1. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Fifth Floor Surgery Waiting Room
The elevator door near the nurse's desk opens, and Clark Durand pushes himself through impatiently, his thick gray winter coat flying out behind him. His sister Beth's pace is far more measured, walking with her arms wrapped around her abdomen as if literally trying to keep herself together.
Clark's eyes scan the area wildly before he finally spots the familiar figure of his closest friend, sitting near the windows. Rena Carlson sees him almost at the same time, and -- after squeezing the arm of the man next to her in a little parting gesture -- she hurries to Clark's side. Greg White looks after her with an understanding nod, which she doesn't see.
"Oh honey," Rena whispers, her arms slipping beneath Clark's open coat to encircle his waist. "How's your mom? I saw them take her into O.R. Five with her neck immobilized, but I didn't get a chance to ask them what was going on."
Clark hugs her, not wanting to let go. "It's a cervical fracture," he says quietly. "The MRI came back with good results, thank God -- it's a relatively minor fracture -- but Avigad wants to make sure there's no attendant cord injury."
Tightening her lips, all too aware of the possibilities, Rena takes a few seconds before responding. "Well ... at least they got her stable enough to get into surgery. We know that's a good sign, right? And you know there's no better person in Orthopedics than Dalit Avigad."
Too superstitious to agree to Rena's hopeful outlook, Clark shrugs and looks over her head to the others waiting at the other end of the room. "What's happening with Doug?"
Rena quickly catches Clark up to Doug's injuries, concluding with the fact that he's still in surgery. "I'm afraid he wasn't as lucky as your mom," she adds. "...If you can call a broken neck lucky."
"In a way, she was lucky. I spoke with the EMS guys who brought them in. Apparently Doug helped bandage up her head wound, and kept her from moving until they got there. If she'd lost more blood, I don't know if she'd be in as good shape as she is now." Clark wipes his mouth with his hand, a little ill at the thought of his mother's injuries. "So I guess I'm glad he was in there with her. Though I'll be damned if I know why he was there."
Rena doesn't comment, but glances back at ghost-like woman behind Clark. "You doing okay, Beth?"
Beth nods. "I'm going to sit down," she says weakly, not waiting for any acknowledgement before moving to a chair away from the others.
After watching her, Rena then turns back to Clark. "She looks like she's going to faint. Has she eaten anything tonight?"
"I'd assume so. She was at the gala, wasn't she?"
"Actually, I didn't see her at the dinner. I mean, it was awfully crowded, so I guess--"
"She must've been there. She only just got home right after I found out the fire. Whatever, Rena -- frankly, for once Beth's the least of my worries." Clark stares down the hallway in the direction of the O.R. "Look, I'm going to see if I can give blood or anything. I don't even know what my mother's type is, can you believe it? But at least it'll give me something to do."
"That's a great idea. Why don't you take Beth with you?"
"Rena--"
"Well, she might want to give blood too. Make sure she's had something to eat first, obviously."
Clark lifts his gaze to the ceiling, then returns to look at Rena with a soft smile. "You should work at the U.N., you know that? You love to be a peacemaker."
"I just think she might feel better doing something. And I don't think you guys should be apart at a time like this."
"All right, all right." He kisses her forehead and nods. "I'll go ask her."
Rena gives him a last hug. "Besides, for all you know, you might not be a match with your mom. Maybe Beth'll be more compatible with her."
Clark starts off, but not before casting a dark look at his friend. "Compatibility with our mother has never been Beth's strong suit."
2.
Hudson Concert Hall
Grand Ballroom
The majority of guests are gone, having left shortly after dessert and coffee were ingested. But five tables of socializing gala attendees still remain, enjoying each other's company as if it were still the shank of the evening -- instead of nearly one o'clock.
At last, Adele Nichols turns to her son and nods at Becca and Simon across from her. "We should get them driven home, don't you think?"
Cameron interrupts his conversation with Tristan Campbell, swinging his sharp gaze over to the twins. "They look more awake than anyone else here," he says with a proud smile. "Ah, to be that young again."
"Awake or not, they shouldn't be out this late."
"They're still on vacation. I see no reason to get dictatorial with them --"
"And I see no reason for them to fall into bad habits, just because they're off from school for two weeks." Adele lowers her voice until it's audible only by Cameron. "You have no discipline with your wife. Perhaps you should avoid making that mistake with her children."
Cameron slowly turns to face her head-on. "Someday, mother," he says pleasantly, "I'll tire of your insinuations."
"And someday you'll learn what a fool she's turned you into." Adele's tone is equally pleasant. "Unfortunately, that day isn't today."
"No, indeed not," Cameron agrees, an easy smile curling his lips. "We'll be leaving soon anyway, so I see no need to shuttle my children off on their own."
Returning his attention to Tristan, Cameron notices the younger man's quick attempt to hide the distraction that's plagued him all evening. It's not the first time he's spotted a distant tempest brewing in Tristan's blue eyes, but as before, it lasts only an instant. Most people probably wouldn't notice it -- but of course, Cam's made his millions by being a better observer of human frailties than most people.
Other than these brief lapses, Tristan's made a noble attempt at being an avid, polite guest. It's a skill that Cameron credits to his excellent breeding and insecurities over his family's notorious, scandal-filled past. It's a powerful combination. In fact, Cameron senses that guilt and good genes are a recipe for the perfect business partner -- at least as Cameron Nichols defines the term..
"And so you were saying, Tris?"
Tristan puts down his glass of brandy. "That I'm grateful for your recommendation of Denison Fixtures. Their product line is amazing."
"Yes, I use them for all my restaurants. There isn't a style they can't accommodate, and for a fee that's more than acceptable."
"Pinning my decorator down to her final choice will be the difficult part. She lives for lighting."
Danielle, who has been spending some time over at Table #4 socializing with Senator Eckhert and party, returns with a brief smile in Cameron's direction. "If you gentlemen can break up this fascinating conversation about light bulbs, I do believe it's time to go."
"'Light bulbs'. Can you imagine, Tristan? Sixteen years of marriage and she still knows almost nothing about the intricacies of starting up a new venture."
"Of course I know about the intricacies," she murmurs, sitting down gracefully. "I just don't care. There's a difference between knowing and caring."
"That's true enough."
Tristan, who stood along with Cameron when Danielle arrived, sits down simultaneously. Cam hasn't missed how closely the young man has been paying attention to every word out of Danielle's mouth this evening. Not an unusual occurrence where Danny is concerned.
"I'm sorry if I've bored you with too much 'shop talk,'" Tristan says.
"That's quite all right. Par for the course, when Cam invites one of his associates along to a social gathering. I was hoping to counter it with some fashion discussion, but my wandering guest destroyed that stratagem."
"Now that is truly a tragedy," Cameron remarks dryly. "If that is all Ms. Durand would have added to the conversation, I can't say I'm terribly bereft at having missed her."
Tristan stands up again. "If you'll excuse me," he says a bit quickly, "I think I should pay my respects to a few people before I go."
"Of course. That too is par for the course." Danielle nods her approval like a pope bestowing a blessing, and Cameron has to smile at her demeanor. She's truly in her element -- Danielle was born to host events like this.
Tristan leaves them, and Cameron raises an eyebrow in Danielle's direction. "Well?"
"Well what? He seems charming enough. I had the sense he wasn't all 'there,' though. At times I thought he was extremely angry about something, but then just as quickly, it disappeared."
"They say insanity runs in his family. Perhaps he's touched a little with it. Still, that's not a terrible thing, considering the role he's to play."
Danielle shrugs, apparently bored with the topic of Tristan Campbell. But she adds, "If our family is what you're using as the standard of sanity, I fear that your results will be terribly skewed."
