She reached down to her ankles and picked up her handbag. Opening the bag, she extracted from it a buff-colored envelope and from the envelope a snapshot.
"That's him. Robbie."
The face in the picture was young and handsome. A thick thatch of hair sprang from a high forehead in a riot of short glossy curls. Gabriel was able to detect a hint of William Whittington's hawkish-ness in the set of the younger Whittington's eyes and nose, but that was where the similarity between father and son ended. Robert's mouth was soft and his chin rounded. And the eyes. God, the expression in the eyes was shockingly vulnerable. Such innocence. Gabriel couldn't recall the last time he had seen such trust and acceptance in the gaze of anyone over the age of three.
"Will you do it…?" She didn't add the words "for me" but they hung in the air as surely as though she had spoken them out loud.
He didn't answer. Carefully he placed the snapshot on the arm of the chair, nudging it away from him.
The corners of her mouth sagged and she closed her eyes briefly. Then, with a swift, graceful motion she got to her feet. Her voice was formal. "May I have my jacket, please?"
In silence he helped her slip back into the jacket.
He opened the door. "Good-bye, Frankie."
She stood half-turned, her body facing the door, her head twisted to one side.
"Damn you." Her voice held no passion.
"Frankie, come on…"
"I love my husband. I would do anything to restore some peace to his world. I'm begging you, Gabriel. For once, just once, think of someone besides yourself. You've never used the ride for anything but selfish purposes."
He was starting to get angry. "You can say that-"
"I can say that because it's true. Alexander was right. The lives you saved, the good you did was incidental. It was all about you and the ride. And because of one bad ride you've decided to discard it like some worn-out shoe, which no longer fits."
She turned around and faced him directly. "Do you know how jealous I was of you at Eyestorm? That shocks you? Sweet little Frankie jealous of the man she loved? Well, guess what. There were times my envy was eating me up. There you were, slamming the ride so sweetly, with such ease, and treating it with such utter disrespect."
He was stung. "I never disrespected it."
"You were arrogant. And as for the rest of us… in your heart of hearts you had contempt for us all. We were just a bunch of dogged second-raters as far as you were concerned."
He stared at her, speechless. The ferocity in her eyes pushed against him with almost physical force.
"Why did you decide to quit, Gabriel?" She leaned forward, standing on tiptoe so that her face was almost level with his. "Did you really quit because of Melissa Cartwright or was it simply because your pride was hurt so badly that you couldn't face the possibility of failure again?"
"Get out." He looked down at his hands. They were actually trembling. He could feel the blood draining from his face. "Get out."
Her eyes suddenly stricken. "Gabriel, I'm sorry-"
"Just leave… please."
She lifted her hand as though to place it on his arm. "If you change your mind…" her voice trailed off uncertainly, "my telephone number is on the back of the photograph."
He didn't answer. After a brief moment she let her hand fall to her side and turned away from him. Her footsteps were heavy. At the bend in the hallway she paused and he thought she was going to look back at him. But then she continued walking and disappeared from sight.
He was suddenly deathly tired. He tried to make his mind a blank, to shut out the scene he had just lived through; the emotions, which had sapped his energy and his mental calm. Melissa Cartwright. Ash blond hair and violet eyes. Very pretty. In life that was.
No. Stop this. It would lead to nothing. What he needed was rest. Sleep. And tomorrow he would wake up and life would continue as before. He liked his life the way it was. He had worked hard at it. There was no room in it for old ghosts.
Just as he was about to turn off the light, his eye fell on the snapshot of Robert Whittington where it perched on the arm of the chair. For a moment he hesitated. But then he flipped the switch sharply, leaving the young face with the absurdly vulnerable eyes to stare gently into the darkness.
Entry Date: 3 June
It is time to stop grieving. R is gone.
Time to take life by the scruff of the neck again. To go to work.
What gives meaning to life? What is passion? These were the questions R was trying to answer.
R was a seeker. We were helping him on his journey. We allowed him to play the game. A sublime game: a divine experiment that would have helped him find the answers he was looking for. But in the end, the light was too strong for him. He could not go the distance.
He left.
M is right: we shouldn't feel guilty. Man is designed to experiment. And if the experiment is a glorious failure, well-rather a glorious failure than a life that ends up being nothing but a dismal accident.
I feel strong again. And if not happy-at least happier. Yes, I miss R. I miss the man who held me by the hand as we watched oceans melt. Rocks burn. But there are bright poppies with glowing eyes growing in my heart again. Even though he did not find what he was looking for, I believe R may be traveling still, his feet still searching for the path that does not wander.
I must meditate upon my name.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Watch out!"
Gabriel slammed on the brakes. A pedestrian-an overweight man carrying a package clutched to his stomach-had stepped out right in front of the car. Gabriel leaned on the horn. Opening the window, he shouted at the man, deriving some satisfaction from the pale, startled face and O-shaped mouth.
"Idiot." He closed the window and put his foot down. The car jerked in a way that was very bad for his temper. The next moment it stalled.
"Shit." He felt like punching something.
From the corner of his eye he could see Isidore watching him.
"What's up, bro?"
Gabriel shrugged. But he knew his irritability threshold these past few days had been low. And there was no way Isidore would not have noticed. Especially as he had been the target of Gabriel's ire more than once.
"I know what it is." Isidore nodded wisely. "You're still thinking about the lady."
Gabriel grimaced. A week before he had told Isidore about Frankie's visit during a sudden and unexpected urge to share. Brought on, it had to be said, by three excellent bottles of Rupert and Rothschild Baroness Nadine. It had all come pouring out. Frankie. Eye-storm. The missing heir. He had become quite maudlin if he remembered correctly-although the haze of alcohol that hung over the events of that evening made his recollections of their conversation not as sharp as they could have been. At the time the emotional purging had felt cathartic, but now he was sorry for it.
He could feel Isidore's curiosity plucking at him, but he didn't want to talk or think about that part of his life again. He didn't need old memories turning his mind soft. And he hadn't told Isidore about the Cartwright case. Not even a dozen bottles of wine could make him talk about that.
Melissa Cartwright. For years he had practiced not to think about her. But she had never gone away, had she? She was always around: an ethereal presence walking through his subliminal self.
Isidore's voice was casual. "I think your problem is that part of you really wants to do it."
"Do what, for God's sake?" Gabriel turned the key in the ignition. The car turned over lazily, finally caught.
"Help her. Help her and her old man find the son."