Donovan's Child

At a few minutes after ten, there was a tap on her sitting room door.

It was Ben, holding two plates of something sinfully chocolate. “You left before dessert. No one makes flourless chocolate cake like Anton.”

She took one of the plates and a fork and stepped aside. “Okay. Since there’s chocolate involved, you can come in.” She poked at the dollop of creamy white stuff beside the sinfully dark cake. “Crème fraîche?”

“Try it.”

She did. “Wonderful. Your boss may deserve slow torture and an agonizing death, but I have no complaints about the food.”

They sat on the couch and ate without speaking until both of their plates were clean.

“Feel better?” He set his plate on the coffee table.

She put hers beside it. “I do. Much. Thank you.”

Ben stared off toward the doors to the darkened courtyard. “I started working for him two years ago, before the accident on the mountain. At the time, I really liked him. He used to be charming. He honestly did.”

“I know,” she answered gently. “I heard him speak once. He was so funny. Funny and inspiring. He made it all seem so simple. We were an auditorium full of students, raw beginners. Yet we came away feeling we were brilliant and accomplished, that we could do anything, that we understood what makes a building work, what makes it both fully functional and full of … meaning, too. Then, after he spoke, there was a party for the upperclassmen and professors, with Donovan the guest of honor. I was a freshman, not invited. But I heard how he amazed them all, how fascinating he was, how full of life, how … interested in everything and everyone. We all wanted to be just like him when we grew up.”

“I keep waiting,” Ben said, “for the day I wake up and he’s changed back into the man he used to be. But it’s been a while now. And the change is nowhere on the horizon.”

She asked the central question. “So. What happened to him? Was it the accident on the mountain?”

Ben only smiled. “That, I really can’t tell you. You’ll have to find out from him.”

She scoffed. “I don’t think I’ll hold my breath.”

“He likes you.”

That made her laugh. “Oh, come on.”

“Seriously. He does. I know him well enough by now to read him a little, at least. He finds you fascinating. And attractive—both of which you are.”

Was Ben flirting with her? She slid him a look. He was still staring off into the middle distance. So maybe not. “Well, if you’re right, I would hate to see how he treats someone he doesn’t like.”

“He ignores them. He ignores almost everyone now. Just pretends they aren’t even there. Sends me or Olga to deal with them.”

She gathered her knees up to the side. “This evening, before dinner, someone arrived and was sent away, someone in a red Cadillac. I didn’t see who, but I heard a woman’s voice talking to Olga at the door….”

Ben shrugged. “People come by, now and then. When they get fed up with him not returning their calls. When they can’t take the waiting, the wondering if he’s all right, the stewing over what could be going on with him.”

“People like …?”

“Old friends. Mountain climbers he used to know, used to partner with. Beginning architects he once encouraged.”

“Old girlfriends, too?”

“Yes.” Ben sent her a patient glance. “Old girlfriends, too.”

She predicted, “Eventually, they’ll all give up on him. He’ll get what he seems to be after. To be completely alone.”

Ben’s dark eyes gleamed. “With his cook and his housekeeper and his engineer.”

She told him gently, “I didn’t mean that as a criticism of you.”

He smiled. A warm smile. “I know you didn’t.”

“I just don’t get what’s up with him.”

“Well, don’t worry. You’re not the only one.”

“How will he live, if he doesn’t work? This house alone must cost a fortune to run.”

“His books still make money.”

“But an architect needs clients. We’re not like painters or writers. We can’t go into a room and lock the door and turn out a masterpiece and then try to sell it….”

“I know,” Ben said softly. He admitted, “Eventually, there could be a problem. But not for a few years yet, anyway….” There was a silence. Ben was gazing off toward the courtyard again.

Finally, she said, “You seemed pretty stuffy at first.”

He chuckled. “Like the butler in one of those movies with Emma Thompson, right?”

“Pretty much. But now I realize you’re not like someone’s snobby butler, not in the least. You’re okay, Ben.”

He did look at her then. His dark eyes were so sad. “I was afraid, after the way he behaved at dinner, that he’d succeeded in chasing you off. I hope he hasn’t. He needs a little interaction, with someone other than Anton, or Olga. Or me.”

“A fresh victim, you mean.”

“No. I mean someone smart and tough and aggressively optimistic.”

“Aggressively optimistic? That’s a little scary.”

“I meant it in the best possible way.”

“Oh, right.”

“I meant someone able to keep up with him—I could use someone like that around here, too, when you come right down to it. Someone like you …”

“I wouldn’t say I’m exactly keeping up with him.”

“Well, I would.”

She drooped back against the couch cushions. “Okay, I’m still here. But it’s going to take a lot of chocolate, you know.”

“I’ll make sure that Anton keeps it coming.” He got up. “And I’ll let you get your rest.”

She waited until he reached the door before she said, “Good night.”