Cameron lifts his own glass of brandy towards her, smiling.
3.
Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Fifth Floor Surgery Waiting Room
Daphne White looks up from the floor, which has been the main focus of her attention for nearly a half hour. Her chair is nearest to the corridor leading to the operating rooms, and every time a set of swinging doors opens, she feels her heart thump with panic as she glances up expecting to see someone from her father's surgery.
This time, the person approaching isn't coming from the operating theaters. She sighs with relief as Ian Nichols returns from the coffee machine.
"Here you go," he murmurs, passing a mostly-full styrofoam cup to her. "No cream, four sugars, God help your teeth."
"My teeth are fine. And thanks," she adds in a murmur, cradling the cup within both hands. Daphne watches him sit down beside her. "Ian ... you don't have to stay. I appreciate it, but I know you only came 'cause your family pushed you. And it's really late."
"I may be tired, but I haven't lost my ability to read my watch." Ian sips his coffee, leaning back. He seems at ease here -- even in a hospital, where no one should feel comfortable. Daphne can't imagine how anyone could be so self-possessed. "No, I might as well wait with you, at least until you get some news one way or the other."
"One way or the other," Daphne echoes into her cup, feeling the steam from the coffee burn her cheeks. It's a welcome pain, since it helps her wake up a little.
"I'm sure it'll be good news. The staff seems competent. And you told me your father used to run the hospital."
"So?"
"So I'm sure they wouldn't want to mess up on his case. The publicity would be horrific."
Daphne frowns at him. She suddenly puts her cup down and rises, stepping on her ballgown but not caring at this point. "You have a seriously warped way of looking at things," she snaps as she pushes past him.
Setting his cup beside hers, Ian follows her over to the bank of windows overlooking the parking lot. "What's wrong with what I said? It's the truth."
"Maybe. But maybe they should do a good job on my dad because they should, not because it's bad publicity if he -- if he dies."
"'Should' means nothing in the big picture. Just be glad for whatever impetus encourages them to do their job well, and stop reacting like a child."
His calm condescension is infuriating, but serves to distract Daphne from her fear. Maybe he's doing it on purpose. Damn well better be, she thinks, staring out at the cars covered in the falling snow.
Ian places a casual hand on her shoulder. "Daphne, you need to stop worrying about the means, if the ends are what's important."
"I have no idea what you're talking about. Why don't you talk like a normal guy?"
"Ah, there it is, the word normal again. Why is normalcy your Holy Grail?"
Daphne rolls her eyes and tries to ignore the warmth of his touch. "Because I don't have it, and I never have. There, go find some fancy literary reference to explain that, why don't you?"
"Why such hostility? Haven't I done a great deal to help you out?"
She darts a look at him. "You've done a lot, yeah, but I don't buy that you're doing it for me. No one could be that selfless."
Ian's dark eyes gleam, looking very much like his father. "You have more insight into human nature than I gave you credit for. But what possible reason could I have for hanging out with you all this time? Inviting you to the gala? Hiding you out and lying to my father about you?"
"I really don't know." She pauses, and then suddenly blurts: "Tyler says it's because you want to get me in bed."
This honest statement is rewarded with a slow smile, after which Ian runs his hand over his mouth, apparently trying not to laugh aloud. Her face burning, Daphne turns away to glare at the snow.
After a while, Ian clears his throat. "Yes, well, Tyler is obviously an astute judge of character," he says dryly. "But with the greatest respect, you're a little young for me, don't you think?"
"I said he said it, not me. And three years isn't that big an age difference."
"Is that just an observation, or are you making a sales pitch?"
"Damn it, Ian!" Daphne spins around. "Are you trying to piss me off?"
"It's not a particularly challenging task." Ian's hand on her shoulder suddenly moves to brush aside a stray strand of hair from her temple, and he lowers his voice. "But it's better than watching you panic about your father."
Daphne sighs, her anger deflated. "I'm not panicking," she says. "I don't know what I'm feeling. My dad and I ... we're not close. Not like you and your father."
"I know. But that doesn't mean you can't be scared at a time like this. In fact, sometimes an ambivalent relationship makes the fear worse."
"What -- in what way?"
Ian shrugs. "You're not just afraid of losing him. You're afraid of the guilt, of not having a chance to make things right. Isn't that what you're really so angry about?"
Her throat tightening so painfully she nearly chokes, Daphne starts to turn back to the window. Ian shakes his head, catching hold of her shoulder again before drawing her close once more. And then, burying her face against his silk shirt, Daphne finally releases the tears she's been holding back all night.
4.
Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Fifth Floor Surgical Unit
Clark sits in the chair by the gurney, where Beth is escorted by one of the nurses on duty as they prepare to draw her blood. He watches his sister answer the usual screening questions, her answers almost inaudible. Finally the nurse moves aside for a moment, and Clark is left alone with his sister.
"Well, Bethy, Rena was right. She warned me you'd be a better match with Mama than I am," he jokes, trying to catch her attention. "I didn't believe it, but it's not the first surprise you've ever thrown at me."
She nods listlessly. Her hair is wild, one side lifted away from her face by a pretty jeweled thing Clark doesn't recognize, the other falling in cascading curls across the right side of her face.
"Nice Veronica Lake look," Clark says, reaching out to tug a lock of hair. "I wish I could've seen you before you left for the opera."
Absently, she lifts a hand to her head. Feeling around, she frowns in dismay. "It's gone!"
"What is?"
"One of Danielle's combs. She lent me two, and I -- oh, she'll never forgive me now! I'm so stupid, how could I have lost it?"
"It happens, Beth. Maybe it'll turn up."
Beth's eyes suddenly widen in response to some inner thought, and she murmurs to herself: "When he was grabbing at me..."
Clark frowns, not having caught her whole statement. "When who was what?"
She jerks her head up to look at him. "What? Nothing. I -- why do they have to ask so many questions? Why can't I just give the blood and get it over with?"
Used to her mood swings, Clark shrugs patiently. "It's to protect you and Mama. Obviously they have to make sure you don't have any communicable diseases that might be passed on to her."
"But they screen for things like that."
"Yeah, but they also need to make sure giving blood won't harm you. So they have to check about anemia, low blood pres--" He cuts himself off when the nurse gently removes Beth's coat, revealing her sleeveless gown -- and an ugly purple bruise on her left arm, above her elbow. "Whoa, what the heck is that?"
Beth glances down, and with a little gasp quickly lifts a hand to cover her upper arm. But Clark slides off his chair and moves towards her, looking at the nurse almost accusatorily. He tugs at Beth's hand. "Let me see."
"It's nothing."
"Okay, then you can let me see." Successful in freeing her grip, Clark stares down at her skin. "Jesus! That's not a regular black and blue mark, Bethy, those are fingerprints. Who the hell did this to you?"
"No one."
"Damn it, who do you think you're talking to? I've seen enough bodies with violent marks on 'em to recognize someone who's been manhandled. What--"
"I -- I did it myself, it was an accident. Leave me alone!" Beth looks up at the nurse, her large brown eyes pleading. "Does he have to be here?"
The older woman shakes her head. "No, honey, but if someone's hurt you--"
"They didn't. I said it's nothing. I -- " Beth's pale face turns red as she improvises with a half-truth. "I was angry at how fat I look in the dress and I pinched myself. I do that sometimes," she admits in a shame-filled whisper.
Clark raises an eyebrow. "Somehow that's not very comforting. Or believable."
"Believe what you want to. Now get out, all right? Just get out! You got me in here to donate the blood, why can't you let me do it in peace?"
