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“I'd like some time to myself,” Molly blurted out the second the door closed on Theresa. She had to express herself before Carey's charm and beguiling tongue could change her mind. And she stayed at her desk as if she could barricade herself from his persuasive allure.

“No,” he said, expecting dissent, but not like this. His dark eyes glittered dangerously beneath his black, scowling brows. He was too tired to deal dispassionately with their differences, but he had to take it slow or risk worse disagreements. So he steeled himself to calmness.

“I'm afraid it's not open to discussion.” Molly kept her voice as moderate as possible. She was trying to be sensible about her feelings, not adversarial. She understood that Carey didn't have misgivings-he never did it seemed-and she wondered whether she'd not traveled as far as she thought from the young girl she'd once been. But maybe that was the essential difference underneath all the superficiality of Carey's wealth and glamour. Maybe they had fundamental differences in personality. She was never adamantly certain like Carey. Molly had always been prone to intellectualize and rationalize every emotional crisis. She was probably doing that again, but she'd feel more secure in her final decision if she gave herself time to examine her feelings beyond the overpowering passion she felt for Carey. Was passion enough? Would it sustain the good times and the bad times? Would it even endure? Or was passion, desire, lust, and love all one? Was she killing their relationship by dissecting it to death?

“Everything is open to discussion,” Carey emphatically replied, his scowl unaltered, his voice a low rumble.

“Everything?” Molly retorted, taking issue with the unspoken demand in his tone. “Like Sylvie's clinging presence in Miami? I don't recall discussing the situation.”

“It was an emergency.” His voice was strained.

“So is this-so I don't make another mistake.”

“Don't compare me to Bart,” he snapped. Then his voice changed, and he quietly said, “Let's talk about this.”

“I don't want to now.”

“I'm sorry about Sylvie.”

How many others would he be sorry about-later-someday-two years from now? Although he said he loved her, it seemed from her vantage point, his love was flexible. “I am, too,” she quietly said. “Sorry about the killings and about Egon. How often do you think we're going to be sorry about things if we get married?”

“We can work it out.”

“I have to work it out for myself first before I can begin the cooperative working out.”

“Jesus, Molly, I'm sorry as hell Egon got mixed up with Rifat, but I couldn't leave him out there.”

“I know. I know.” She wasn't unfeeling. “That's not the point.”

“So hit me with the point,” he said, unmoving in his chair, his face expressionless.

“The point is,” she slowly replied, “whether I want, whether I want my daughter-”

Our daughter,” he tersely interjected.

“-to enter a lifestyle,” she went on, ignoring his challenging interjection, “so far removed from what we're familiar with.”

His eyes closed and he suddenly felt his aching weariness. “Dear Christ,” he said softly, and when he opened his eyes his gaze was moody. “We've been over this a dozen times.” He sighed. “I'm truly apologetic for all my goddamn money, and I suppose the title, too-although you know as well as I do that I don't even use the damn thing. I'm penitent as hell I ever slept with a female other than you in my entire life. What else?” he said sarcastically. “Oh shit-the guns, of course. I can't help it. I can't walk away from my past, although I would if I could for you.” He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed again. “Do you know how unimportant all this is?”

“In your opinion,” Molly said in a prim voice he'd never heard before, and he scrutinized her quickly at the unfamiliar sound. “I'd like a week or so to myself.”

“Don't say you need breathing space or I'll puke.”

“No, I won't.”

“What if I say make up your mind right now or fuck it?”

She only gazed at him without answering, and if she'd been less involved in her own disordered emotions, she would have noticed how tired he looked.

He hadn't slept well in days, and wasn't currently equipped to deal with Molly's uncertainties. “Just remember,” he said, rising in a swift movement as his temper surged. “Pooh's my daughter, too and if your decision should be negative to my interests, I'll fight you for custody.” He was near the door when he finished and, despite his anger, an overwhelming sadness struck him suddenly like a blow. “I don't want to fight,” he said quietly.

“I'm sorry,” Molly whispered.

His expression was searching and critical for a moment, then calm. “So am I,” he said crisply, and left.

CHAPTER 45

S he hadn't expected him to agree, but Carey's chill anger, his threat about child custody, and the absolute grim blackness of his scowl had shocked Molly. Was her request so devastating?

Maybe she was too removed from adolescence to still be indulging in her search for identity. Maybe she was selfishly egotistic to be making decisions for two other lives beside her own. Maybe Carey was right and they could work out their differences later.

Leaving the office, she decided to go upstairs to the apartment and rest over the lunch hour; she was feeling a curious light-headed sensation, brought on no doubt by her emotional turmoil. But when she reached the apartment, Carrie and Lucy were watching TV at blast-off volume, each word blaringly clear as she lay in her bed next to her daughter's room. Unable to relax, she rose from the bed. Straightening the pleated skirt of her white linen suit which wrinkled if you even looked at it and slowly walking to her daughter's room, she opened the door and said, “Why don't you play outside? It's such a nice day.”

No one responded, since they couldn't hear her with the TV broadcasting for the entertainment of the entire city block. Molly moved closer. “Don't you think it would be a nice day to play outside?”

Carrie looked up, said, “Okay, Mom,” and with a smiling wave went back to her Batman and Robin program.

Molly turned the volume down herself and said, “You girls should go outside on a beautiful summer day like this.”

“Sure, Mom. Turn the sound up a little, will you? I can't hear.”

“I'm trying to rest.”

“Sorry, Mom, we'll move closer. Lucy did you see that Batmobile burn out of the cave? I want one of those, Mom.” Both girls' eyes were glued to the TV screen.

“I'll get you one this afternoon,” Molly replied, mildly sardonic, “right after I fuel up the Rolls.”

“Great, they have them at Children's Palace, on sale this week. Six ninety-five.”

She was absolutely adorable, Molly thought with unconditional motherly pride, gazing at her daughter sprawled out on the bed, her chin resting on her crossed arms, her pale hair pulled in a spiky ponytail. Just like her father. And in so many ways she was oblivious like him to the angst of daily living. She should try and develop a similar competence at avoiding anxiety.

“I'm going to try and sleep for a while.”

“We'll be quiet, Mom,” her daughter said to Batman and Robin.

But she couldn't sleep and only managed to wrinkle her suit past wearing. As she was changing, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and noticed her unusual pallor. She rationalized it away as the result of all the tumultuous activity of the past weeks and her erratic eating schedule. She'd eat a good lunch for a change, and restore some color to her cheeks; she'd make something nutritious and nourishing. But when she opened the refrigerator door, a peculiar smell assailed her nostrils, triggering an instant wave of nausea. She hastily pushed the door shut. She'd have soup instead, she decided, driven to a seated position at the kitchen table by the passing queasy sensation. Her mother had always made her chicken noodle soup when she wasn't feeling well. Wouldn't it be just her luck, she reflected, working up her energy to prepare her lunch, to have picked up some damn exotic virus in Jamaica? But when the bowl of soup wafted its warm aroma through the kitchen, she wondered whether Campbell's had changed their recipe; the odor was distinctly different. After two spoonfuls she felt worse instead of better. She called the office then, said she'd be an hour late, and went back to lie down.