Reunion in Death (In Death #14)(53)

"I think we'll leave that to you and Delia. I need to check on something in the greenhouse. Sam, talk Eve into finishing your walk with you."

Before either of them could speak, Phoebe was gliding off with a swish of flowing, flowered skirts.

"I'm sorry," Sam said immediately. "She knows there's some kind of tension. I didn't say anything to her."

"Okay."

"It's not okay." For the first time since she'd known him, Eve heard temper in his voice, saw it on his face as he turned to her. "I'm making you uncomfortable and upset in your own home. You and Roarke opened that home to us, and I abused the privilege. I was about to work up to talking Phoebe into moving to a hotel for our last few days, but you drove up..."

He trailed into silence, and like Eve, stuck his hands in his pockets as if he didn't know what else to do with them.

They stood like that a moment, staring out at the lawn, at the color and the green. She was no sensitive, but Eve thought the misery pumping off the man would have dented a steel wall.

"Look, let's just put it away. It's a couple of days, and I'm not here half the time anyway."

"I have a code," he said quietly. "Part of it's Free-Ageism, part of it's simply the way I believe a life should be led. To cherish family, to do good work. To enjoy the time we're given in this lifetime, and to try as best as we're able to cause no harm. With the gift I was given comes another responsibility, another code. To respect, always, the privacy and the well-being of others. Never to use what I've been given for my own gain, my own amusement or curiosity, or to cause harm. That's what I did."

Eve let out a heavy sigh. He'd hit her exactly where she lived. "I understand codes. Living by them, living up to them. I also understand mistakes. I know you didn't do it on purpose, and you'd probably bite off your own tongue before you discussed this with anyone but me. But I barely know you, and it's hard having someone who's practically a stranger look at me and see that kind of... ugliness."

"Do you think I see ugliness when I look at you?" His hand came out of his pocket, started to reach for her, then retreated. "I don't. I saw the ugliness of a memory, the horror no child should know exists much less experience. I'm not a violent man, by nature or creed, but I wish I could..."

He trailed off, his face flushed with fury, the hand at his side balled into a fist that looked oddly capable.

"I wish I could do what any father should do." He steadied himself, opened his fist again. "But when I look at you I see strength and courage and purpose beyond anything I've ever known. I see my daughter's friend, a woman I trust with my child's life. I know you're going back there tomorrow. Roarke said you were going to Dallas. I'll pray for you."

She stared at him. "Does anyone manage to stay pissed-off at you?"

His smile was slow, tentative. "Phoebe manages it for short spaces of time."

"Then she's tougher than she looks. We'll put it away," she said, and held out a hand.

...

When she walked inside, she saw Summerset polishing the newel post while the cat sat like a furry Buddha on the bottom step. They both gave her a long, gimlet stare.

"Your bag is packed for your trip. Roarke indicated a single day's supply of clothing would be sufficient.

"I've told you, I pack for myself. I don't want you poking your bony fingers through my things." She stepped over the cat, who studiously ignored her, froze. Then her hand whipped out and latched on the end of Summerset's polishing rag. "That's my shirt."

"I beg to differ." He'd counted on her making the ID. "While this may, at one time very long ago, have masqueraded as an article of clothing, it is now a rag. One which had somehow found its way into your bureau and has been removed and put to its only possible use."

"Give me my goddamn shirt, you pruny, skinny-assed cockroach."

She tugged. He tugged back.

"You have a number of perfectly respectable shirts."

"I want this shirt."

"This is a rag." They yanked at opposite ends, and the cloth ripped handily down the middle. "Now," he said with satisfaction, "it's two rags."

Eve snarled, and balling what was left of an ancient NYPSD T-shirt in her fist, stomped up the stairs. "Stay out of my drawers, you pervert, or I'll bite your fingers off at the knuckles."

"There now," Summerset addressed to the cat. "Isn't it nice to know the Lieutenant will go off on this difficult trip in a good frame of mind?"

She stormed into the bedroom, heaved the ripped cloth just as Roarke stepped out of the elevator. It hit him right on the chin.

"Well then, it's lovely to see you, too."

"Look what that son of a bitch did to my shirt."

"Mmm." Roarke examined the tattered scrap of material. "Is that what this was?" Idly, he poked a finger through an old hole. "Pity. I heard you and Summerset exchanging your usual words of affection. At the top of your lungs."

"Why the hell did you tell him to pack for me?"

"I could say because you have enough to do, which is true. But let's be frank, darling Eve; you're a miserable packer and never take what you end up needing if left to yourself."