Shaking his head, Clark grabs his coat where it hangs over the back of the chair. "Fine. I'll go see how Mama's doing -- you remember her?" He leans towards her to whisper: "You know, you make it very hard for me to understand you. And at times like these, I wonder why I bother."
When he leaves, Beth stares after him until the nurse quietly instructs her to lie down. She does so placidly, feeling the sharp but brief stab of the needle and the subsequent gentle pat of the older woman's hand.
Suddenly she realizes why she's felt so alone since leaving the Arts Center. Her grandmother's voice hasn't reached out to her, as it usually does in times of stress. Despite everything that's happened, not once has she heard Molly's blunt but oddly comforting words of advice.
Oh Grandma, she thinks, closing her burning eyes with a rising sense of panic. Please, please help me.
5.
Hudson Concert Hall
Grand Ballroom
As Tristan moves away from the table, he exhales heavily. His muscles ache with the tension of repressed fury that has clenched them in a knot ever since first spying the true Danielle Nichols.
On the one hand, sitting with the Nichols family proved a welcome distraction from thoughts of his horrible discovery only hours ago. When he let himself, he could almost forget Elizabeth Durand -- at least now he knew her real name, assuming this wasn't some alias as well. But throughout dinner and dessert, every now and then some word or two would remind him of her, and the hypnotic nights he spent as her lover.
Mentions of the Lighthouse nightclub sent Tristan's mind reeling to the sight of her naked in the moonlight in what he foolishly considered their room; the loveliness of her red-brown curls, turned silver as they rippled over her curving shoulders, the swell of her bosom. A casual reference to Boondoggles, and Tristan instantly recalled her taking possession of him on Christmas Eve, setting him free from one demon -- his grief and guilt over Camilla O'Brien -- only to enslave him herself.
But even more than that, he saw the connection between Cameron and his wife, and between Hannah and Nick Nichols, and Laurie and Victor Fiore. The invisible link that joined them, which Tristan thought he'd also shared with the woman he'd known as Danielle. After their lovemaking, they'd talk for hours ... her fingers entwined with his, her lips smiling encouragement as she listened to his plans, laughed about past mistakes. She made his pain go away.
Only to cause a greater one.
Because it's now clear, as Tristan thinks over their final conversation, that Elizabeth Durand did it all as a cruel joke, spent weeks seducing him as part of some twisted fantasy in which he'd been an unwitting participant. An unwitting dupe.
It's practically a replay of Vanessa DiCenzo and his farce of a marriage. Except worse, because after so many damn betrayals, I can't believe I let myself fall into the trap again!
His increasingly bitter thoughts are interrupted by the last person he wishes to speak to.
"Well, well, as I live and breathe," Bertram Brooke's voice murmurs from only a few feet away.
Tristan turns carefully, like a man expecting a tiger to spring out at him. His second cousin stands up from his chair, where he's been seated with a group Tristan recognizes instantly as OmniCorp executives. What is that about? The lion lying down with the lamb? After Bertram was thrown out of Omni years ago, Tristan wouldn't have thought either party would be willing to break bread with the other.
Bertram looks like he stepped out of the proverbial bandbox, with a tuxedo that fits his athletic frame perfectly, and a silk shirt that shows off his brown-black eyes and deep, dimpled smile.
The older man continues. "Quite a long time, hasn't it been, Tris?"
"It doesn't seem that long on this end of things, Bertie," Tristan replies flatly, and starts to move forward. But damned if Bertram -- as ever unwilling to let matters rest -- doesn't grab his arm to stop him.
"Well, you're not as deadline-conscious as those of us still living the corporate life. When one's days are filled with a glorified hobby, things move at a quick pace. I'm afraid Omni is so busy that I worry constantly about getting all the necessary work done."
In a tuxedo or a suit of armor, the man is still a jackass, Tristan thinks, and gently pulls his arm away from his cousin's grasp. Suddenly, he realizes that Bertram has just revealed an astonishing development.
Tristan swallows, trying to count to ten before he responds. "I wasn't aware you had returned to OmniCorp.".
"Really? I suppose once you and the company parted ways, so to speak, you stopped paying attention to its executive cast changes. I'm happy to say I'm working very closely with our dear old friend Ronald. And the lovely Livvy, of course, but that goes without saying..."
Tristan feels a roil of disgust at the thought of Bertram, Ronald Granger and Olivia Ortiz running OmniCorp. As if Bertram hadn't once absconded with thousands of dollars of company funds. As if Olivia and Ronald hadn't conspired to remove Tristan from the company thanks to his own mother's death. Betrayers, the whole lot of them.
God, Dad, Tristan thinks with a stab of anguish. I can't believe I let this happen to your company.
Somehow he manages to smile thinly at Bertram. "There isn't much that's interested me in Omni these days. I've been busy with my own private ventures."
"Indeed? And they would be ...?"
Tristan looks at him without emotion. "Private."
Bertram chuckles, casting a quick look in the direction of Tristan's table. "I must say, you certainly dwell in exalted company these days. Cameron Nichols is a very well-known name. Tell me, has he bought New York State yet, or is he still holding out for Connecticut as well?" He laughs at his own joke, then continues. "Seriously, I'd love to know what you two could possibly have in common."
"If you know as much about Cam as you say you do, I'm surprised you can't connect the dots of your own accord."
"Hm. Well, I admit my inclination was to say your little restaurant, but that was such a farcical suggestion that I feared you'd laugh at me."
"Bertie, you're extremely laughable. But I can't say I see the humor here."
"That's because you were never adept at irony." Bertram flips a hand over, gesturing towards Cameron. "He owns casinos. You'd think he would know better than to bet on a losing, doomed property."
Don't let him goad you, Tristan tries to warn himself, but the dig at Boondoggles -- the only venture he's ever created on his own, with his brother -- is impossible to ignore. "One could say the same thing about Ronald Granger's trust in you. And yet there you are, ensconced at Omni."
"Touché. I know, one must never insult your late lamented brother, even by proxy. But I still wonder how much of the dear departed's spirit will remain at Boondoggles once Cameron Nichols gets through with it."
Tristan stares at him, at first left speechless at Bertram's offensive remarks. Finally he almost exhales in relief.
"Speaking of siblings," he murmurs, "I hope your sister is doing well in her new environment. I must say, of the two of you, I never thought she'd be the first Brooke in jail."
Bertram's smile falters as the words hit their mark. Tristan presses on, this time his concern genuine. "Seriously, Bertie -- why are you still here, anyway? Aren't you aware that Doug's been in an accident?"
"I heard a rumor bouncing around the ballroom to that effect. But what can I do for him? I'm not exactly equipped to help out in surgery."
"No, but Nora might appreciate your helping Daphne through this crisis."
"Your concern for my sister and her family are touching, but improbable." Bertram suddenly lowers his voice, his usual display of urbane charm disappearing. "You and I both know that no member of your family ever gave a damn about mine. And your ability to play the Lord of the Campbell Manor died when your bitch of a mother left you the inheritance you deserved -- not a penny."
Nodding, hiding the sting of Bertram's venom, Tristan backs away slightly. "Send my regards to Olivia and Ronald," he murmurs shakily. "What a vile triumvirate you three make."
Ignoring whatever comment Bertram plans on responding with, Tristan moves off. Somehow he has to rid himself of the anger boiling over in his gut, and he worries that it will spill out before he finds a proper target.
6.
Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Fifth Floor Surgery Waiting Room
Greg White taps his feet, trying to alleviate some of his restlessness by looking over at his niece across the large waiting room.
"You know, it'd be nice if I knew just who the hell that guy is," he mutters to no one in particular. "I've never seen him before, and suddenly his hands are all over my niece."
Rena, sitting next to him on his left, turns and shakes her head. "He just seems to be comforting her."
