The Only Solution(2)

       
           



       

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.