The Value of Vulnerability (43 page)

“Shall I find parking, sir?” The limo pulled to the curb.

“No. Stay in the neighbourhood and I’ll call.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ford slammed the door (
Bloody hell. Stop doing that.
) and walked back half a block to Princess Margaret Cancer Centre.

There was no need to make inquiries (he had all pertinent information), and soon found himself outside the correct room. And did not go in.

Last chance
, he reminded. But for what?

He stepped inside.

The shrivelled form in the hospital bed bore no resemblance to the man he remembered. Gone was the energy and drive. Five years now since they had last met. When compared to Brett Howard’s sins, his own were minor.

Ford looked down at his father and felt nothing. Or virtually nothing.

Intravenous, morphine, oxygen, the antiseptic stench of hospital—all the usual accoutrements to near death. Brett was sleeping or unconscious. Ford couldn’t tell which. He wanted the old man awake. If he wasn’t awake, there was no purpose to the visit.

A moan came from the dying man and the eyelids flickered briefly, then opened.

Brett looked at his son.

Ford nodded, feeling the wry grimace forming. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “I have my answer,” he said, and spinning on his heel, left.

The expression of hatred in those eyes had not changed. His father had looked at him like that time out of mind. It wasn’t birthed in Ford’s ousting of him. The ousting had come because of it.

This had been the last chance to discover something familial—o
r at least human—in his father.

The limo picked him up almost immediately and he dialled Conor’s number.

“Early dinner?” he suggested, and arrangements were made.

His fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the leather armrest as the limo neared the office. He should have brought the courier package. Set events in motion for the settling of accounts.

He pulled out his phone again and dialled Cameron.

“About Stephenson.”

“You got the package, didn’t you?”

“Yes. However, I was thinking . . .” BHG Tower loomed, and he tried to remember why it had been so important to come into the office today.

“Ford, you know I won’t help you with that.”

“I’m aware.” He ahem’d. “I’ve decided instead to contact the authorities. Since you handled the investigation and arranged the proof, you would make the ideal liaison to the police.”

Silence. Then: “What?”

“Will you liaise with the police on my behalf? There must be some sort of corporate espionage task force. Or something.”

“No, but, yes. Something.” Cameron barked a short laugh. “I’d be happy to do that for you.”

“Let me know what you need when you need it. I assume this can be done without involving other witnesses.”

“Manny will be helpful. Since some, er, previous evidence was destroyed, there’s no need to involve the party that evidence affected.”

“Good.”

“Was there something else?”

“We should discuss some details before I go. I’m having an early dinner with another friend. You might as well join us.”

Silence again. At last, Cameron chuckled. “Sure. That sounds good.”

Ford recited the time and place, and disconnected.

It had been almost three weeks since Erin had left. Obviously, he needed a little more time to get back to normal.

***

Curled up on her sofa, Erin flipped idly through a graphic novel, searching for the page she had failed to bookmark. The perusal was not helping, for she didn’t remember any of what she read before falling asleep the night before. Dashboard Confessional—currently singing
Clean Breaks
—played on the iPod mounted in the dock.

And Liana was babbling in her ear.
“Brooke wants to go out to play.”

“That should be fun.”

“Riel’s back in town, just for a while. Come out with us.”

“I don’t know, Li. I’m kind of busy.” She loved the Langford sisters, but . . .

“Are you moping?”

“Only a little.”

“You’re listening to emo, aren’t you?”

“Some. Mostly jazz, though.”

“Come on, kid,” Liana murmured gently. “You’re doing great. Don’t succumb now. Have you been burying yourself in work?”

“No more than usual. You’ll tell me if I start sliding down my social obligation slope again.”

That earned a chuckle. “I will. I
am
. You’re obliged to come out tonight. Doug’s insisting that Gina have a night away from the kids, and she’s agreed, at least for dinner. Call Steph and meet us at Cafferty’s at seven. We’ll hit the clubs later, so dress for it.”

She started to protest again, but wise Liana had already disconnected.

Sitting around her apartment listening to emo and sad jazz was not going to make anything better, and going outside would likely help. Spring was still cool, but soft air and restful sunshine poured through the open balcony door, soothing away for the moment the sadness that hovered so constantly on the edges of her consciousness.

Aretha Franklin sobbed
Ain’t No Way
from the iPod.

Erin spun the watch on her wrist.

Her natural resilience hadn’t bounced her back to normal as yet, and didn’t seem likely to any time soon. She had done the right thing, yet doing the right thing did not prevent the agony of a broken heart, and there were days—and many nights—when her grief welled up to such proportions that she didn’t know how she could bear it.

But she did, for there was no other option.

The song changed.
Love Is a Losing Game.

Oh, hells!

The ringing of her BlackBerry rescued her from Amy Winehouse’s poignant lyrics and prevented her from chucking the graphic novel at the iPod. Seeing Stephanie’s name, she answered the call as she pushed herself off the sofa.

“Glad you called, miss!” she declared with ruthless cheer, and went on to extend the invitation.

She rifled through her closet.
Ford bought me that dress in Yorkville. This one’s from the New York trip. So’s this one.

Her fingers stroked the amber silk she wore the first night they had made love. The dress, in an odd way, encompassed their entire relationship—the joy of donning it, the excitement of having it sexily removed, the horror and disappointment of sliding back into
it when he had left her so coldly the next morning. Hope, love, and despair . . .