But Chelsea Stanford, to Greg's right, just lifts a corner of her mouth. "His name's Ian. I didn't recognize him at first, but I saw them sitting at the Nichols family table, so he's gotta be one of them. Not a bad catch."
"I thought she was seeing your brother."
"Yeah, so did Tyler," Chelsea quips. "She's apparently playing the field. Uh, no offense," she adds in a more sober tone.
Rena purses her lips and rubs Greg's hand. "Daphne really needs to let you know who she's seeing. You should tell her that."
Greg shrugs wearily. "Like I have the authority? I'm only her uncle. But you're right, I'm all she has, so I have to at least make an effort. Especially..." He sighs, running a hand over his eyes. "Christ, I never thought this arrangement would be long term. I mean, when she left home I knew she didn't plan on returning. She and Doug have never gotten along. But I always held out hope that something would change. I just couldn't ever see me being her guardian for all that long. And now, God only knows what might happen.."
"You can't think like that," Rena insists. "Doug's in excellent hands."
"You know as well as I do what his chances are for a complete recovery. Even if he's not in a hypoxic coma for the rest of his life, he still--"
"Sorry?" Chelsea leans forward to catch his attention. "What's hypoxicoma?"
"No, a hypoxic coma. It's a coma due to oxygen deprivation." Greg rubs his eyes again. "Even if he avoids that, he still might not be able to speak, or move. What the hell kind of life is that?"
Chelsea slowly sits back in her chair, hugging herself. "I'm not a doctor, but I can answer that," she says flatly. "It's not a life."
"Chelsea, what's the point of saying something like that?" Rena turns to the other woman, irritated. "Is it supposed to be supportive?"
"Oh, gee, I'm sorry, I thought Greg was looking for the truth."
"What you're saying isn't the truth, it's just an opinion. And with all due respect, it's not that informed."
Standing up abruptly, Chelsea glares down at Rena. "You have no idea what you're talking about. No damn idea at all!" Turning around, she marches down the hallway to the coffee machine.
7.
Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Fifth Floor Surgery Waiting Room
Rena and Greg look at the angrily departing blonde in surprise, and then Greg takes Rena's hand. "Thanks for that," he murmurs, running his thumb absently across her knuckles. "But she was just trying to help too."
"I don't like when people offer help without thinking things through. Sometimes that can be more hurtful than anything." Rena stares into his eyes, their crystal blue dimmed with exhaustion. "I'm serious though, Greg. You can't give up hope. I know it's hard for us, we've seen too much reality. But we've also seen a lot of miracles, haven't we? Haven't you operated on someone who was practically a hopeless case, only to be proven wrong?"
"Sometimes. But Doug doesn't have much of a winning streak. And now... I might've made things even harder for him."
Frowning, Rena peers at him. "What do you mean, harder...?"
"I -- I don't know if I should tell you. You won't think I did the right thing."
His reluctance worries Rena, and she shifts in her chair to get a better look at him. "Please tell me, Greg. I'm trying not to be so judgmental."
He lets go of her hand, looking across at the empty nurse's desk. When he speaks, his voice is in a wary monotone. "Doug was conscious enough before they took him up to surgery to tell them that he didn't want any painkillers."
"No painkillers, with broken ribs and a ruptured spleen? Why on earth would he--" Rena cuts herself off as the realization sinks through. "Oh my God, Greg. That's incredible. I can't believe he would do that."
"Yeah, you're not the only one. Shocked the hell out of me too. Who'd have thought someone in my family would have that kind of will power?"
Rena puts her arm around his back, hugging him. "Don't say that. Just be proud of him, don't put yourself down that way."
"I should put myself down. I made a unilateral decision that went against his wishes."
She waits, mutely encouraging him to continue. Finally Greg sighs. "I told the doctors that he didn't have the capacity to make that decision. In short, I lied. I took away his consent and told them to medicate him as needed." After a hesitation, Greg gives her a sidelong glance. "Well? No response from you?"
Rena looks down at her knees, thinking. "I understand why you did it."
"But you don't approve."
"It's not for me to approve or not approve. It's a no-win situation. You just did what you thought was best for your brother. And for a patient."
"In other words, you think I was wrong. I can read between the lines, Rena, you're not exactly opaque. I broke a rule, I did it knowingly, and you think I'm to blame for whatever the consequences are."
Rena leans in to him, searching for the right words. Finally she closes her eyes and whispers: "How can I possibly blame you for doing something that I've done?"
Greg turns to face her. "Something that you've done? What do you mean?"
"Your memory's foggy, Greg. The Ortiz case? Our serum?" Her voice remains low, but it sharpens in intensity. "I gave an untested, unknown medication to a person without a medical license, authorizing her to go overseas and administer that medication to a patient. All because like you, I wanted to save Olivia more than I wanted to follow the rules."
"But that was different--"
"No. Like you, I did it knowingly, and I'd do it again. Even though I put our careers in jeopardy, not to mention Olivia's life."
"She would have died without the medication. It's not a good comparison. You didn't go against her express wishes--"
"I agree it's not a perfect comparison, but it's close enough." Rena shyly touches Greg's face, wishing she could somehow erase the lines of doubt that have etched themselves in his forehead. "I want you to know that I don't blame you, or think less of you, for what you did.. I'm behind you, Greg. One hundred percent"
Greg captures her fingers with his hand, kissing them as he closes his eyes. He remains silent for some time, his lips pressed to her cool, smooth skin, before again looking at her. "I didn't realize how afraid I was that you'd blame me. You have no idea how -- how ridiculously relieved I feel."
Touched, Rena keeps her solemn gaze even with his. "If we're going to be together, we have to promise to be honest with one another. Secrets will ruin our friendship--"
"Friendship?"
She flushes slightly. "Relationship, then. But don't you think I'm right? Will you promise to be honest with me?"
Greg hesitates, then admits: "It's not gonna be easy. I've got a lifetime of experience in lying to women. That kind of habit is hard to break."
"Well, I hope you'll try. I know -- I know I will."
He chuckles, lowering her hand and cradling it within both of his. "As if you need to try. Except for the whole pretending you didn't like me thing, you've never been anything but honest with me. Brutally honest. Your motto's always been 'the truth and nothing but the truth.'"
Rena looks down. "But not the whole truth."
"What do you mean?"
She bites her tongue, literally, and then shakes her head. "Not now. Another time. Right now I think I owe Chelsea an apology. And maybe you should go talk to Daphne?"
Greg nods, kissing her hand a final time. Together they stand up and walk off in different directions.
8.
Fifth Floor Surgery Waiting Room
Chelsea pours herself a cup of coffee, drinking it black, scalding hot and with a single Equal. She winces as her tongue burns, but otherwise she remains stoic as she looks unseeing at the hospital floor map above the coffee pot.
Rena's words had hit home, and she's still fuming over the other woman's ignorant comments. Uninformed my ass, you little bitch, she thinks. Step inside my family life a little, maybe then you won't think everything's such a bowl of cherries. Then again, Chelsea amends with a bitter smile, you are a cherry, so what the hell do you know about real life anyway?
Sensing someone approaching her, she turns a little. To her surprise and annoyance, it's Rena herself.
"Oh, great. Plan on yelling at me some more? Telling me how much I don't know?"
Rena shakes her head, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I didn't really yell at you."
"Sue me for being sensitive. It sure felt like you were yelling at me."
"Well, that's why I'm here. I wanted to say I'm sorry."
This gets Chelsea's full attention, and she faces Rena directly. Her eyes narrow with suspicion. "You're sorry? Seriously?"
"Seriously. I didn't mean to make you upset. To be honest I'm not sure what I said that bothered you so much, but -- but that doesn't matter. Obviously I did, so I apologize."
