Woman in Black (56 page)

There was only one thing left to resolve: Vaughn. She was being foolish, she realized, in letting her fear of losing him hold her back. He could die, sure. Or he could be released back into the wild, where he'd be just as lost to her. Either way, she couldn't let that stop her from telling him how she felt. He had to know that she loved him. That she wanted to find a way to make this work.

Unconsciously, Abigail reached into her coat pocket, idly fingering the smooth, metallic surface of her Nokia, into which she'd programmed the number for Gillian's loft.

19

While Abigail was contemplating phoning Vaughn, he was in his doctor's office contemplating the possibility that he might not live out the year.

He sat tensely, bracing himself for bad news, as Dr. Grossman closed the file that had lain open on his desk. Normally his nurse gave Vaughn the test results over the phone, but this time the doctor had asked him to come into the office. Now Vaughn studied the man's face as closely as a moment ago Grossman had been studying his chart. Short, rotund, with a mop of gingery curls shot with gray and an affinity for Oxfords and rumpled tweeds, Dr. Grossman brought to mind an aging vaudevillian doing a doctor routine, only there was nothing jocular about Vaughn's hematologist-oncologist, who had the bedside manner of a surgical-steel instrument. Nothing in the poker-faced expression he wore from which to draw encouragement. He could be gearing up to deliver a death sentence.

When at last the doctor's face relaxed in a smile, it was like a last-minute reprieve from the electric chair. “Well, Vaughn, I'm happy to report that these all look fine,” he said, tapping the file in front of him with a stubby, ink-stained finger. “Your CBC readings are good. Your white count is thirteen point three—well within normal range. And nothing lit up on your PET scan this time. That's why I asked you to come in today, so I could give you the news in person—I think it's safe to say you're cancer-free.” His smile widened into a grin. It was the first time in all these months that Vaughn had actually seen him grin.

Vaughn let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The room seemed to rock a bit, like a boat listing at sea. “Wow. That's …” He paused to shake his head, unable to find the words to express what he was feeling.

“We'll need to continue monitoring you, of course,” Dr. Grossman went on. “I want you back here in three months' time, and every three months after that for the next two years at least. But for now, I'd say you're good to go. Congratulations, Vaughn.” He stood up to shake Vaughn's hand. “So what's next? You must be eager to get back to work.”

“You don't know the half of it.” Vaughn had simply been living day to day, trying not to think too far ahead, but now he realized that he was itching to get back into the field.

“I guess that means you'll soon be off to some remote corner of the globe.”

“The farther away, the better. As long as I never have to set foot inside another doctor's office. For another three months, that is,” Vaughn remembered to add. “No offense, Doc.”

“None taken.” Dr. Grossman smiled. “Just don't let it go any longer than that.” He consulted the calendar on his desk, counting forward from April. “We'll see you the end of July, then?”

“You can count on it. Otherwise I'd have to rely on witch doctors, and believe me, as much as I'm open to new experiences, I don't want to go there,” Vaughn joked. Reflexively, he ran a hand through his hair, gratified and a bit surprised, as always, by how long and thick it was. It had come back, and so had his life. Now all he had to do was figure out where to put that life.

Strolling west along East 68th Street on his way to the subway, he couldn't seem to stop smiling. He felt more lighthearted than he had in a very long while. In his mind, he saw the years spooling out ahead him like fresh blacktop on an open highway. He thought of all the places yet to explore and of the adventures yet to experience. He thought of …

Abigail
.

Suddenly he realized what this would mean for them. Weeks snatched here and there between gigs. Phone calls and e-mails that were poor substitutes for the real thing. But what was the alternative? He wasn't about to retire, and he could hardly ask her to join him in the field. Even if she were willing, she had her daughter to think of, not to mention her business. Besides, when on assignment, he always flew solo, with the exception of his crew.

His mother's words came back to haunt him:
It's time you settled down and started a family
. Words spoken so often during her lifetime that they'd become almost a joke. As if she'd had anything but the remotest idea of what family was, her view had been so distorted from looking out at the world through the bottom of a wineglass. Not wanting to go with her into
all
the reasons he'd remained steadfastly single, Vaughn had always deflected the remark with some casual comment about not having met the right woman yet.

But now he
had
met the right woman. No, that wasn't quite accurate—Abigail had owned a piece of his heart all along. A heart that would be going back into cold storage before too long.

Two days ago, he'd gotten a call from Don Dempsey, a producer at the Discovery channel whom he'd worked with in the past. Don was putting together a crew—Denny Engstrom, Bif Harder, Judd Turnbull, and the gentle giant Olaf Lundgren, known to all as “Swede”—for a special on the creation of a newly designated wildlife preserve in the African nation of Gabon. Filming would start in two weeks' time. Did Vaughn think he'd be up to it? Don had wanted to know. Vaughn had expressed interest but left the door open, just in case. Now, with the green light from his doctor, he was already mentally booking his flight.

The only question that remained was where that left him and Abigail. They'd never spoken of a future together. He wasn't even sure if that was what she wanted. With all the complications in her life right now, why take on another one in the form of a (previously) cancer-ridden boyfriend with itchy feet and not much more to offer than the occasional roll in the hay between gigs? Oh, and let's not forget that he'd effectively be homeless. Still, he'd hoped that maybe …

It was a strange and not altogether comfortable feeling, this hope, after having spent his entire adult life chafing at such bonds. He'd never before questioned his priorities. Work had always come first, second, and third. Even if Abigail would have him, what the hell was he supposed to
do
with her?

He felt a little bad, too, about leaving his sister in the lurch. But Lila would be okay. She was doing better than he'd expected. His nephew was going to be fine, too. Neal was a good kid who'd temporarily lost his way but now he seemed to be on the right track.

