Carole Page - A Child Shall Lead Them

Brianna entered the lobby and found the appropriate office at the end of the hall on the second floor. The sign on the door read, CRAWFORD, WINGATE AND ASSOCIATES. So Eric was already a partner in the company—a successful man by anyone’s standards.

She entered gingerly, her breath catching, heart pounding. What would this man be like that she had met only in her dreams and forged solely in her imagination? How could she break this terrible news to him? What could she say to ease his grief?

“May I help you?” asked the receptionist, a sophisticated woman in her late twenties. Bree’s face warmed with embarrassment as she realized she had been standing there for several moments lost in thought. “I’d like to see Mr. Wingate.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I need to speak to him. It’s very important.”

The receptionist looked at her appointment book. “I can schedule you for tomorrow at nine-thirty.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Bree rushed on miserably. “I’ve got to see him now. It’s a…a personal matter.”

The receptionist was obviously well-trained in screening clients and fending off peddlers and solicitors. “What did you say your name was?”

“Brianna Rowlands. But he doesn’t know me. Please, I have some important information for him.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Rowlands, but whatever you’re selling—”

“I’m not selling anything!” Bree exclaimed, too loudly.

An office door opened suddenly, and a tall young man in a three-piece suit stepped out and flashed a quizzical glance.

Eric Wingate! She would know him anywhere! The same riveting eyes and sculpted features that she had memorized from Marnie’s photographs.

“Is there a problem, Natalie?”

“No, Mr. Wingate. This lady wants to see you, but she doesn’t have an appointment.”

As Eric Wingate turned his gaze on Brianna, she felt her knees weaken. She reached out for the corner of the desk. Eric Wingate was far more than his photographs. Easily the handsomest, most imposing man she had ever seen. With the tanned, ruddy glow of a California surfer, he looked as if he had stepped from the pages of a sports magazine. Yet intelligence and sensitivity were etched in his strong masculine features…a solid jaw, patrician nose, and dark brows crouching over intense mahogany-brown eyes. His thick dark hair was stylishly cut, but looked tousled, as if he had a habit of raking his fingers through it while perusing a contract or brief.

“You want to see me?” he enquired in a deep, resonant voice.

“Yes, Mr. Wingate, I do. I…I’m Brianna Rowlands.” Still clutching the edge of the desk, she felt light-headed, woozy. The room was warm and the events of the day were catching up with her. When had she last eaten? She couldn’t recall. Was it really just this morning that she had lost her cherished friend?

Brianna’s knees buckled.

In that instant Eric Wingate sprang forward and caught her in his arms. “Hold my next appointment, Natalie.” Masterfully he swept her up, holding her against his solid chest, and carried her into his office. He eased her gently into a plush leather chair and brought her a cup of cold water from the water cooler. She drank haltingly, on the verge of tears and fighting waves of shame and dread. She wasn’t handling this situation well at all. Instead of approaching Eric Wingate from a position of dignity and poise, she had collapsed at his feet in a pitiful bundle of nerves. She had never felt more vulnerable or exposed.

Eric presented her with his monogrammed handkerchief, then sat down at his immense mahogany desk. He didn’t take his eyes off her. “How can I help you, Miss Rowlands?” he asked with genuine concern.

“You can’t help me,” she said, blotting her eyes with the linen handkerchief. “This isn’t…it’s not about me.”

He sat forward and tented his sturdy fingers, his gaze more piercing than ever. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about.”

“It’s Marnie,” she managed to say at last.

His eyebrows shot up. “Marnie?”

“Your sister.”

He frowned. “My sister is in Europe studying.”

Bree swallowed a sob. “No…I’m afraid she’s not.”

“Of course, she is. I got a postcard from her last week.”

“She wanted you to think she was in Europe, but she’s been right here in California all summer.”

Eric’s dark eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible. You must have my sister confused with someone else.”

“No, Mr. Wingate. There’s no mistake. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Why? What’s going on here?”

She blotted her eyes again. “I’m handling this badly. I…I have some bad news for you. I wanted to tell you myself. I didn’t want it coming from strangers, although I realize I…I’m a stranger, too….” She let her voice drift off.

It dawned on her that she was memorizing his face, the glint of bafflement in his eyes, the curve of his lips, the rugged cut of his chin. In a moment everything would change and he would never be the same again. She held that power in her hands—to turn his life upside down with her words. Dear God, help me! I don’t want to do this. Don’t make me say the words that could destroy this man!

His brows lowered, shadowing his eyes. “What on earth are you talking about, Miss Rowlands? Bad news? What news?”

“Your sister…Marnie…she died this morning.” There, the words were out! In little more than a whisper.

Eric’s face blanched, and he sat back as if he’d been struck. A tendon throbbed along his jaw. After a moment he rallied and leaned across his desk, eyeing her with a steely intensity that made her flinch. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I didn’t want to do this. But you need to know what happened. And how sorry I am.”

Eric stood up and crossed the room to the window. He forked his fingers through his thick hair. “Why should I believe you? What do you have to do with my sister?”

Slowly, brokenly, Brianna poured out the entire story, the words jumbled, awkward on her lips, mingled with tears.

After she had finished, Eric stared at her for what seemed forever, his gaze searing her to the bone. “You’re telling me my sister was pregnant and had a baby?” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re saying she died in childbirth? This morning?”

Brianna nodded, fresh tears flowing.

Eric slammed his fist on the desk, startling her from her chair and sending a dozen papers fluttering in the air. “I’ve never heard anything so outrageous! If you think you can just walk in here and start spouting outrageous lies about my sister…I don’t believe you for a moment!”

With trembling fingers Bree handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s the hospital’s phone number. Ask for Dr. Packard in Obstetrics.”

Eric snatched the paper and dialed the number, his lips tight, his jaw clenched, his dubious eyes challenging the veracity of her words. After a minute, he swung his chair around to the window, his back to Brianna, and spoke quietly into the receiver. Gradually his voice grew louder and more animated, broken finally by a deep, guttural sob, and then long moments of silence as he struggled to compose himself.

Bree looked away, feeling like an intruder, even though she couldn’t see his face, could detect his despair only in his drooping shoulders and bowed head. Finally he wheeled back around to his desk and dropped the receiver into its cradle. As if he had forgotten she was there, he put his head in his hands and sobbed convulsively, his shoulders heaving, the sounds erupting raw and ragged and deep.

Bree watched with growing misgivings. She wanted to get up and run out the door; she also wanted to rush to this grieving man, wrap her arms around him and comfort him. She did neither. She waited with growing mortification until Eric Wingate choked back his sobs and struggled to compose himself. She considered offering him the handkerchief he had given her, then dismissed the idea and sighed with relief when he produced a box of tissues from his desk drawer.