White Mountain (10 page)

David interrupted.
 
“I think you’re all overreacting.”

Thomas Mowry had been listening quietly, but when he heard what sounded like derision in David’s voice, he had to speak up.

“There are facts that cannot be ignored.
 
Please.
 
We should concentrate on them and not run amok here, worrying unnecessarily and blaming each other for what is, ultimately, inevitable.”

“What are you talking about?” Jasper cried.

“Age has caught up with us,” Thomas said.
 
“And…quite possibly our pasts.
 
We knew this could not go on forever.
 
Besides, we have Isabella to consider and protect.”

The other four looked at each other and then away, individually nodding or muttering.

“Yes, yes, Isabella,” David said.
 
“We have to think of our precious girl.”

“Right,” Thomas said.

For a moment there was silence, then Jasper asked, “So, what are we going to do about the last project?
 
You know how high Samuel’s hopes had been.
 
He kept claiming to have corrected the final flaw in our earlier works.”

Rufus sighed.
 
“Speaking of the works…I have news.”

The others grew silent, waiting, fearing, yet knowing that their sentence must be that they hear it, if for no other reason than the fact that they were the ones who had set it in motion.

“We have another self-destruct.”

There was a collective sigh of frustration and regret that went up within the room and then, moments later, Thomas asked, “Who?”

“Norma Jean Bailey.”

“The blond?” Thomas asked.

Rufus nodded.

Thomas’s voice began to shake.
 
“I had such high hopes for that one.
 
She’d already done some modeling and had enrolled in acting school, remember?”

Each man there averted his eyes from the others, choosing instead to look away, as if afraid to see blame in the other men’s eyes.
 
David Schultz simply bowed his head and covered his face with his hands.

Thomas Mowery stood abruptly.
 
“This leaves only two of the original twenty alive.
 
I find this an unacceptable reason to try once more.”
 
Then he strode to the window and stared out at the valley and White Mountain beyond.

John Michaels, who up until now had remained silent, cursed beneath his breath, then, oddly enough, began to cry.

The others said nothing.
 
What could they say that hadn’t been said before?
 
Finally Jasper broke the silence.

“Does this mean we scrap Samuel’s last project?”

“I say we take it to a vote,” David said.

The five old men looked at each other.
 
Finally they nodded in agreement.

“Then a vote it is,” Jasper said, and picked up a pen and a pad of paper from beside the telephone.
 
“Yes means we give the project one last try.
 
No means we quit.
 
Now.
 
With no regrets and no blame.”

“All right,” they echoed, and then each wrote his decision on a piece of paper and tore it off before passing the pad and pen to the next man.

David took a small porcelain bowl from a bookshelf, folded the paper his vote was on and dropped it into the bowl before passing it around.

One by one, the men dropped in their votes.
 
Jasper Arnold was the last.
 
He dropped in his paper, then set the bowl aside as if it contained something foul.

“It’s your bowl.
 
You count them,” John said, and handed the bowl to David.

David Schultz felt every one of his seventy-eight years as he moved to his desk with the bowl in his hands.

“Once the count is made, there is no going back.
 
Understood?”

He unfolded the first bit of paper.

“Yes. It reads yes.”

He laid it aside and picked up the next, unfolding it with methodical precision.

“No.”

He picked up the next and the next, until he had two votes for yes and two votes for no.
 
The room was completely silent except for the occasional hiss of an indrawn breath and the faint scratchy sound of paper against paper.

“This is the last and deciding vote.
 
What ever it—“

“Just do it!” Jasper cried.

David nodded, then unfolded the paper.
 
His nostrils flared.
 
His expression went blank.
 
He looked up.

The men held their breaths.

“Yes.”

A collective sigh filled the room, part of it tinged with disbelief, part of it echoing the inevitability of what lay ahead.

“Then that’s that,” David said.
 
“One more time.”

“For Samuel,” Jasper added.

“And for Frank,” Rufus said.

They nodded, then stood.
 
Without speaking, they left the apartment, adjourning to their own rooms to dress for breakfast.
 
There was work to be done.

Isabella handed the room key to the couple who’d just checked in, directed them to the elevator, then watched them as they walked away.
 
She didn’t have to ask.
 
She knew they were here for the clinic.
 
There had been so many over the years that she’d come to recognize the quiet look of desperation they all wore.
 
Saying a silent prayer for their success, she filed away their credit card information, then turned to answer the phone.
 
As she did, she missed seeing Jack Dolan’s descent down the stairs.

But he didn’t miss her.

He’d heard her voice before he’d seen her, and despite his hunger for a hearty breakfast, he had to see her again—in broad daylight, when he could be absolutely certain she wasn’t the ghost he’d first imagined her to be.

“Good morning.”

Isabella turned around and found herself face-to-face with the man from the lobby last night.
 
Her first impression was one of surprise.
 
The night before, she’d been so wrapped up in her own grief that she’d failed to pay him much attention.
 
To her, he’d just been a lost and hungry guest whom she’d fed and sent on his way.
 