And then there was Gillian. She'd known, of course, that it was only a matter of time before he moved out—either on his own steam or feet first. But he had the feeling the conversation he was about to have with her would be difficult nonetheless. She'd grown accustomed to having him around. They might not have been together in the sense that she would have wished, but they slept under the same roof and took most of their meals together, and when his laundry came out of the dryer, it was tangled up with hers.

He arrived back at the loft to find Gillian in her studio, in the process of welding a piece of metal onto a huge steel sculpture that she was doing for an office building in SoHo. The concrete-floored space, sectioned off from the living area by a solid wall of firebrick, was where his ex-girlfriend spent most of her time when she wasn't on site for an installation. She was as at home here as he was in airports and out in the field. Watching her in her painter's coveralls and protective shield, expertly wielding her propane torch, a fountain of sparks flying out around her, he felt a deep affection for her, thinking of how much she'd sacrificed for him.

She noticed him standing there and switched off her torch, lifting the plastic shield over her face to flash him a grin. “Hey, you. I didn't expect you back until later. How'd it go?”

He shrugged. “You know doctors—in and out.”

Her eyes searched his face. “So? What did he say?” From her carefully subdued tone, it was obvious that she'd been on pins and needles all morning, awaiting word on his test results.

“You,” he said, “are looking at a man who's cancer-free.” She let out a whoop and dashed over to him, jumping up into his arms and wrapping her legs around his. She was so tiny, the full weight of her came as a shock. Gillian wasn't one to walk lightly through life.
Or let go easily
, he thought. He eased her back onto her feet. “The timing couldn't be better. Don Dempsey from the Discovery channel called the other day. He has a gig lined up, and he asked if I was ready to go back to work.” Vaughn spoke casually, attempting to downplay it.

“And what did you tell him?”

“I haven't told him anything yet. I'm telling you first.”

Gillian was standing so erect and taut, she was almost quivering: an aerial antenna picking up a distress signal. As the realization of what this meant sank in, she began to shake her head, slowly at first, then more vehemently. “No. You're not ready. It's too soon!”

“The doctor said it was okay for me to go back to work.”

“He doesn't know you like I do. He doesn't know the kind of life you lead. What if you have a setback? How are you supposed to get proper medical care off in some godforsaken part of the world?”

“It's not like I'll be completely out of touch,” he pointed out. “Nothing's ever more than a few days' jeep ride to the nearest outpost. And I can always catch a plane home, if need be. I'll be fine.”

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Where to this time?” she asked wearily.

“Gabon.”

“You'll have to excuse me. I flunked geography in school. I don't even know where the fuck Gabon is,” she said.

“Nowhere you'd ever want to be,” he assured her. “But it's what passes for civilization in that part of the world, so I should be all right in the event of an emergency.”

“That's a comfort,” she said sarcastically.

“Hey, don't be so gloomy. I should think I'd have pretty much worn out my welcome by now.” He made an attempt at leavening the mood. “Just think, after I leave, you'll have the whole place to yourself again. No more wet towels on the shower rod. And you won't have to remind me to put the toilet seat down.”

A small line appeared between her knitted brows, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Don't talk down to me. I'm not a kid,” she growled. “You know why I don't want you to go.”

He sighed. “Gil …”

“Oh, I know what you're thinking,” she went on. “You think just because we're not sleeping together, you can waltz off, no strings attached. But that's not how it works, buster.
Everything
has strings attached. Just because you choose not to see them, it doesn't mean they're not there.”

“I can't stay. You know that. Don't think I'm not grateful for everything you've done. But, Gil, we both knew this day would come.”

“I never expected you to give up your career. That's not what I want.”

“Then what
do
you want?” An edge of exasperation crept into his voice.

“Something other than a pat on the back would be nice.” She studied him for a moment, wearing a faintly quizzical look, as if searching for something. But she must not have found what she was looking for because she abruptly threw up her hands and cried, “Go. Just go, will you? Go pack your frickin' bags. Maybe I
will
be glad to see you go. You're a pain in the ass sometimes, you know that, Vaughn? A real pain in the ass.”

“I didn't say I was leaving this very second.” Vaughn reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder, but she flinched and jerked back as if a spark from her propane torch had landed on her.

“All right, then, I'm
asking
you to go. Allow me that much, at least. I don't see why I should have you hang around just so I can have the fun of being tortured some more.” She pulled a crumpled Kleenex from the front pocket of her overalls and blew her nose into it. “You can always stay with Abby. Why not? You're already sleeping with her.”

Vaughn was momentarily taken aback. How had she known? He'd gone out of his way to be discreet.

She scoffed at the dumbfounded expression he must have worn. “Men. You're all alike. No, I didn't find a pair of panties under the bed that weren't mine, if that's what you're thinking. But I have eyes in my head, and I know what my gut tells me. You're fucking her, aren't you?” It wasn't a question.

Vaughn felt his back go up. It wasn't as if he owed Gillian an explanation. He'd always been up front with her, even when they were dating, never making any promises that he'd had no intention of keeping. “Whether we are or we aren't is beside the point,” he replied coolly.

“The point,” she jabbed a finger at him, “is that you love
her
, not me.” All at once, having voiced the words that had lain between them all these months, unspoken, like some invisible Rubicon neither of them had dared cross, her pixie's face crumpled. “I get it. I'm not stupid. I knew you weren't in love with me, but I thought—” She broke off with a small, choked cry.

Vaughn gathered into his arms the tight, quivering knot of flesh that was his ex-girlfriend and soon-to-be ex-roommate. He felt like a rat. Whatever spin he might try to put on it, the bald truth was that he'd selfishly taken advantage of her while he'd needed her, only to discard her when he no longer had any use for her. She had every right to be angry at him. And she wasn't the first one to react like this—he'd been down this road with other women, too many to count.