The Still of Night (47 page)

She caught her foot on the roller and gripped the pole to steady herself.
It doesn’t make sense anyway. Nothing makes sense
. But the message had been so clear: pray for him to get sick. That much she could remember even with her mind foggy. She looked down the hall. The bulletin board was too far. She might get there, but she’d never get back.

I don’t want to make him sick
. It wasn’t as easy as it had seemed when she told Jill. Jesus had been so clear, and she had trusted Him so completely. Now … She frowned at the stupid bulletin board. She couldn’t make it. She turned around and there was Josh in gown and mask and gloves.

“Need a hand?”

She looked into his freckled face and started to cry. Of all the stupid things to do in front of him. But the tears would not stop. “It’s the Prednisone.”

His eyes smiled. “Your mask is soggy.”

“It’s the new style.”

He laughed.

She dabbed her nose with her finger. “How’d you get through security?”

He took her elbow. “Bribed the nurses.”

“With what?”

“Fudge.”

“Don’t offer me any.”

He nodded. “Still not eating?”

“You’d never know it, I’m such a blimp.” They were almost back to her door, and her legs were in revolt—just like her stomach and kidneys and liver.

“It’ll go away.”

“Will it?” She lowered herself to her bed. “Because I don’t know that. Every day they come in with something else that’s going wrong and right now—” She stopped at his pained expression and pressed her hands to her face. “I’m so sorry.” She peered between her fingers. “I didn’t think. I’m so sorry about Rachel. I didn’t get to tell you.” She dropped her hands to her lap.

His eyes had teared up. “I’m really sorry, too. I miss her. I miss teasing her.” He tried to smile.

“I guess she knows that. I bet Jesus lets her watch and listen. If she wants to, I mean.”

His sigh billowed the paper mask. “Maybe. That’s why you have to get well for both of you. So she can see it and be glad.” He looked around her room. “I was going to bring you flowers, but they said you couldn’t have any.”

Kelsey raised a pair of monster hands. “Fungus amungus. No fruit or veggies, either. At least not fresh. Of course, what goes down must come up, so I’m just as glad I can’t have them.” She could not believe she’d actually said that, but Josh laughed again.

“I really like that about you.”

“What?”

“You’re funny.”

It surprised her to realize her own mood had lifted. “I’m glad you came.” And the burn that rushed to her face had nothing to do with leukemia. “How’d you get here?”

“Guess.”

“I don’t know.” She leaned back into her pillows.

“I drove.”

“By yourself?”

He nodded. “Got my license.”

“You mean you’re sixteen now?” It suddenly seemed impossibly old.

“Yesterday. And I got my license so I could come see you.”

She was not thinking clearly. “Did you know cyclosporine causes female facial hair?”

He cocked his head. “No, but I like bald, bearded girls.”

Kelsey sputtered a laugh through her mask. “You do not mean that.”

Jackie tapped the door. “Sorry, Josh, but it’s time.”

Kelsey drew her brows together, but she knew they’d already bent the rules. Probably because of Rachel. He didn’t live far, right in New Haven. Maybe he would come again. “I’ll see you, Josh.” She tried to sound casual.

“I’ll try to get through again. The others aren’t as easy as Jackie.”

“I heard that.” Jackie put a hand to her hip.

Josh stood another moment, then gave a little wave and walked out. Jackie tossed her a smile. “Good job on your first hall walk.”

Kelsey nodded. If Josh came back, she wouldn’t even use her feet next time.

CHAPTER

30

M
organ sat on the side of the bed, a limp slug, but at least the cramping had left his stomach and his head no longer throbbed. It did, however, rest on his palms, braced by the elbows on his knees. He moaned at the knock. “I’m alive, Consuela.” “It’s Denise, Morgan. I have a wave of e-mail messages from a Todd Marlin? He insists you promised to meet with him. Are you in any condition to deal with it?”

Morgan grinned at her tone. He’d enjoy her expression more if she knew it was a thirteen-year-old kid making the demands that had her in a lather.

“Morgan?”

“You’re right, Denise. This one’s important. I’ll be down shortly.” Since when did his secretary roust him out of bed? Something was wrong with that picture. Of course, he’d been out of commission two days after promising to catch up.