But now, with the early morning sunlight coming in through the mullioned windows over the entry doors, she had ample light by which to see.
 
She took a deep breath.
 
There was plenty to see.

He was tall—taller even that her Uncle David, who was six feet two inches.
 
His hair was thick and straight, a warm, chocolate brown, and clipped very short.
 
His eyes were blue, with a tendency to squint.
 
She could tell by the tiny fans of wrinkles at the corners of both eyes.
 
He had the physique of a runner—lean and fit, without a spare ounce of flesh.
 
His shoulders were broad, as was the smile he gave her when he leaned across the desk.

“Good morning to you, too,” Isabella said.
 
“I trust you slept well after your midnight snack.”

Jack’s gaze swept the delicate curve of her cheek and neck, then back up to her face, looking for signs of exhaustion.
 
They were still there, behind the smile.

“I think I slept better than you,” he said.
 
“Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The dull ache in her heart shifted slightly as his concern gave her momentary ease.

“Thank you.”
 
Then she changed the subject.
 
“I’m guessing you’re headed to breakfast.
 
The dining room is across the lobby and to your left.”

Realizing he’d been politely dismissed, he nodded his thanks and turned away from the desk just a an odd assortment of elderly gentlemen exited the elevator and headed for the desk.

“Isabella…darling…you have no business working like this so soon.
 
Where is Delia?”

Isabella blew Thomas Mowry a kiss.
 
“Good morning, Uncle Thomas and quit fussing about me.
 
She’ll be here any moment, I’m sure.”

Jack nodded politely as, one by one, the men gave him a studied look.
 
These, he suspected, would be the men she referred to as her uncles.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jack said.

They nodded and smile, but Jack could tell they were only being polite.

“I’m Jack Dolan,” he said, and held out his hand to the nearest man.

David Schultz hesitated, but only briefly, then accepted Jack’s offered hand.

“Dr. David Schultz,” he said.
 
“The gentleman to my right is Dr. Jasper Arnold, then Rufus Toombs, John Michaels, and the last one on my right is Thomas Mowry.
 
We are Isabella’s uncles.
 
Are you visiting family in the area?”

“Nope,” Jack said.
 
“All my family is still in Louisiana.
 
I’m in the area gathering some research for a book.”

John Michaels clapped his hands in delight.

“A writer!
 
I always wanted to write, didn’t I, Thomas?”

Thomas Mowry shifted his glasses to a more comfortable position on his bulbous nose as he gave Jack a closer look.

“So you’re a writer, are you? Are you published?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah…I see.”

Jack felt a little like he used to feel when his father would look at his report card.
 
The disappointment was always there, even though he had tried hard not to show it.

“So, Mr. Dolan…what did you do before you decided to become a writer?
 
For a living, I mean.”

Jack grinned.
 
“The same thing I’m still doing.
 
I run a computer software business in Washington, D.C,”

“Enough,” Isabella announced.
 
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dolan.
 
I assure you we do not require our guests to undergo such rigorous questioning.
 
Delia is just pulling into the parking lot, so won’t you join us for breakfast?
 
I can promise there will be no more questions.”

Jack shrugged off her apology by offering her his elbow.

“I’ll willingly be grilled any time by an entire room full of uncles just to eat a meal with you.”

Isabella hesitated.
 
His gallantry was unexpected, but not unappealing.
 
She glanced at her uncles, who seemed to be waiting for her decision.
 
She surprised them and herself as she came out from behind the desk and slipped her hand beneath jack’s elbow.

There was a faint tremble in her voice, but her gaze was steady.
 
“My father always escorted me to the dining room.”

Jack gave her hand a quick squeeze of understanding, then looked at the five staring men.

“Gentlemen…won’t you join us?”

It was well that he’d asked, because they wouldn’t have let her get away with such a good-looking stranger.

Leonardo Silvia stood stoically behind his wife, Maria, as the doctor gave them the news.
 
It wasn’t as if it was the first time they’d heard the words, but the heartbreak was still the same.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Silvia, but the procedure did not work.
 
You’re not pregnant, and frankly.
 
I can’t promise you’ll ever be.
 
There are too many factors against it.”

Maria Silvia bore the news without blame, but in truth, she was angry—angry at God for denying them the only thing she had ever truly prayed for.
 
Oh, she’d said plenty of prayers in the past, and for lots of trivial things, like praying that Leonardo would get a raise at his job, and praying for forgiveness for various and sundry things.
 
But she’d never prayed from her soul the way she’d prayed for a child, and she’d been praying faithfully for more than five years.
 
Her shoulders slumped momentarily, and then she lifted her chin.

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Worth, but I am not ready to give up.”

Dr. Worth sighed.
 
In his thirty odd years of practice, he’d never seen a woman so determined.
 
No matter how many times she’d been disappointed, he had yet to see her break down or cast blame.
 
He looked from Leonardo to Maria and then back again, tapping his pen against his desk as he debated with himself about giving them any kind of false hope.
 
Still, as a doctor, he considered it his obligation to tell them everything he knew.