Donovan's Child. Christine Rimmer
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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