Chelsea lifts the cup to her lips, tapping it with her fingernails. "What pissed me off is your assumption that just 'cause I'm not a nurse or a doctor, I'm totally clueless. I've got my own experiences, you know. You don't need to go to medical school, or wherever you nurses go, to know a thing or two about life."
"You're right. I don't know anything about you, and I shouldn't have said what I did."
A little let down by the other woman's easy agreement, Chelsea sips some coffee while trying to digest this turn of events. "Okay. So I guess I forgive you. Anything else?"
Rena's face flickers with disappointment, which almost makes Chelsea laugh. What, was she expecting me to hug her in some kind of female bonding moment? Give me a freakin' break.
"Well, sort of," Rena replies, looking over Chelsea's shoulder at Greg and Daphne before returning to Chelsea. "I've been a little worried that we're forgetting someone."
"Who?"
"Jem."
Chelsea looks instantly at her coffee cup. Truth is, she has forgotten Jem in all this, ever since she heard that Doug White was a victim in the fire. A pang of guilt gnaws at her, but as usual she does her best to quash it immediately. "I didn't forget him," she lies. "I'm sure he's freaked out. But he's not exactly a direct victim, though, is he? I mean, he wasn't there."
"But it's his building. It's his paper. Do you know if anyone's told him what happened?"
"I know the cops tried calling him, but he didn't answer. They left a message."
"A message?" Rena's aghast face is almost comical. "That's a horrible way to find out that his whole -- his whole livelihood is practically destroyed."
"Well, it's his own fault for not answering the phone."
"But I don't understand, why wouldn't he have answered the phone? Maybe he heard it on the news already. Maybe he's so upset that he didn't want to pick up."
Chelsea swallows nervously, but then forces a laugh. "Oh please, don't get all hyper-dramatic about it. This is Jem Van Doren we're talking about, not some regular human being with, like, actual feelings."
"That's a rotten thing to say. It's his family's newspaper, a -- a legacy. I've only just started to get to know him, but I can tell how much he's invested in--"
"He invested lots of money, yeah." Geez, who the hell appointed her Jem's own little defender? "Look, if you think Jem's got some major emotional tie to the paper, you're barking up the wrong tree. He couldn't give a rat's butt about the Record." Chelsea lifts her pinky from the styrofoam cup, pointing it at Rena. "Trust me on this. The guy doesn't even have any emotions."
"I don't believe that. No one has no emotions."
"Yeah? I haven't seen any from him. Well, not any real ones. He's a good faker, but I think inside the guy's made of plastic."
Rena's hazel eyes cloud with doubt. "I don't understand, I thought you were his friend. You sound like you hate him. Or -- or like you're trying hard to hate him."
Chelsea ignores the little stab of shame that Rena's comments are producing. "I don't hate him. I just know him a helluva lot better than you do."
Rena falls into silence, obviously disconcerted by Chelsea's revelations. And suddenly Chelsea realizes that she's singing a very strange tune for someone who wants Jem to sweep Rena off her dumpy little feet.
"Maybe you're right," she adds thoughtfully, changing her direction without leaving a skid mark. "Maybe I am being unfair to him. Could just be that he's not a guy who opens up easy. I suppose it's possible that if someone tried really hard with him, he'd feel more comfortable showing his feelings. Maybe he just needs someone he can trust. "
"Of course he does! Everyone needs someone like that. You -- you really don't think he feels that way with anyone?"
Chelsea hides her amusement at Rena's obvious need to play guardian angel to life's wounded puppies, sighing regretfully. "Not with me, I know that. I don't think he feels it with Elaine either. Never heard him talk about any other friends. I guess the guy's sorta destined to be alone, huh? He keeps pushing everyone away, even his relatives he treats like dirt. I mean, who's gonna be there for him when the chips are down? It's kinda sad, you know?"
Rena's nose wrinkles as she listens to Chelsea. "I've tried to be there for him. I -- I don't feel a hundred percent comfortable around him, but he's my patient, and I --"
"See, that's my point. You're his nurse, that's like a major bond -- that patient/doctor thing, sort of, right? And even you don't think he's trustworthy. Or worth being concerned about."
"That isn't true! I am concerned, I just said I was!"
With another shrug, Chelsea absently pulls at a few strands of hair. "Then maybe you should go see if he's okay."
Rena takes a deep breath, holding it. Then she exhales in a whoosh. "You really think I should?"
Oh man, talk about hook, line and sinker! "Just for a little while," Chelsea murmurs. "Make sure he's handling things all right. I mean, Greg's busy with Daphne, right? He'll be okay until you get back."
"I ... I guess. And Clark's with Beth..." Rena hesitates, shaking her head. "I really hate to think of Jem being all alone, hurting..."
Chelsea nods admiringly. "That's 'cause you're a nurse. You're probably the only person in the world he'd be able to show that side of himself to. I swear," she adds with a raw note of honesty, "I don't know what it is you do to make people trust you so much. But it sure as hell seems to work."
After a final argument with herself, Rena appears to make a decision. She thanks Chelsea -- thanking me, the little sucker! -- and moves off to tell Greg.
Grinning into her coffee, Chelsea takes a nice long swallow, toasting herself in silence.
9.
Hudson Arts Center
Grand Ballroom
Laurie Nichols feels her fiancé's hand caressing her back as he guides her from the ballroom towards the exit. She smiles at Victor Fiore's touch, lifting her chin so she can glance over her shoulder to him.
"I think we put it off as long as possible, sugar," she murmurs, feeling his lips brush the back of her neck after he moves away the curtain of her gleaming red hair. "But we've gotta go over to them before we leave."
Victor groans, and rests his forehead against her head. "Are you sure?"
"You know the answer to that. Your family already thinks of me as some kinda succubus. If you don't even say 'hi' to 'em once when they're only twenty feet away, you know what voodoo they'll think I've hexed you with?"
"Yeah, and they won't know the half of it." He hesitates, his mouth suddenly lifting in a wicked grin. "Succubus, huh? Frankly, I like the sound of that."
She smirks. "I bet you do. C'mon ..." Taking his hand, she glances over to her own family's matriarch. "And while we're at it, let's take Madame X over there with us."
"Are you nuts? Take Adele Nichols to meet my family?"
"Why not? Didn't you say she was asking about 'em all night?"
"But my father -- and Mike, for pete's sake--"
"Oh, relax. When she wants to, ol' Addie can charm the pants off Lucifer himself. Hell, that's how Cam was born," Laurie adds with a low chuckle. "Now will you stop whinin'?"
"Okay, you win." Victor's fingers curl reflexively around her shoulder. "But baby, will you take off the pin first?"
Laurie's hand reaches up to cover the Fiore family heirloom pinned to her breast. But after a few seconds she flushes, moving her hand away. "They're gonna know you took it sometime, sugar. Might as well show 'em now, in public, where they won't make a fuss."
"You don't know my family. We're not the cool, collected type like you Nicholses."
She turns to face him, measuring him carefully, from his dark wavy hair to his intense clear gaze to the full lips that usually wear a crooked smile. "If you're really ashamed of giving me the jewelry your mama wanted you to have," she murmurs, "then you might as well take it back. 'Cause it means you wanna hide what I am to you. Just like the rest of your family."
"Laurie, that's crazy. I'm not ashamed, I just know they'll be pissed off that I snuck it out without asking--"
"Look, I'm your fiancée, the first one in your family, and by rights, I should be wearin' the necklace that your brother's little live-in girlfriend is showin' off. It's obviously the main piece of the jewelry set."
