A Child Shall Lead Them

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.