He pushed himself up and stood still, checking his equilibrium. Not bad. The top stayed up, the middle didn’t waver, and the legs held firm. Good. He went to the bathroom and took a shower, cleaned his mouth thoroughly, and even shaved. He dressed in a crisp shirt and slacks, though no tie, and went downstairs.

He waved Consuela off in the kitchen. “Just coffee, strong.” Then he went downstairs to the office. He passed Denise without comment, booted up the computer, and got into his mail. He almost felt human. When Consuela arrived with the coffee and he took the first swig, he knew he’d live.

He pulled up the seventeen messages Todd had sent, surprised the language hadn’t clued Denise. But then, many players in the high-tech field were equally illiterate with anything beyond acronyms.

He typed,
Hey, Todd. Cool your jets. I’ve been flat on my back dog-sick. Wouldn’t want to pass you those germs. How about this weekend? Think you can make it? Ask Stan. Ask nicely. Morgan
.

He sat back from his desk and looked at Denise. “I’ll meet with him this weekend if he works it out. Can you arrange a flight for one, first-class from DIA?”

“Transportation from the airport?”

“No, I’ll pick him up.”

“Morgan …” He knew her objection. She hated the image of him meeting a prospective client at the airport himself.

“Trust me on this, Denise.”

She turned back to her desk. “There’s Malta Systems.”

“I’m on it.”

“I’ve printed the ten top prospecti for—”

Morgan quirked an eyebrow. “Did you say prospecti?”

She sent him the stare. “The prospects you tagged before leaving. They’re on your desk to the left. On your right, you’ll find several follow-up issues, one from Techstar that requires prompt attention.”

“Thank you, Denise.”

“Are you over your … flu?” Something hard in how she said it. Did she think he’d faked it? Played hooky?

“I seem to be. No more fever, chills, or bellyache.”

She snorted softly.

He stood and walked to her desk. “Am I missing something here?”

“You could at least do your drinking after hours.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?” Did she think he’d been on some two-day bender?

She rotated her chair. “You remind me of my father.”

By some of what she had told him the night in the hospital, that was not a compliment.

Her face hardened. “I admired him more than anyone I knew. Admired and despised him. He had so much promise, genius even.” She waved her hand. “Except, of course, when booze made him an idiot.”

“Which part are you reminded of?”

Her gaze chilled. “Both.”

“Well, now that we’ve cleared the air …”

“I watched him destroy himself.”

“I get the point, Denise.” And she was crossing the line.

“That’s one reason I thought it would be safe to work here alone with you.”

“Because I drink?”

“Because I’d never get involved with an alcoholic.” No parley, just stab.

Morgan clenched his fist. “Only a crackhead.”

Her eyes blazed. “I did not know.”

“You stayed with him after you did know. Even when he beat you.”

“Well, I had plenty of practice with Dad.”

Morgan rubbed his face. “Why are we doing this? I had the flu.”

“Dad puked his guts out and swore it was the flu more times than I can count. That man had every flu ever invented. And in between he was brilliant.”

Morgan fought the urge to holler. Children of alcoholics tended to see anyone who drank as problematic. It was natural. “How many times have you seen me sick?”

She turned away. Her hair seemed more severe than ever today, pulling the skin at her temples. “I haven’t seen you sick. But how about all the times I can’t reach you? All the hiatuses, your ‘nonconformities’?”

“It’s how I operate, Denise. If you can’t take it, I understand. I’ll give you a great reference.”

She sighed. “I’m talking myself out of a job, I know.”

“Only if that’s how you want it.”

Her face tightened. “I don’t want to watch you …”

He spread his hands. “I had the flu.” What more could he say? She thought him a drunk. Suzanne probably thought him impotent. Consuela had already sainted him. They were all wrong.

He returned to his desk, lifted the follow-up stack and perused the sheets Denise had printed. Part of his fee included six months’ availability for questions, concerns that arose subsequent to his involvement. That was a good place to focus.

“Malta Systems first.”

He looked up at Denise and set down the sheets. He’d line that up to satisfy her, then work on the other. Now he understood her frustration better. He could be more reachable if it made her life easier. At the very least he could answer her daily correspondence when he was away. It was his style to focus unidirectionally. But he could adapt. And if he accepted Malta Systems, he’d be gone soon enough anyway.