"Well ... yeah, but --"
"But I'm not, 'cause your daddy hates my guts and would rather ruin the whole point of your mama's legacy. She wanted her things to go to her son's wives. Not their roommates," she adds with a contemptuous look at Martina Rosenoff across the ballroom.
Victor sighs, obviously not understanding the whole issue -- he couldn't, of course, since he's unaware of the mysterious significance of that necklace to Adele Nichols. Which puts him only a little behind Laurie, since she has no idea why the old witch is so intent on the damn thing either.
But Laurie knows her fiancé recognizes the truth in her words: his mother's intentions were ignored, because Carlo Fiore has been prejudiced against Laurie thanks to Mike's constant dire warnings about the Nichols clan's suspected ties to criminal behavior.
"Okay, you win. Let 'em know I took the pin, I don't care."
Poppy-colored lips twisting into a satisfied smile, Laurie kisses him, pats him on the cheek, and then goes to get Adele.
10.
Hudson Concert Hall
Grand Ballroom
Table #12
After pulling out her chair, Mike Fiore places the bronze satin wrap over Martina's bare shoulders. "I've been wondering how you've avoided getting pneumonia all night," he murmurs, grinning into her olive complected face. "Weren't you cold?"
Martina laughs. "I'm willing to sacrifice anything for fashion. I'm more worried about dropping from sheer exhaustion. This has been a long day!"
"Yeah, tell me about it. Can't wait to get into that bed."
"Keep your shirt on, loverboy," his brother Anthony jokes with a slap on his back. "You'll get there soon enough."
"Man, Tony, does that one track mind of yours ever think of anything else?"
Anthony just grins, and Tom -- Mike's closest brother in age -- shrugs in resignation as he stands up. "He's nineteen, Mikey. That's pretty much what he's supposed to be thinking about."
"Got a point there. Guess that's what your immature teen years are for."
"Oh really, Detective?" Martina raises an eyebrow, amused. "You're in your thirties, and I don't see your mind retiring its interest in that particular subject."
Mike's eyes twinkle at her. "Blame yourself," he says, and then sings a line from a favorite Sinatra song: "You make me feel so young..."
Rising from his chair, Carlo wraps his arm around his youngest child, Julie, and grins wearily at Mike. "Not bad. Next year we'll hire you for the Columbus Day gig."
"Only if you promise to accompany me. Your piano playing is about as good as--"
Mike cuts off, his gaze falling on the threesome approaching them. Noting the direction of his stare, the rest of the Fiores and Martina unconsciously move closer together.
Victor Fiore has one arm curled around Laurie's trim waist, and the other linked through the elbow of a tall woman with soft waves of white-gold hair. Though she's the only one that Mike doesn't recognize, he immediately is mesmerized by her intense, almost electric topaz gaze.
"Hi, Pop," Victor says quietly, but with a friendly enough smile. "You guys have a good time?"
"Yes, we did, Vittorio." Carlo's tired voice is naturally hoarse, but he tries to force some politeness into it. "Good evening, Laurie,"
"Evenin', Mr. Fiore." Mike can see the excitement in her green eyes, half-hidden as usual by sleepy, lowered lids. "I wanted y'all to meet someone. Adele," she says, turning to the older woman. "This is Victor's family. Carlo's his daddy."
Adele looks at Carlo with a delighted curl to her red lips. "I'm Adele Nichols, Mr. Fiore. And I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to meeting you," she says, her cultured voice low and musical. She lifts her arm gracefully.
Carlo shakes her hand, although Mike wonders if she expected him to kiss it. His father's obviously a little taken aback by the warmth of her greeting. "Thank you, Mrs. Nichols. That's very kind. If you don't mind my asking -- are you Laurie's mother?"
Laurie smiles mischievously, betraying some secret pleasure at the comment, but Adele simply shakes her head. "No. We have an oddly shaped family tree, I'm afraid, and our relationships can be a bit confusing."
"She's my daddy's second wife," Laurie explains, then turns to Adele with another amused smile. "Not actually all that confusing, now that you think about it, huh?"
"Let me see if I can guess who the rest of you are," Adele says to the Fiores, ignoring the comment. "Laurie's told me so much about you, and Victor's done a good job in describing you himself. Obviously this lovely young woman is Julie, and the charming Anthony is beside her. You must be Tom," she adds with a warm smile at the appropriate Fiore. "Which of course leaves oldest brother Mike."
Mike hesitates before accepting her handshake. "Mrs. Nichols. Your reputation precedes you."
"Really? How very flattering to know." Slowly Adele's brown-gold gaze shifts to Martina. "I'm afraid I'm at a loss, my dear. Are you a relative too?"
"I'm with Mike," Martina says, taking her hand lightly. "Martina Rosenoff. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Mike knows almost every modulation of Martina's voice by now, and senses a slight reserve in her usually friendly demeanor. It surprises him, since until now she's claimed neutrality in Mike's crusade against the Nichols family. He wonders why she's changed her mind now.
Adele doesn't appear to notice -- no reason why she should, of course. "What an exquisite face you have, if you don't mind such brazen flattery. Like an exotic china doll."
"That's -- that's very nice of you to say. Thank you."
The older woman's gaze seems to memorize Martina, and then moves on to return to Victor. "What a handsome family you have. Thank you for indulging my curiosity. Laurie, I think you've made a splendid match."
Despite the compliment, Laurie's smile doesn't seem to reach her eyes. "Couldn't have picked him better yourself, huh?"
As attention turns to Laurie again, Carlo makes a little noise in his throat, which only Mike notices. He looks swiftly at his father, concerned, and then follows the direction of Carlo's stare.
His own eyes widen in shock. Laurie's wearing his late mother's unmistakable brooch. Matching the necklace adorning Martina's slender throat, the marcasite and silver pin sparkles as if alive where it rests against Laurie's white dress.
11.
Jem Van Doren's Apartment
Seven River Drive
Rena shudders beneath her coat, stamping her feet as she waits for Jem to answer the doorbell. Fortunately there's a small roof above her head, which means not too much snow has gathered itself on the stairs leading up to Jem's front door. But she still has to hold one hand carefully around the iron railing, since her shoes have almost no traction against the ice that's accumulated over the past few days.
After five minutes passes, Rena peeks in the side window, her hand trying to block out the moonlight so she can see the darkened apartment within. It's not entirely dark -- there's a television on, at any rate. But nothing through this window it's impossible to see if Jem is inside.
She turns around, carefully making her way down the cement steps, and tramps through the thick snowfall to the side of the building. The windows here are covered with bushes, but Rena's small enough to slip through without too much trouble. Clutching at the wall, Rena stands on tiptoe to look inside.
He is there. He's sitting on a chair, awkwardly due to his leg cast, but still upright and obviously awake.
Relief sweeps through Rena, and she realizes that until now, she's been secretly afraid of finding him unconscious -- or worse.
She wipes the window pane with one hand, clearing it from the frost from her own breath, and uses the other to rap on the glass.
"Jem!" she calls, trying to be loud enough for him to hear, but not so loud that the neighbors end up calling the cops. "Jem, can you hear me? It's Rena!"
A few seconds pass, and eventually the noise gets through to him. He turns towards the window, and though she can't see his eyes thanks to the shadows from the TV set, it looks as if he sees her. She waves at him.
Please let me in, she mimes, pointing wildly at the door.
It seems to take him a long time to make his decision, but finally he lurches forward to grab his crutch. His balance is awkward, but Rena's not surprised considering his injuries and, undoubtedly, his shaken state of mind.
Again relieved, Rena jumps down from the small ledge and treks over to the front stoop. The bottom of her expensive gala dress is water-logged, probably damaged with salt stains, but after everything that's happened tonight, the wasted money isn't all that important to her.
