Listed: Volume I (8 page)

Seventeen.
And dying.                                  

Emily
sighed deeply, but she managed to smile at him. “I get it, and it’s totally
fine. You’ve done more than enough to help me out. It really was just a passing
thought.”

He
peered at her, trying to figure out whether that was true. While he was glad
she was backing away from the idea, he didn’t want to act like an ass when
she'd already had a really hard time.

“I’ll
be eighteen in a few weeks,” she added. She’d been studying him too, and she
seemed to have discovered something in his expression, although he’d thought
his face was suitably impassive. “If I’m still doing all right, health-wise, maybe
we can put the possibility back on the table then. Not for sure—but just to
consider.”

He
nodded. “Sounds good.”

There
would still be virtually no chance he’d be comfortable with the idea of sex
with her, even after she’d turned eighteen, but he was committing to nothing.

At
least it was a way out of this conversation.

“I’m
going to bed. But you know, Paul,” Emily murmured, standing up and brushing out
the wrinkles in her dress. She was smiling now—tired but smiling—and she seemed
to have gotten over whatever awkwardness she’d felt. “For a bad boy, you really
are kind of old-fashioned.”

Her
tone was very soft, not critical or derisive at all, but he stiffened at the
words anyway.

“It
wasn’t an insult,” she said, laughing at his expression. “Seriously. I’ve
discovered that I like you a lot more than I thought. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,”
he told her, watching as she walked back into the cottage.

He
didn’t get up immediately as he tried to mentally feel his way back to calm
water.

"Oh,
by the way," she said, coming back out onto the terrace without warning.
"I forgot to ask."

Paul
looked over at her questioningly.

"I
try to never act obnoxiously girly, but do you think…do you think I looked
pretty today?"

She'd
cried her makeup off, the waves in her hair had gotten a little frizzy, and her
dress was wrinkled. But Paul wasn't crazy enough to tell her anything except,
"You looked absolutely beautiful today."

It
happened to be the truth, and it prompted a glowing smile on Emily's face.
"Okay. Goodnight."

"Goodnight,"
he said as she left the terrace again.

He’d
felt like a fool ten times over today, and that was something he’d always gone
to great lengths to avoid.

He’d
made a mess of most of his life—constantly letting down the few people who had
ever really loved him. Trying to turn it around, to do something worthwhile
with his life, made him feel like a frustrated Prometheus, pushing a massive
stone eternally uphill, only to have it roll back down when he got it to the
top.

But
he wasn’t—he wouldn’t be—the total loser his mother had feared he might be.

He
would work hard at his new job and ensure his mother’s legacy.

He
would testify against his father, no matter how much it felt like a betrayal.

And
he would take care of Emily, since she had no one else to help her.

He
didn’t have a lot of experience with such things, but he was determined to see
it through to the end.

For
once, he was going to do something right.

Emily had the worst
headache she’d ever had in her life.

The
pain throbbed at her temples and at the back of her head. She couldn’t seem to
think clearly, and her eyes would sometimes lose focus. Even her stomach
churned sickeningly, although that could have been caused by several cups of
black coffee and the double-dose of aspirin she’d taken earlier.

She’d
had headaches before, of course, but she couldn’t remember her head ever
hurting like this.

She
tried to focus on the questions being asked of her, and she articulated her
responses as clearly and efficiently as possible so her recorded deposition
would be strong, official documentation of her testimony. As the minutes and
hours past, however, she had more and more trouble thinking about anything but
her headache.

She
sat in the same large conference room in the law office where she and Paul had
signed the pre-nup. She was dressed, once again, in her best suit, although
this time she’d paired it with a little vintage blouse she’d found in a thrift
store. She’d hoped to look as mature and professional as possible when she met
with the staff from the U.S. attorney’s office. Now her suit felt too tight, though,
and the pins she’d used to secure her hair were poking her painfully in the
head.

She
had to fight the urge to yank out the pins and rub her scalp with her fingers.
She’d slipped her high heels off under the table, but she hadn’t taken off her jacket.
She’d been too hot for the last hour, and she was afraid she might have sweated
through her thin blouse.

“Mrs.
Marino,” an assistant U.S. attorney named Bill Hathaway asked from across the
table, “Can you tell us what he said in the conversation you overheard?”

“He
was threatening the other man, Jud Bentley, about a shipment of drugs he’d been
cheated on,” Emily replied, after closing her eyes briefly and taking a slow
sip of water.

“Can
you repeat the exact words, please?”

Emily
glanced over to a chair on the other side of the room, where Paul was observing
the proceedings. He’d insisted on being present, although she would have been
more comfortable without his sharp, observant gaze on her the entire time.
Their eyes met briefly now, but she couldn’t really tell what he was thinking.

She
searched her memory and repeated the words Vincent Marino had spoken in that
conversation—a conversation she would now give anything to unhear.

When
she’d finished her answer, she rubbed her temples as discreetly as she could,
trying to ease the throbbing in her head. For a moment, it hurt so much a wave
of heat slammed into her. Her stomach lurched dangerously.

She
took a deep shaky breath and tried to pull herself together. They had a lot of
ground to cover in this deposition. She knew why they needed to do this, even
though she was still on the docket to testify at Marino’s trial the month after
next.

There
was no guarantee that she’d be alive at the trial, and they needed an official
record of her testimony that could be offered in lieu of her live body in the
witness stand.