They worked in silence until Consuela brought him the phone. It must be a personal call or it would have rung to the office. He put the receiver to his ear. “Morgan Spencer.”

“I can come!”

He smiled. “That’s great, Todd. I’ll e-mail your flight info. Can Stan get you to the airport? Or Rick might.”

“Stan’ll do it.”

Morgan glanced up. “My assistant’s working on your flight right now. I’ll let you know the details when she’s got it. Is Stan there?”

“Yeah.”

“Put him on.” Morgan waited.

“Hi, Morgan. I’ve got one excited kid.”

“How long can I have him?”

“How long do you want?”

Morgan studied the calendar he’d brought up with a click. He could plug Malta in the last week of September. He would have things rolling with Ascon and begin the initial phase with Malta. But before diving into either, some time with Todd sounded good. “How about a week starting Saturday?”

“Sure?”

“Sure. I’ll teach him to surf.”

By now Denise had given up all pretense of not listening and turned her chair toward him. “We’ll send the info by e-mail. Bye, Stan.” He beeped the phone off and set it down. “Make sure the airline provides an attendant for Todd Marlin.”

“He’s a kid?”

Morgan let the smile only into the corners of his mouth. “He feels pretty mature for thirteen.”

Her lips set tightly. “Another one you didn’t know about?”

Anger surged. She must be hormonal or she wouldn’t dare. “He’s not mine.”

She seemed to realize the line she’d crossed, and all her body language retreated. “You said Saturday?”

“That’s right.” He crossed to the doorway, paused, then went out. It was different having employees in his home. He allowed for that. But this … He forced the anger back. He had set her up to some degree, not explaining about Todd. But her jump to that conclusion, and the audacity to say it … She must be ready to quit.

He was weak still. He felt it in his spine. And the first pangs of hunger gnawed his belly. He crossed the game room and stepped outside to the patio. A short walk in the open air might ease the fury. So far she’d called him a drunk, a liar, and a father to the illegitimate.

He swallowed the sudden shrinking in his throat. How far off the mark was it? He rubbed a hand over his face, then followed the path to the beach, wishing Jill were under his arm. She had scolded his drinking, too, but it wasn’t the same. Her censure showed she cared. He wanted her to care. Wanted it so badly it hurt. He could fly her out to meet Todd. No, that wouldn’t be fair, not to any of them.

He took off his loafers and walked barefoot in the sand, thankful the strip was deserted. But as he rounded the bend he found Scott Menard, a bronzed and oiled demigod, and one of Morgan’s staunchly single friends.

Morgan paused. “Day off?”

“Finished our project. Little bonus time.” Scott winked at the twig in a bikini beside him on the sand. He’d said living on the beach married was like eating before a banquet. He wanted to savor the feast, not wish he were hungry.

Morgan passed by, the heat of the sun beating off the sand. He opened and rolled his cuffs and one more collar button. His shirt fell open and sweat dampened the hair on his chest, evidence he wasn’t one hundred percent yet. He turned and headed back. As he crossed his yard, he noticed Suzanne next door sunbathing nude on her deck. Was this all there was? Emptiness overwhelmed him. His head started to ache. The game room felt overly chilled as he paused at the entrance, then closed the door behind him with a shiver.

Denise came out of the office, took him in with a penetrating glance. “Are you all right?”

Body temperature neutralizing, he nodded.

“Maybe you should see a doctor.” She’d become a believer?

He crossed to the bar and poured a glass of pineapple juice—Jill’s cure. He drank it down. The coffee had stayed put. The juice refreshed. He rinsed the glass and passed Denise on his way into the office. He could work now. He needed to.

“Morgan?” She caught her index nail between her teeth. “

You’ll ruin your manicure.”

She jerked the nail free, then didn’t seem to know what to do with the hand. “I made the reservation. The ticket’s at the Delta counter, DIA. They’ll have an attendant ready.”

“Good.” He sat down and took up the right-hand stack once again. “Contact Malta Systems and get them on the calendar. Last week of September would be good.”

She went to her desk and clicked the keys with her undamaged nails, long ovals in frosted plum that matched her tailored suit and heels. She’d never get involved with an alcoholic? It had never entered his mind to get involved with her.