You can't make him do what he doesn't want to do.”

“Ben, he needs to get out. He's…hiding here. He's made this house into his fortress—you know that he has. It's not good for him.”

Ben lowered his half-finished plate to his lap. “Listen to you. You're getting way too invested in him.”

“What's wrong with that? You said it yourself, that first night. You said he needed someone like me around.”

“I didn't mean that you should make him into a…project.”

“But I'm not.”

“Abilene. You're his protégé. Not his therapist.”

“Which is a very good question. Does he
have
a therapist—a counselor I mean, someone to talk to? If he spent half as much time trying to figure out what's going on inside him as he does in the gym downstairs, he'd be a much happier person. Not to mention, more fun to be around.”

“No. He doesn't have a counselor.”

“Well, he should. And he should get out. We should work together on this, you and me, make it a point to get him to—”

“Abilene. Stop.” Ben set his plate down, hard.

She blinked. “What?”

“
I'll
go with you, okay?” He spoke with intensity. With passion, almost. “Into Chula Mesa, to Luisa's. We can have a few drinks. A few laughs, just the two of us.”

Just the two of us.

Suddenly, the rich cake was too much. She set it down, half-finished, next to Ben's. “Ben, I…”

He sat very still. And then he smiled. It was not a particularly pleasant smile. “Not interested, huh?”

“Ben…”

His lip still curled. But now, not in any way resembling a smile. “Just answer the question.”

There was no good way to say it. “No. I'm not. Not in
that
way.”

He let out a slow breath, and then smoothed his hair
back with both hands. “Well, at least you didn't say how much you
like
me. How much you want to be
friends.
”

“But, I do. On both counts. You know I do.” She wanted to touch him. To soothe him. But that would be beyond inappropriate, given the circumstances. “But my liking you and wanting to be your friend…neither of those is the issue right now, is it?”

“No, they're not. The issue is that I want more. And you don't.” Now he looked openly angry. “It's Donovan, right?”

She gaped. “Donovan? Not on your life.”

He grunted, nodded his head. “Yeah. It's Donovan.”

“Ben. Come on. I don't even
like
him.”

“Yeah. You do. You like him a lot.” He stood. “I think that you and I need to redefine the boundaries.”

She hated that. But he was right. “Yes. I agree. I think we do.”

“If you want to know about Donovan, you should ask him yourself. If you want to go to Chula Mesa with him, tell him so. If you think he needs a shrink, say so. Say it to him. Leave me out of it. Please.”

He left her, shutting the door a little too loudly behind him.

 

“What did you do to Ben?” Donovan demanded when she walked into the studio the next morning bright and early.

As if she was answering that one. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, come on. I know he's got a thing for you.”

She took a careful breath. Let it out slowly. “If you knew that, you might have mentioned it to me before now.”

“I thought it was none of my business.”

“Oh, right. Because you're so considerate of other people and all.” She was standing in front of her drafting table.

He rolled out from behind his twin computer screens and came at her, fast, stopping cleanly a foot from her shoes. “He left a half hour ago.”

Her throat clutched. She gulped. “What do you mean, left?”

“He packed his suitcases and he left. He said he needed to get out of this house, away from here. Far away.”

“For…how long?”

Donovan blew out a breath. “Abilene. He quit.”

She felt awful. Yes, Ben had been upset last night. But she'd never imagined he would just pack up and move out, just walk away from a job he'd had for two years now. “But where will he go?”

Donovan stared up at her. His sky-colored eyes, as always, saw far too clearly. “If you cared that much, you wouldn't have turned him down when he made his play, now would you?”

She eased backward, around the drafting table, and sank into the swivel chair behind it, not even caring that Donovan would see the move for what it was: a retreat. “How would you know if he made a play for me?”

He let out a low sound—dismissive? Disbelieving? She couldn't tell which. “I guessed. And since you're not denying it, I'm thinking I guessed right.”

She threw up both hands. “What do you want me to say?”

“How about the truth?”

“Fine. All right. He did ask me out. I said no.” She glared at him, daring him to say one more word about it.

He said nothing. He only sat there, his strong hands gripping the wheels of his chair, watching her face.

She dropped her hands, flat, to the drafting table, making a hard slapping sound. “Where will he
go,
Donovan?” Tears of frustration—and yes, guilt, too—tried to rise. She gulped them down, hard.