No job. Sick daughter. And now … this. Shani read and reread the names and addresses on the envelope, both hers on the front and her attorney’s on the back. Inside it were the shredded, tattered, decomposing remnants of the past five years of her life. Knowing it was coming didn’t soften the blow any.
And a blow it was; a sucker punch to the gut that obliterated any fancified notions she might still be holding about Christophe and the love she’d had for him. Where was he anyway? Back home in Martinique, most likely. And, if she knew him—and she did—out celebrating his freedom in a Fort-de-France bar, or in the bed of some young Martiniquaise with more libido than sense.
She felt the cold rails of the balcony under her fingers, steadying her as she swayed. Aching so deep inside she wished she could reach in and tear out the organ that was causing her so much hurt. Her wedding band, a little loose these days since she’d lost a few pounds, constricted. If the vein in the fourth finger led directly to the heart, as the ancients believed, she wouldn’t need to rip her heart out. It would shrivel and die all on its own for lack of blood flow.
There was a movement next to her, a light hand on her forearm and a voice in her ear. “Shani.”
Elliot. She knew he was there, but his touch and voice startled her anyway. She tried to focus on his face.
“Yes?”
“Maybe you should go inside. Have a glass of water. Sit for a minute.”
Her rattling thoughts aligned themselves in some semblance of order. Inside. Right. She nodded. She patted herself down for her keys before she remembered they were clutched in her hand. She tried to fit the key in the lock, but it wouldn’t go. Wrong one. She tried again, the soft scratching sound of metal against metal amplified ten times.
“Let me.” Elliot’s cool hands pried the keys from her incompetent fingers and he slid them into the lock. Easily. As though he was used to it.
The tumblers rolled over inside the lock, but he didn’t have the chance to open the door. It was snatched from his hand, startling them both. Gina Pak was standing there in the minuscule hallway, panting a little. She was even tinier than her father, glossy hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a red T-shirt and jeans, both of which were damp.
“Shani!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry I didn’t get the door right away. I was giving Béatrice a sponge bath. She’s up to a hundred and five. And she threw up, twice.”
Bee! Panic and shame. For a full five minutes, Christophe had managed to shove her poor baby from the forefront of her mind. Did he still exert such a power over her, that on a night as awful as this, she could forget she was on a rescue mission?
“Where’s she?” she asked, even though she knew.
Gina pointed. Without looking at the wretched envelope again, she threw it to the floor and hastened to the bedroom, which she shared with her daughter. The room was decorated more like a child’s nursery than a room in which an adult slept. It was bright yellow, her daughter’s favorite color, and strewn with enough bee motifs to make Sting himself gag. A bee mobile swayed over the bed, cartoon bees smiled down from the walls and bee suncatchers dangled behind drawn curtains. Bee lived up to her name.
She was lying on her back. Her thick hair, which usually sprang up all over in a cheery mop, was damp from the bath. She had nothing on but a pair of panties and a yellow cotton Winnie the Pooh T-shirt. Her limp limbs were carelessly sprawled, her small, dark, pointed face slack. Eyes fire-bright. Bee spotted her and managed a smile. “Mama!”
Shani reached to smooth the hair from Bee’s brow, but Elliot was in the way, on his knees at the child’s bedside, lifting each eyelid with his thumbs and examining her eyes, then her nostrils and mouth, tilting her head to each side to look into her ears, too.
Shani was too stunned and confused to move.
“How old is she?” he asked.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“How old is she?”
Not wanting to be left out of the conversation, Bee piped up. “I’m three and a half!”
“You are? You’re a really big girl!” Elliot was soft-voiced, indulgent, his hands still working on her.
Bee watched him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, her bleary eyes trying to focus. “You a doctor?”
“No, I’m not, but I’m just gonna check you out, if you let me.” He tenderly ran his fingers along her throat then lifted her shirt and carefully looked over her torso.
“No blotches,” he murmured. “That’s good.” Strong fingers encircled the tiny wrist, and he fixed his eyes on his watch, counting pulse beats.
A scary thought crossed Bee’s mind, and she gave him a panicked look. “No shots! No shots!” She lifted her eyes to her mother, pleading for her intervention if a needle should appear.
For Shani, that was too much. Elliot looked as though he knew what he was doing; she certainly hadn’t a clue what to do herself, but her territorial instincts were aroused, her hackles up. “Elliot, I asked you a question.”
He turned to Gina, who was as puzzled as she was. “Has she eaten anything this evening?”
“Not much.”
“Drinking okay? Thirsty?”
Bee pouted, as if she suspected that any second now, one of the grown-ups was going to try to force something into her. “No! Not thirsty!”
Elliot mumbled something and patted the damp hair. Bee relaxed a little, sinking back into the pillows, but still frowned suspiciously at the adults surrounding her.
Gina shook her head. “She didn’t want her juice, or water. I made her take a few sips, but—”
That was enough. Shani shouldered Elliot aside and threw her arms around her daughter. The child’s skin was on fire. He didn’t resist, didn’t look the least bit offended.
“You said you aren’t a doctor …”
“No, but I know what I’m doing.”
“How, exactly?”
He shrugged. “Peace Corps. Two years in Haiti after college.”
She was momentarily stunned. A member of the wealthy Bookman clan, in the Peace Corps?
Without offering any further explanation, he extricated a blanket from the pile of rumpled bedding and seemed about to reach for Bee again, but then he thought better of it and held it out to Shani. “Wrap her up. It’s cold out.”
Shani did as she was told. Bee didn’t resist, which was scary in itself. Usually, getting any article of clothing onto her daughter required a chase around the bed, three or four laps at least, and maybe a foray into the living room. But Bee was as boneless and unresisting as a sleeping cat. As she lifted the hot little bundle into her arms, Bee wound her hands around her neck, face pressed against her breast.
Elliot followed her to the door. He turned to Gina, who was hovering, her expression a mixture of concern
