12 

Kyle was barely aware of the table in front of her. She merely knew that she and Kenneth were going through the motions of sharing another meal together in their cherry-paneled dining room.

There was stirring about her as dishes were placed on the table. Kenneth thanked the maid and told her she was free to go. He made polite conversation with Kyle, mentioning something about a new movie that had opened downtown called Dr. Zhivago. He asked if she would like to go. Kyle’s headshake was so small it might have been mistaken for a shiver.

She was not the least bit hungry. She didn’t care that today was the maid’s last day with them, that tomorrow the young woman was scheduled to return to Abigail’s. She had heard Kenneth offer the maid his sincere thanks for all her help during their difficult days, but Kyle could not think of anything to add.

As had become a tradition in their home, Kenneth reached for her hand, and she bowed her head for the saying of grace. The words were little more than a rustle on her inner emptiness. She heard the familiar “Amen” and lifted her head, ready to spread her napkin over her knees.

But Kenneth did not let go. “Your hand is cold.”

She gave a little shrug and tried to draw away. His grip tightened slightly.

“I think it would be a good idea for you to see Dr. Pearce,” her husband said.

That comment did register. She had no plans to see the doctor ever again. Nor any other doctor, for that matter. The whole medical profession had miserably failed her baby. She gave Kenneth a direct look, then her eyes slid away. “I’m fine.” The words had been repeated so often over the past weeks and months that they came and went without conscious thought.

“You look pale.”

“I tell you, I’m fine.”

“I’m worried, honey. You’re not sleeping well.”

Kyle wished she had the energy to respond. She had lost her baby two months ago, yet he was fussing over paleness and lack of sleep. What could he possibly expect? But she did not have either the interest or the energy to involve herself in such a discussion.

But Kenneth did not let the matter drop. “If I make an appointment, will you go see him?”

“Why?” Kyle’s voice sounded empty even to her own ears.

“Because I’m not certain you’re as fine as you keep saying. You’re pale. You’re losing weight. Your hands are cold. You have no appetite. What more do you need to convince you that—”

“What could a doctor do?”

“Well, at least let him see you, then maybe . . .” He trailed off uncertainly. “Maybe a tonic,” he finished lamely.

Kyle tossed her napkin on the table and pushed herself to her feet. A tonic is not what I need, she wanted to scream at him. My baby is.

But she did not say the words. Instead she looked coolly down at her husband and spoke in an even, controlled tone. “I have a bit of a headache. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll take a tablet and lie down.”

“Kyle—” Kenneth rose to his feet and started to reach for her, but she turned swiftly away. Her last brief glance at his face caught his deep pain at her rejection, his frustration that he could not help her. But she did not stop. She could not help him any more than she could help herself.

Abigail sat in the foyer of Chez François, eyes nervously scanning the crowds on the sidewalk outside. The chic restaurant was located just off Embassy Row, and the midday diners were the cream of Washington society. She glanced at her watch once more, aware that the maitre d’ was watching her. It was only because she was a regular that he had held her table this long.

A couple she knew vaguely entered the restaurant, deep in discussion about a new exhibition at the National Gallery. They halted their conversation long enough to greet her warmly. Just as the maitre d’ led them away to their table, her daughter pushed through the tall double doors. Abigail sprang to her feet. “Kyle, you’re here!”

Kyle shook the worst of the rain off her coat. “You did invite me.”

“Yes, well,” Abigail hesitated, then decided not to mention that her daughter was forty-five minutes late for the luncheon appointment, or that Kyle had refused even to confirm whether she would come at all. Only that she would think about it. Abigail watched how she stiffened as the hostess reached to help with her coat, and knew a kiss and a hug would not be welcome. “What with this weather, I was almost unable to get here myself. Come, let’s see if they held our reservation.”

The restaurant manager was a gentleman of the old school who greeted both lunch and dinner crowds in a white bow tie and tails. He held the oversized luncheon menus like a banner and bowed ceremoniously. “Mrs. Rothmore, how kind of you to join us.”

“Hello, Raymond. You remember my daughter, Kyle Adams.” Which was a fib, but a small one. Kyle had never come here before, since the society circuit was something Kyle generally avoided.

Another formal bow. “Mrs. Adams, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Now if you ladies will please step this way.”

Kyle hesitated at the doorway into the main restaurant. Abigail found herself looking at it through her daughter’s eyes—the glitter and the mahogany and all the polished people making Washington chatter and polite laughter. She reached down and grasped her daughter’s hand, and felt a flash of guilt for all the times she had done so in the past—how she had done so with impatience and demands and antagonism, dragging the sensitive child hither and yon to fulfill her own selfish ambitions. But there was none of that now, only love and concern and a wishing she could give her daughter strength and calm.

When Kyle gave her fingers a nervous squeeze and started forward, Abigail smiled. Sadly, regretfully, aware of past mistakes. But a smile nonetheless.

Twice Abigail was stopped on the way to her table by people who wanted to say hello. Kyle tried to hold back, but at the second table a very well-connected lady, whose name Abigail could not recall, gushed, “And who is this lovely young thing here with you?”

“My daughter,” Abigail said, glancing over in time to see Kyle wince as attention turned her way. It had been a mistake, Abigail decided, inviting Kyle here and trying to draw her out. “Kyle Adams.”

“Why, Abigail, of course I’ve heard of your lovely daughter. Kyle, I haven’t seen you since you were in crinoline and ribbons. How are you, my dear?”

Abigail was watching closely enough to actually see it happen. The surprise registered on Kyle with a little start and a blink and a flash of awareness. Abigail felt excitement race up her spine as she realized what had just occurred. Kyle had met someone who did not immediately associate her with a baby who was no more. She was talking to someone who did not probe or offer sympathy or cause her new agony.

“Fine,” Kyle said tentatively with a nod. “I’m fine.”

She did not look fine, Abigail knew. She looked hollow. The baby had been gone only three months now, and her daughter’s eyes were encircled by dark shadows. But the woman showed a Washington society lady’s ability to ignore anything and everything; she gave another exuberant smile and said, “My dears, you really must let me invite you over for tea sometime.”

“We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Kyle?” Because this society matron had drawn Kyle out, even momentarily, Abigail gave her a heartfelt smile. Then she turned and said, “Come along, sweetheart. Raymond is waiting.”

Kyle seemed to peer out from the depths of her own personal foxhole as Raymond held her chair, tucked the napkin across her lap, then went through the list of the day’s specials. Abigail normally shooed the little man away, but seeing Kyle’s reaction, she engaged him in conversation, making him linger with remarks about this and that. Always with a warm smile for her daughter, trying to show that here Kyle could be safe and public at the same time. Showering her daughter with attention, pretending there was absolutely nothing to the moment beyond the empty conversation that had filled so much of her life. Only now she was desperate to reach her daughter with something, anything that might draw her from the empty darkness there behind her gaze.

And because it seemed to be working, at least a little, when Raymond finally departed Abigail leaned across the table and said with an enthusiasm she herself had not felt since the funeral, “Do you know what we should do after lunch? Go shopping and buy you a lovely new dress.”

Kyle’s nod seemed to Abigail like an incredible victory.