And as for the rest of it, about how Marissa's parents would ruin Rory? Wendy swallowed hard.
She'd never met the Burgesses. They hadn't even come themselves to go through Marissa's belongings after her death; an attorney had handled the details. The only things she knew about Marissa's family was what the young woman had said in anger and – at the last – in pain. Marissa was young and a bit self-centered, without the understanding that maturity might have brought. Perhaps, without even realizing it, she had exaggerated. In any case, Wendy would have to take the chance.
She was a few minutes late to work. Not that it mattered much now, she supposed. The projects which had been so important and so timely a few days ago were as dry and worthless as last year's news. She'd been working on next season's catalog, and there wasn't much sense in writing descriptions aimed at selling valves and gauges that would never be manufactured, was there?
But her colleagues in the marketing department were not standing in groups around the coffee pot and the water machine, analyzing their predicament, as she had expected. If anything, the atmosphere was more harried than usual. In the rows of small cubicles, heads were bent over drawing boards and desks. They were all updating their resumes, Wendy concluded.
Her boss came out of his glass-walled office and crossed to her cubicle. "You're late," he accused.
Stress and anger and worry and lack of sleep all stirred together made a potent explosive, and Wendy spoke before she thought. "So fire me."
He frowned. "Don't be impudent."
Wendy bit her tongue. Under the circumstances, she needed the best reference Jed Landers could give her. "Sorry, Jed. It's the shock, that's all. What's going on?"
"We need to plan a campaign to sell out the last of the inventory."
"Sort of a final clearance?" She frowned. "Doesn't the bankruptcy receiver take care of that?"
"You don't want to work, Miller?"
"I was just asking." She hung her raincoat on a hook. Even if the assignment was meaningless, it would be better than doing nothing. Just putting in time for the next two weeks would drive her around the bend. "Jed? Is there going to be any company support for job-hunting? Any counseling or help in finding contacts?"
"Not that I've heard about. If there is, I'll let you know." He put a stack of computer paper on the corner of her desk. "Here are the inventory records as of yesterday."
Wendy reached for the stack and a pencil. It was mid-afternoon before she managed even a lunch break, and then she merely toyed with a tuna-salad sandwich for a while before returning to her desk. The only advantage to the whole situation, she thought, was that no one asked what on earth was making her so blue. They all knew – or thought they did. Or else they were too absorbed in their own troubles even to notice hers.
She finished her part of the sales campaign and took it into Jed's office. He took it with a grunt, not even glancing at her. Wendy reminded herself that Jed, too, was going to be out of a job soon. At his age, and with a couple of kids in college... well, it was no wonder he was grumpy.
Besides, it wasn't really Jed's moodiness that was bothering her. It was the telephone call she had to make.
She went back to her cubicle, took a slip of paper out of her raincoat pocket, and spread it on the desk blotter. She had gotten the number last night from directory assistance, just as soon as she had made her decision. She couldn't put it off any longer.
But it might be too late to call, she thought, and looked hopefully at the clock. She had only a business number; the Burgess home telephone was unlisted. And since it was an hour later in Chicago than it was in Phoenix, Samuel Burgess might be gone. If he kept bankers' hours...
He wasn't precisely a banker, though. Wendy wasn't quite certain what he was. In fact, she had known Marissa for months, and they'd even shared the apartment for a while, before she'd had any information about the girl's family. Not that it mattered, of course. In the circles they moved in, no one asked questions about origins or connections or ancestry.
But once a month or so, Marissa got mail from a place called The Burgess Group – expensive linen envelopes with the return address engraved in sleek script and her name crisply typed. No computer labels and no cheap ink-jet print. The contents frequently made Marissa swear, and that was what finally sent Wendy's curiosity into orbit and prompted her to ask if there was a family connection, since it wasn't exactly a common name.
"Just my father, damn it," Marissa had said. "He likes to play with people's lives as well as their money." Then she stalked off.
In the year Wendy had known her, Marissa had said little more about her family or her origins. But after the accident, when the hospital started asking about next-of-kin, Wendy had been able to point them in the right direction. It had made her feel a little less inadequate. And now that she had to do something about Rory, at least she knew where to look for the child's grandfather.
It would be better to contact Marissa's father than her mother, she had reasoned. It was going to come as a shock to the Burgesses, months after their daughter's death, to find that she had left a child they'd never heard about. But Samuel Burgess was a businessman, and Wendy was betting he'd be more level-headed about the whole thing than his wife could ever be.
The Burgess Group even sounded expensive. The telephone didn't ring, it seemed to purr, and Wendy guessed that the receptionist had had the benefit of musical training. "How may I direct your call?" she asked.
Wendy took a deep breath. "I'd like to speak to Samuel Burgess, please." She waited for the inevitable questions – who she was, what she wanted – but the receptionist merely thanked her, and the purring started again.
Of course, Wendy thought. There would be another layer or two of secretaries to screen her call; Samuel Burgess would not be likely to answer his own telephone.
The purring stopped, and a masculine voice murmured in her ear. She hardly registered what he said, because the voice was so different from her expectations. It was deep and rich, and yet soft – and the effect was like being wrapped in a warm blanket and lifted off her feet.
"Burgess," he said again. There was a trace of impatience this time.
Wendy dried her palm on her denim skirt and shifted the telephone to the other ear, almost dropping it in the process. "Hello? Mr. Burgess, my name is Wendy Miller. I'm calling about – "
"Can you speak up?"
"I'm calling about – " She wet her lips. "I have to talk to you about your granddaughter."
She had expected the instant of stunned silence, but she hadn't anticipated the chuckle which followed. Like his speaking voice, his laugh was deep and rich and warm. "My granddaughter? I hardly think so, since I haven't got one."
Wendy cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, but there's no easy way to put this. She's Marissa's daughter."
"I think you've been misinformed." All the warmth and charm had died out of his voice; what was left was steel-hard and icicle-cold. It made Wendy shiver.
"I know that Marissa's dead," she said hastily. "But-"
"And you're trying to capitalize on the situation?" Each word was clipped and harsh.
"Of course not. I..." She stopped. He wasn't even going to give her a chance.
Don't let my parents get their hands on my baby, Marissa had begged. They'll ruin her, too.
Wendy had thought Marissa must be exaggerating. Now she was beginning to understand. Little Rory was all sunshine and happiness – but how long would that last around this cold, harsh man?
You don't know if he's really like that, Wendy reminded herself. He'd had a shock; naturally he was suspicious. He'd been perfectly charming a moment ago. Of course, then he'd been expecting her to be a client, not a spot of personal trouble.
What am I doing? she thought in panic. She was giving away the most important things she possessed – a child more valuable to her than life itself, and her ethical standards as well.
A promise was a promise, and she'd been wrong to act so quickly. She'd assumed that Marissa was mistaken, that no grandparent could be anything but loving and nurturing to a darling like Rory. But she didn't know the Burgesses. Marissa had known them – and with her dying breath she had begged.