She waits patiently as Jem unlocks the door, at last swinging it open. For a moment Rena shivers in silence, expecting him to speak first. When it's clear that isn't going to happen, she enters the apartment.
"J-Jem," she says, shutting the door behind her by leaning against it. "Jem, I'm so sorry."
"You're not the only one," he mutters, limping away from her. "Hell, you don't even know what sorry is."
Rena moves to follow him, and is automatically assaulted by the unmistakable scent of alcohol. She freezes in place. "Jem! Are you drinking?"
"Give the girl a medal. She figured out my dark secret." Jem lowers himself into his chair, his hand clutching absently for a bottle that's a few inches out of his reach.
Without hesitating, Rena flings herself forward, grabbing the whisky and clutching it to her chest. "Are you insane? You're on pain medication, you're not supposed to have any alcohol! You could kill yourself!"
His narrow eyes peer at her, the blue looking almost white in the light of the television. "And lemme guess, that's supposed to be a bad thing?"
"Yes. It's the worst thing." She swallows, taking in the pain that practically radiates out from him in waves. "Jem, tell me what's going on. I've been at the hospital, I haven't heard anything about the building itself."
"The building. That'd be the newspaper building. My newspaper building." Jem pauses, letting his fingertips meet together under his chin. "Well, le'ssee. The bottom three floors are basically charcoal, but the rest isn't all that bad, from what pretty Peggy whassername on the news tells me." He suddenly clutches the arms of his chair, leaning forward. "You were at the hospital?"
"Yeah. Chelsea told--"
"You've gotta tell me. Elaine -- is she -- " Jem's breathing quickens, and he stands up to move towards Rena, grabbing her arm. "How is she?"
At over six feet tall, Jem towers over Rena by nine full inches. But Rena stands firm, knowing he needs to learn on her for strength. "When I left she was in surgery. Her neck is broken, but--"
"Oh Jesus Christ!" His hands dig into her shoulders as he moans. "You can't survive a broken neck! You die from that, don't you?"
"No! Not always -- listen to me, Jem, that isn't true. I promise you, I don't think her life is at great risk. There's always a risk in surgery, but--"
"Is she paralyzed? Is her spine broken?"
"I don't think so."
Jem keeps breathing heavily. "What about White? They didn't say anything about him on the news."
"I won't lie to you, Jem. It's -- he's in very serious condition. But they're doing everything they can to make sure he comes out of this." She hesitates, wanting to change the subject from the victims. "Have you heard anything from the fire department yet? Do they know how it started?"
Shaking his head, Jem makes a guttural noise and suddenly grabs at the bottle that Rena's still clasping close to her. She hugs it tightly, not letting him near. "No, I told you, you shouldn't--"
"Shouldn't? Screw what I shouldn't!" He flings his crutch away, and with the other hand slams across the top of the television set to send the VCR and cable box crashing to the ground. "Screw that! I've already done everything I shouldn't, there's nothing left!"
Rena backs away, for the first time frightened -- for Jem and for herself.
12.
Hudson Concert Hall
Grand Ballroom
Table #12
Mike stares up at Victor, who seems to have no shame whatsoever as he looks at their father. "Something wrong, Pop?" he asks callously.
"I -- where did she get that?"
"You know where. Let's not get into this now."
"I will go into it now. That pin is supposed to be in your mother's jewelry box."
Adele laughs lightly. "But jewelry should be displayed for all the world to see, not hidden in some dark room. I'm sure your wife would agree with that."
"Exactly," Victor murmurs. "Thank you, Adele."
Carlo seems at a loss, his face red with dismay, and Mike steps in protectively. "The point is, that pin is supposed to have been locked away in Pop's safety deposit box. Frankly I'm curious to know how it got out of the bank without his signature."
Victor's eyes are as hard as the gems in question. "Don't play cop with me, Mikey. It's Mama's jewelry, and you know what she wanted done with it."
"As a mother, I can empathize with her." Adele brushes her hand across the back of Laurie's head maternally. "Surely she'd be pleased to see that Victor gave the gift out of love."
Carlo finds his voice at last. "Forgive me, Mrs. Nichols, but you do not understand."
"But Mr. Fiore, of course I do. The jewelry is obviously important to you. A family heirloom, I expect?" She glances at Laurie with affection. "What better display for it than someone who's going to be part of your family?"
Victor nods. "That's it precisely. You see, Adele, my mother wanted the pieces of this jewelry set to go to the women we marry."
"Yes, I thought as much. A natural maternal instinct," Adele murmurs. She bestows a cool smile on Martina. "So, my dear, when is the happy day for you and Mike?"
An awkward silence follows, after which Adele glances down at Martina's ringless hand. "Oh! My goodness, I didn't mean to ... it's just that since you're wearing a necklace that's clearly part of this set, I just assumed ..."
Laurie's lips curl with catlike delight. She glances towards the exit and then nods. "Sorry to interrupt, but the rest of the family's on their way out the door. I think we'd better break this up."
Adele makes her apologies and leaves, accompanied by Laurie, but Victor hesitates before moving off. "Guys -- Pop -- don't let's make this a big thing."
"This discussion isn't over," Carlo vows, holding onto his son's arm. "We're gonna have to talk about this. There are rules to how our family--"
"Yeah. Right. Maybe what needs to be talked about is why family rules apply to me, but not to Mikey here. Apparently he can toss these all-important family rules out the window the minute he shacks up with someone. No offense, Martina."
"None taken," she replies dryly, but Mike is far less forgiving. He starts towards his younger brother, his advance cut off only by Julie's quick intervention. His sister slips between them, her hands shoved against Mike's chest.
"Mikey! This is crazy, the whole bunch of you are acting like -- like Neanderthals!" Julie turns to plead at Victor, then at Mike and her father. "Seriously, this was such a nice night. Do you have to ruin it?"
Setting his jaw, Mike steps back. He exhales and runs a tender hand across Julie's cheek. "I'm not ruining anything. You're right, Jules, it was a nice night."
Victor shakes his head and turns back to his father. "I'll see you guys later. We'll talk some other time."
He leaves them to join his fiancée. Mike sighs, feeling Martina slip her hand around his arm as he stares dolefully across the increasing distance between him and his brother.
"Are you all right, honey?" she whispers, letting them linger behind as the rest of the Fiores start towards the door.
"Not really. I don't like what just happened."
She smiles ruefully. "No one did, I'm sure."
"No, that's not what I mean." Mike shakes his head, and keeps his voice very low. "That was staged, Martina. As staged as that opera was tonight. And for the life of me I don't know which of 'em staged it -- or why."
13.
Schuyler Falls Arts Center
Outside Hudson Concert Hall
At last the snow has stopped, after five inches have fallen to blanket the city in glittering white. Actually, in the moonlight the snow appears a pale blue, and it matches the glimmer on Hannah Nichols' hair. Tristan watches Nick walk at her side, letting his wife manipulate her chair with experienced ease down the salt-covered path.
Tristan's thankfully able to abandon his restless anger for long enough to offer his sincere goodbye to Cameron's older brother and his wife. "It was a pleasure meeting you both," he says quietly, shaking their hands.
Hannah nods. Like Tristan, she too has been distracted all evening -- particularly after her nephew and Daphne left the table following word of Doug White's accident. Tristan had quietly asked her if she knew Dr. White, but she'd denied having met him, explaining her mood change away as a growing headache.
Now he bends a little, lowering his voice. "I hope you feel better."
"Thanks, Tristan. Sorry I was a lousy neighbor at dinner."
"Not at all. I can't say I was much better."
She smiles up at him, the warm empathy of her gaze almost able to cut through the cloud of bitterness surrounding Tristan. "Guess we both had an off night. Maybe we'll meet again when we're in better shape, huh? I'd like that."