But
it wasn’t any fun. She knew the deposition would probably take a good chunk of
the day, and later she would have to be questioned by the defense attorney. He and
his associate were here now, farther down the table, busily taking notes as she
talked.

She
could ask to cut it short because of her headache and pick up again next week,
but she’d rather just get it over with today.

She
put a discreet hand on her belly and tried to breathe deeply, fighting past the
pain and nausea so she could pay attention.

“So,
Mrs. Marino,” Hathaway continued, looking down at his notes before asking his
next question, “Can you tell us what happened after you overheard—”

“I
think we need a break,” Paul interrupted. He’d been peering at her closely and
had evidently drawn his own conclusions.

The
lawyers from Paul’s law firm who were present in the conference room responded
immediately, looking up and putting down their notes. But Hathaway’s face
flickered with annoyance before he managed to say politely, “Of course. If Mrs.
Marino needs another break—”

“I
don’t need a break,” Emily interrupted, glaring in Paul’s direction although
her eyes were so blurry she couldn’t really focus on him. “We just had a break
not long ago.”

Paul
had stood up, the charcoal gray suit he wore smoothly following his motion. He
normally dressed more casually but, like her, he must have wanted to convey a
professional appearance today. He gave her one more quick look of scrutiny
before he turned back to Hathaway. “We need more than fifteen minutes. Should
we start up again at about twelve-thirty?”

Hathaway
obviously wasn’t pleased by the delay, but he said, “That’s fine.”

“It’s
not
fine,” Emily objected, trying to get her shoes back on so she could
stand up. “I told you—”

Paul
completely ignored her. He turned to an administrative assistant from the law
firm and asked, “Is there somewhere comfortable she can rest?”

Emily
almost sputtered in indignation at such high-handed behavior, but her head
throbbed too much for her to form a coherent argument. Somehow, without her
conscious agreement or volition, she was shuffled into a small lounge that was
obviously used for clients of the prestigious firm, since it had a bookshelf
full of novels, a stack of current magazines, a television and DVD player, and
several plush couches and easy chairs.

Paul
closed the door behind him, shutting out the hovering administrative assistant.
He scanned her face closely and reached out to put his hand on her forehead.

She
jerked away from him, regretting the move immediately since it hurt her head so
much she almost gagged. “I don’t have a fever,” she managed to snap, “Stop
fussing.”

She
hated feeling weak and helpless, and she hated having Paul treat her like an
invalid. She might have an incurable virus, but she was still an intelligent,
capable person who was equipped to decide the shape of her life. However long
that life lasted.

“It
doesn’t feel like you have a fever,” Paul agreed, sounding just faintly
impatient, his gray eyes searching her face. “So what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.
I have a headache. It’s no big deal. I want to just get this deposition over with,
and I don’t appreciate you ignoring my wishes.”

“You
needed a break.” When she started to argue, he went on, “Going on when you
obviously feel so sick is counterproductive. You need to be clear and coherent
if your testimony is going to be convincing.”

He
was right, and she resented him for it.

She
didn’t resent him for prioritizing his father’s trial over her. She wasn’t a
fool, and she knew what was most important to him. He had been incredibly
generous with her, and she appreciated it, but she knew he’d not done it out of
any tender regard. He liked her well enough. He felt sorry for her, and she was
sure he didn’t want to see her suffer.

But
if it came down to a choice between pleasing her and ensuring a successful
conviction against his father, he would always choose the conviction. She
didn't blame him for that.

She
did, however, resent him for treating her like a child, like she was too sick
to make a good decision. And for throwing logic in her face when she’d worked up
some perfectly good righteous indignation.

She
tried to think of an objection, but she started to feel dizzy so she went to sit
in the corner of a big sofa instead.

Evidently
assuming she’d accepted this break, Paul asked, “Do you need anything? Aspirin?
Something to eat? More coffee?”

She
almost shuddered at the thought of food or coffee. “I took some aspirin
earlier. Just some water, thanks.”

Then
she was left in blessed silence when he left the lounge.

She
leaned against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. It didn’t seem fair.
She only had a limited number of days left to be alive, and she had to spend
one of them with this horrible headache.

In
just a minute, she heard someone enter the room, and when she opened her eyes
she saw Paul reenter with an expensive bottle of sparkling water in one hand
and an old-fashioned glass bottle of Coke in the other.

She
hadn’t had regular Coke in a glass bottle in years, and she reached for it
instinctively. He’d already popped the top, so she took a sip, the sweet,
bubbly liquid a balm in her mouth and throat after the hot coffee she’d been
drinking all morning. She took a shaky breath and then another sip.

Without
speaking, Paul had set the water down on a side table and then walked over to
shut the blinds on the glass wall that looked out onto the expansive common
area of the office suite. He then leaned over to turn on a small lamp in one
corner of the room before turning off the overhead lights.

The
room was left in dim shadows, lit only by the small lamp in the corner. The
darkness was a relief. She hadn’t realizing the florescent lights had been
grating on her head, but she knew now that they had.

She
took another swig of her Coke and looked up at Paul a little dazedly.

“Close
your eyes for a while,” he instructed, “You have more than an hour to rest. If
you aren’t feeling better then, we can reschedule for another day.”

He
didn’t sound gentle or affectionate. He mostly sounded matter-of-fact and a
little bossy.  He was giving her that look of intense scrutiny again—the one
where he seemed to search for signs of her impending demise. She didn’t like
that look at all, since it defined her as an invalid and not a whole person.
But at least it was better than the mild gentleness he’d been using on her
recently.