Аллен Стил - Arkwright

“Ed Hamilton and Doc Smith invented it. I just improved it.” He was quiet a moment. “You think you might be able to swing a movie deal?”

“I don’t see why not. The books have never been out of print, and everyone remembers the old TV show. Let me get in touch with my contacts in Hollywood and see if I can work out an option for—”

There was a knock at the door, and they’d just looked around when it swung open and Sylvia marched in, all but pushing aside the nurse who’d led her there. Sylvia stared at her father in open-mouthed disbelief.

“I love it. Mama’s dying, and you’re in here talking business with your agent.” She gazed up at the ceiling and shook her head. “Incredible. You’re just incredible.”

Had she overheard the conversation, or did she simply make an assumption? Either way, it was hard to deny what they’d been doing.

“Sylvia,” Maggie began, “it’s not what you think. We were just talking—”

“Butt out, Margaret,” Sylvia snapped. “This is between Papa and me.” The nurse left, frowning but saying nothing as she quietly shut the door behind her. Sylvia fastened her glare on Nat. “Why aren’t you in there with her? Don’t you care that she’s—”

“Sylvia, calm down.” Nat spoke to her with the resigned patience of a father who’d fought with his daughter so many times that it was hard to remember when they didn’t quarrel. “I’ve been with her ever since she was brought in. She’s sleeping right now, and I needed to take a break.”

Sylvia opened her mouth, but Maggie interrupted her. “It’s true. Your father has been at her side the entire time. If you want to blame anyone, blame me. I suggested that he come in here for a few minutes.”

Sylvia didn’t say anything for a moment, giving Nat a chance to rise from his chair. “I’m so glad you came,” he said as he took a step forward, raising his arms as if to embrace her in an awkward hug. Sylvia visibly recoiled, and he stopped himself. “Did you drive yourself, or did Hank?”

“Hank’s downstairs in the florist shop. He’ll be up in a few minutes.” A smile twitched at the corner of her lips. “No, he wouldn’t let me drive. The baby’s fine, thanks for asking.”

Her hand ran down the small, round bulge pressing against the front of her dress. Maggie couldn’t help but stare at it. Sylvia was six months pregnant with the child she was having with Hank Morressy, the Boston architect she’d married a couple of years earlier. Nat was looking forward to having a grandchild, but Maggie wondered if he’d ever get to know her. He and Sylvia had never been very close, but Judith had always managed to bridge their mutual animosity. Now that she was going away …

Not for the first time, Maggie regretted the fact that Sylvia didn’t know the truth. She was an adult now, but she still needed a mother, just as the baby would need a grandmother. If only Nat had told his daughter …

“Sit down, please.” Nat offered the chair he’d just vacated. “You shouldn’t be exerting yourself. Can I get you some water?”

“No. I want to see her.” Sylvia turned and left the room before her father could stop her; as the door swung shut, Maggie heard her out in the hall, calling for a nurse.

Nat stared at the door. He suddenly looked older, pitiful, no longer a successful, middle-aged writer but a man who’d spent too much time at the typewriter and suddenly emerged from the imaginary world he’d spent decades building to find his wife dying and his daughter resentful of years of neglect.

“This isn’t the way I wanted it to be,” he said softly. “I never thought she—”

His voice broke. His head went down, and his shoulders began to shake. Maggie stood up and, at a loss for what else to do, took him in her arms. It was the first time in many years they’d embraced, but this time it was as old friends, not lovers. She held him and waited until the tears passed, and then she found a handkerchief and let him dry his face.

“All right,” she said once he was calm again. “I’m here for you. Now let’s go see Judie.”

When they returned to the hospital room, they discovered the door was shut and Sylvia nowhere in sight. Hank stood outside, bouquet in hand. He and Nat gave each other a polite nod; they’d never become more than acquaintances, and Sylvia had probably told him nothing but the worst about his father-in-law. Maggie liked Hank; he was courtly, reserved, and completely the opposite of his wife. She suspected that the marriage wouldn’t last.

Maggie went to the door, but before she could open it, Hank stepped in front of her. “She’s awake,” he said to her and Nat, “and Sylvia’s in there with her, but”—he hesitated—“the nurse came out and said that her mother wanted to speak to her in private and asked us to wait out here.”

Maggie stared at the door and then turned her gaze toward Nat. The color had left his face. His mouth was open, but nothing was coming out. Nat looked back at her; no words were necessary, for in that instant, they both knew what Judith was telling Sylvia.

Maggie felt her legs become weak. She instinctively grabbed Nat’s elbow for support. All of a sudden, this was the last place in the world she wanted to be.

The only thing they could do was wait.

The three of them stood together in the hallway, ignoring the hospital staff walking around them, the occasional cryptic announcement coming over the PA system, for what was probably only a few minutes but seemed much longer. Then the door opened, and Sylvia came out.

She stood for a moment in the doorway, her face just as pale as her father’s. No one spoke for several seconds, and then Nat stepped forward.

“Sylvia, I … I’m so sorry, I—”

Her hand shot up. She slapped him across the face. “That’s for never telling me,” she said, her voice an angry croak, and then she turned to Maggie.

Maggie braced herself, but while Sylvia’s hand trembled, it remained at her side. Instead, she looked at Maggie, her mouth opening, closing, and then opening again. Maggie waited for her to speak, and at last the words came.

“That woman in there is my mother,” Sylvia said. “It’ll never be you.”

Kate stared at the woman seated across the table. “That can’t be true.”

“It’s true.” Maggie’s expression couldn’t have been more serious. “I can show you the birth certificate. I’ll even consent to a DNA test, if you insist.” She paused. “Or you can call your mother. Sylvia will confirm everything I’ve told you now that she knows that you know.”

Kate looked down at the table. Sometime in the last few minutes, the waiter had delivered their food. The lobster salad was utterly revolting. The room felt too warm, and the other restaurant guests sounded as if they were shouting at one another. Bile, acidic and bitter, rose from her stomach into her throat; realizing that she was about to be sick, she shoved back her chair, stumbled to her feet, and hurried out of the restaurant.

As luck would have it, the ladies’ room was vacant. Kate slammed open the door of the nearest stall and, bracing her hands against the wall, leaned over the commode and opened her mouth. But nothing came out. She gasped for air and willed herself to throw up, but either there was nothing in her stomach or the panic attack was beginning to subside.

After a couple of minutes, her breathing returned to normal, and her heart no longer pounded. Kate went to the sink, where she rinsed her face and tried to comb her hair as best as she could with her fingers. Then she straightened her blouse and skirt, took a deep breath, and went back to the restaurant.

Margaret Krough was still seated at their table. “Are you okay?” she asked when Kate returned. There was a look of concern on her face that could only be described as grandmotherly. “I thought about coming to see if you were all right, but, well, I figured you might want to be alone.”