She would wear it.

***

Bad moods and gloominess didn’t have a hope of survival in the company of energetic friends and sisters, and negative emotions were set aside over a decadent early dinner. Riel and Brooke Langford were crazy and competitive, and their reminiscences had everyone in high spirits.

“What club are we doing first?” Brooke demanded as they settled the bill.

“No clubbing for me,” Gina protested. “Home I go.”

“An old lady at thirty-two,” Stephanie, the same age as Brooke at twenty-three, taunted.

Gina patted her head indulgently. “I’m going home with a couple of glasses of wine in my system and a husband that seduces at the drop of a hat,” she mocked. “I’m not getting old, squirt. I’m getting laid.”

They left the restaurant, finding the night not quite as warm as hoped—unfortunately, for they had all forsworn coats, knowing the clubs would be hot and crowded. But they would survive, Erin thought, even as she shivered a bit in the cool air.

Gina flagged a cab, calling to her at the same time. “Erin.”

She looked expectantly at her eldest sister as a cab pulled to the curb.

“You look gorgeous, honey. You’re doing great, you know. Don’t call him.”

“Thanks. I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Not now, but after a couple of shots of Jäger . . .”

“I promise I won’t.” She knew the dangers of alcohol on a pining heart, which was why she was keeping alcohol to a minimum tonight.

“You should delete his number from your phone.”

She couldn’t. If he left a message, she would have no way of calling him back, for the private number did not display, and she had not recorded the number elsewhere. But she wouldn’t do that either.

“Have a safe ride home, Gina. I’ll see you next weekend for
Jordy’s birthday.”

Brooke linked her arm through one of Erin’s and Riel grabbed the other.

“Let’s walk for a while and pick a club,” Riel decided. “Keep smiling, Erin,” she whispered. “That sunniness will be back for real before you know it.”

Thank god for the girl-gang. Despite their delusions.

***

Ford disconnected the call, battling the headache that threatened. “I’ve got to get out to Pearson.”

“Thanks for dropping us off.” Conor glanced at his date—they had collected her after their early dinner with Cameron—and then back to Ford. “You’re doing okay, then?”

“Yes,” he iterated. He looked out the window of the limo, staring into the crowds. Conor asked something else. “Hm?”

“How long are you gone for?”

“A week or so.”

“I’ll be in Prague when you get back.”

Ford grunted.

The headache throbbed to life. He was not looking forward to the flight, the meetings at the end of it, the money he was going to make from this venture, nor any aspect of the rest of his life. The mood he was in—a ragingly dark one—wasn’t anything new. It had nothing to do with the absence of her.

Though, to be honest, he hadn’t had many of these dark moods during her tenure.

And to be
perfectly
honest, his life before meeting her had been a series of joyous, fun-filled days when compared to his life since she had left.

Were there
a word to top the absolute of
perfectly
, he would use it in assessing that his life during her occupation of it now seemed like some impossible fantasy bursting with light.

How had he not seen it then? How had he been caught up in all the intrigue and keeping things separate, thereby failing to enjoy
her and all she brought to his life?

Too late now, though.

The limo stopped in front of Requiem. His phone rang again as the driver opened the door and he got out, desperately needing air. He took the call, leaning against the side of the car for support. What the hell was he going to do?

First, he would move on. It was pointless to wallow in it.
No question—she hated him now. Hated his crippled emotions, his manipulation, his acts of revenge.

He hated them, too. Long before she had come along.

Second, he would not be drinking again with either Conor or Cameron—or indeed, anyone else—anytime soon. Extra alcohol had made him maudlin rather than exuberant.

Conor glanced around as he got out behind his date, and something in his face had Ford ending the call. “Mike? I’ll see you at the airport,” he said, and disconnected. “What’s wrong, Con?”

“Erin.”

*

“Hey, what about that one?” Liana demanded as they turned up a side street in the heart of the district. She read the name etched on the frosted window. “Requiem.”

Erin stifled a shudder as memories welled up. Ford had brought her here a few times.

“Not for us,” Stephanie said. “Private club. Look at the cars! This is a rich boy’s joint, for sure.” She giggled. “Man, I’d love to go there.”

“Let’s move,” Erin said. “Silk is just around the corner. And Rockets is the next street over.”

Too late. She saw Conor first, standing on the sidewalk next to a brunette in a slinky dress.

Don’t look, don’t look.

But she looked. Right into Ford’s startled amber eyes. She said his name.

Liana glanced from Erin to Ford.

Time stopped. Erin could only stare at him, her heart breaking afresh.

He looks tired
, she thought.
He must be so lonely
.

She didn’t care if he w
as with that brunette. Jealousy did not play a part in her pain, not a major one at any rate.

Well, of course
, she was madly jealous. But any lover he took would only give him superficial and brief satisfaction. His life was empty, and she felt the pain of it as if it were her own.

Wanting to give him something to ease it, to convey her empathy to the man she loved, she smiled at him, pouring into it all the warmth and encouragement she could muster.

His reaction was one of stunned astonishment.

“Thanks for the ride, Ford,” she heard Conor say. “Call me when you get back.” Urging the brunette across the pavement towards the door of the club, Conor stopped in front of Erin. “Rare creature,” he murmured with a smile, and touched a hand to her cheek. With a complicated but admiring look, he followed his date.