Donovan's Child

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.”

“‘Night, Abilene.” And he was gone.

“It’s not a horrible arrangement of the space,” Donovan announced when she entered the studio the next day. He was already at his desk, staring at his computer screens.

She saw that her design for the center was up on the computer at the desk she’d used the day before—which meant he was probably looking at the same thing on his two ginormous screens.

Just to be sure, she marched down the length of the room and sidled around to join him behind his desk.

Yep. It was her design. Up on display like a sacrificial offering at a summoning of demons. Ready to be ripped to shreds by the high priest of darkness.

He shot her an aggravated glance. “What? You do have a desk of your own, you know.”

She sidled in closer, and then leaned in to whisper in his ear. “But yours is so much bigger, so much … more impressive.”

He made a snarly sound. “Did I mention you annoy me?”

“Yes, you did. Don’t repeat yourself. It makes you seem unimaginative.” He smelled good. Clean. With a faint hint of some really nice aftershave. How could some one who smelled so good be such an ass?

It was a question for the ages.

“You’re crowding me,” he growled.

“Oh, I’m so sorry….” She straightened again, and stepped back from him, but only a fraction.

“No, you’re not—and I don’t like people lurking behind me, either.”

“Fair enough.” She slid around so she was beside him again, put her hand on his sacrificial slab of a desk and leaned in as close as before. “I slept well, surprisingly. And I’m feeling much better this morning, thank you.”

He turned his head slowly. Reluctantly. And met her eyes. “I didn’t ask how you slept.”

“But you should have asked.”

“Yeah. Well, don’t expect a lot of polite noises from me.”

She heaved a fake sigh. “I only wish.”

“If you absolutely have to lurk at my elbow, pay attention.” He turned back to the monitors, began clicking through the views. “Have you noticed?”

This close, she could see the hair follicles of his just-shaved beard. His skin was as golden and flawless from beside him as from several feet away. He must get outside now and then, to have such great color in his face. And his neck. And his strong, lean hands. “Noticed what?”

“It lacks a true parti.” The parti, pronounced par-TEE, as in We are going to par-tee, was the central idea or concept for a building. In the process of creating a building design, the parti often changed many times.

She jumped to her own defense. “It does not lack a parti.”

He sent her a look. “You never mentioned the parti.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Well, all right then. What is the parti?” He let out a dry chuckle. “Nestled rectangles?”

Okay, his guess was way too close. She’d actually been thinking of the parti as learning rectangles. Which somehow seemed ham-handed and far too elementary, now he’d taken his scalpel of a tongue to it.

“What’s wrong with rectangles?” She sounded defensive and she knew it. “They’re classrooms. Activity rooms. A rectangle is a perfectly acceptable shape for a classroom.”

“Children deserve a learning space as open and receptive as their young minds.”

“Oh, wait. The great man speaks. I should write that down.”

“Yes, you should. You should carry a notebook around with you, and a pen, be ready to jot down every pearl of wisdom that drops from my lips.” He spoke with more irony than egotism.

And she almost laughed. “You know, you are amusing now and then—in your own totally self-absorbed way.”

“Thank you. I agree. And you need to start with some soft sketches. You need to get off the computer and go back to the beginning, start working with charcoal, pastels and crayons.”

“Starting over. Wonderful.”

“To truly gain control of a design,” he intoned, “one must first accept—even embrace—the feeling that everything is out of control.”

“I’m so looking forward to that.”

“And we have to be quick about it. I told the Foundation we’d be ready to bring in the whole team in six weeks.” He meant the builder, the other architects and the engineers.

“Did you just say that we’d be ready?”

“I decided it would be unwise to go into how I won’t be involved past the planning stages.”

“Good thinking. Since you know exactly how that would go over—it wouldn’t. It won’t. They’re counting on you.”

“And they will learn to count on you.”

“So you totally misled them.”

He looked down his manly blade of a nose at her. “Better that they see the design and the scale model and love it first, meet you at your most self-assured and persuasive. You can give them a full-out oral presentation, really wow them. Make them see that you’re not only confident, you’re completely capable of handling the construction on your own.”

“Confident, capable, self-assured and persuasive. Well. At least I like the sound of all that.”

He granted her a wry glance. “You have a lot of work to do. Don’t become overly confident.”

“With you around? Never going to happen.”

Loftily, he informed her, “March one is the target date for breaking ground.”

She put up a hand, forefinger extended. “If I might just make one small point.”

“As if I could stop you.”

“I can’t help but notice that suddenly, you’re all about not wasting time. What’s that old saying? ‘Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.’”

“The tight timeline has nothing to do with my planning, poor or otherwise.”

“Planned or not, you’re the one who kept us from going ahead months ago.”

“Since you seem to be so fond of clichés, here’s one for you. Can we stop beating the same dead horse? Yes, I put the project on hold. Now I’m ready to get down to work.”

“And the timeline is impossibly tight.”

“That may be so.”

“How generous of you to admit it.”

“But in the end, Abilene, there is only one question.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Do you want to make a success of this or not?”

Okay. He had it right for once. That was the question. “Yes, Donovan. I do.”

“Then go back to your work area, get out your pastels, your charcoal, your fat markers. And stop fooling around.”

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