"So would I," Tristan agrees, and realizes he means it. Straightening, he watches Nick moving off to the waiting limousine, where the driver is in the process of opening the trunk, presumably in preparation for Hannah's chair.
The driver turns expectantly toward Hannah. And when the light from the tall, amber-hued street lamps falls on his face, his identity makes Tristan take a sharp breath in shocked recognition.
"Adair?"
Jonnie Adair's pale eyes shift to take in Tristan, and the dismay written there is almost palpable. He's no more pleased to see Tristan than Tristan is to find his former bartender suddenly before him.
"That's right," Hannah says, no surprise whatsoever in her voice. "You know Jonnie."
"How -- how do you know about that?"
"He was very honest and upfront about his background." Hannah's tone is not apologetic, but she's obviously sympathetic to Tristan's astonishment. She reaches out to brush his coat sleeve. "I know you share some bad history. But we've found him to be very loyal. He's trying to start a new life."
"Trustworthy," Tristan echoes, shaking his head. "Loyal. I'm sorry, Hannah, he doesn't know the meaning of the words."
"Time passes, Tristan. People change. All I can judge is how he's been with me and my family, you know?"
Swallowing, unsure how to respond to yet another emotional slap in the face, Tristan just nods and bids her a good night. He walks through the crowd towards the darkened parking lot.
Tonight has been one endless parade of people who have stabbed Tristan in the back. Not even the complete parade -- no, that would be far too long a progression to have taken place even during the length of the opera. Of course, many of them are now dead -- Vanessa, Roald, even his own mother.
But all Tristan can think of are the faces of betrayal he's seen tonight. Bertram Brooke, his cousin, who somehow had returned to the company Tristan himself should be running now. Olivia Ortiz and Ronald Granger ... he hadn't seen Livvy tonight, but he'd caught a glimpse of Ronald's successful, self-satisfied face. They'd tossed him out of OmniCorp, claiming he was unbalanced, and now had installed Bertram Brooke -- a man who'd actually embezzled from the firm, for God's sake! And Olivia was a blackmailer with a disease that had caused her to drink human blood, but hey, apparently that wasn't a problem for the Omni board. No, only Tristan, whose main failing was being unjustly accused of a murder he didn't commit ... only he was considered a liability at OmniCorp.
Now the reappearance of Jonnie Adair, a man he'd hired and trusted to be his bartender at Boondoggles, who'd slept with his wife, working with her to hide her death and, eventually, frame Tristan for murder. Jonnie was part of an insidious conspiracy that had found Tristan imprisoned, nearly insane with the belief that he had committed a horrific act of violence against the woman he loved, and finally near death in Italy after following the trail to find Camilla's true killer.
But after all this, Jonnie wasn't in jail. No, he's out and about, thanks to some bizarre deal that Tristan's own attorney, Martina, had some hand in. Tristan still can't fathom how Jonnie escaped spending more than a single night in prison, but as his former best friend Marty had told him, it was all very complicated and a natural part of the legal system.
Tristan brushes past some snow-covered cars to reach his Lexus, his gloved hand grabbing a fistful of snow and crushing it into a rock-hard ball of ice. His gaze is set in front of him, trying to ignore the mental image of the final betrayer. "Christ, don't," he mutters, pulling open his car door and leaning against it. "Not now."
But he can't avoid it -- her luminous, softly rounded face appears like a ghost, brown eyes dancing, plump lips parted in a beckoning smile.
Elizabeth Durand, whom he still thinks of as Danielle. Undoubtedly laughing now at her clever facade, taking him for a ride that ended in shame, hurt, and a fiery ball of fury burning in his gut. And now she's disappeared into the night, escaping him. Getting away...
He breathes heavily, watching his frosty breath disappear just as his lover had. And that's when the penny finally drops, as he realizes at last why he has never gotten closure, not since the whole terrible mess of Camilla's death.
Everyone gets away with everything. Not Tristan, of course -- he's spent a lifetime paying for mistakes, many of which weren't even his own to claim. But besides Tristan, no one else ever seems to pay for what they've done. Olivia, Ronald, Bertram, Jonnie, now Elizabeth ... none of them.
Tristan looks up at the cloud-covered moon, inhaling sharply enough for little prickles of ice to form in his nostrils and throat. The frigid, clean air empowers him, and he holds it in, trying to lock the feeling away for as long as his lungs will allow.
Oh yes, he thinks, closing his eyes when at last he lets himself exhale. I want some payback.
14.
Jem Van Doren's Apartment
Seven River Drive
Rena stares at Jem, her eyes wide with alarm. "P-please calm down. You'll hurt yourself!"
He breathes heavily. His gaze seems genuinely curious. "Why the hell do you care?"
"Because, Jem. You're my patient." And then, remembering her conversation with Chelsea, she adds: "And you're my friend."
Exhausted, he leans against the mantelpiece, forehead resting on his good arm. Except for his ragged breathing, silence envelops the room, and finally Rena risks stepping forward again.
"I know you're worried about the money," she begins tentatively. "I know how much you've put into the paper. But -- you have insurance, right? Fire insurance?"
With a laugh, he rakes his fingers through his sweaty hair. "Oh yeah," he says. "You're damn right I have insurance."
"Thank God," Rena mutters, afraid that all this was about his having cashed in his insurance policy. "Well -- I know it won't make up for everything, but at least you're covered. You'll be able to start again, maybe even improve things."
"Starting again," he repeats hollowly, and then jerks away from the fireplace with such violence that he nearly topples over onto the floor. Somehow he grabs the back of the armchair just in time. "Starting again? Sister, there ain't no such thing. You know how many times I've tried that? That's why I went to Seattle, and then had to come here with my tail between my goddamn legs, and then the newspaper -- oh, Christ, I need another drink, I don't wanna remember any of this."
Rena quickly shakes her head. "No. You're my patient, and I'm telling you, you've had enough."
"'You're my patient, you're my patient,'" Jem mimics, lumbering over to her. "What is that, your theme song? I make the decisions in my life, Nursie. Yeah, they all suck, but they're still mine."
Again he's upon her, reaching for the bottle that she holds behind her back. "Jem, stop it."
Supporting himself by leaning his weight on her, Jem just shrugs and keeps trying to turn her around. "That's my last bit of whisky, Nurse, and then I'll go to sleep, call the cops, whatever you want."
"No." She backs up against the wall, keeping her arm behind her. "Now please back off!"
He laughs, sounding a little more like his old self. "I've got like two feet of height on you, and God only knows how many extra pounds. Do you really think you're gonna stop me from getting at that damn bottle?"
"You can bully me all you want," Rena says calmly, and pulls her hand out to reveal the empty bottle. "But I just poured the stupid thing out into your plant."
He grabs at the bottle, his eyes wide with disbelief. Rena continues and reaches out to touch his arm. "I'm sorry, Jem. I'm not going to let you overdose because you're feeling sorry for yourself. I care about you."
The words bring him up short, and for a second Rena thinks she's gotten through to him. But then he nearly growls in anger, putting every last ounce of strength into flinging the bottle aside. It crashes against a wall, sending a tremor through Rena -- and she barely has time to react before Jem lunges for her again.
"I don't need you to care. What the hell do you think you're playing at, huh? You know who you're dealing with? A freakin' doom machine, that's who I am. Everything I touch falls to pieces. What did he call me before? A walking vicious circle? Yeah, that's about right."
His face is inches from hers, and his hands wrapped so tightly around her arms she can't budge them from her side. "J-Jem," she whispers, suddenly frightened. "I don't understand. Please let me go!"
He pushes her forward, slamming her back against the wall, and her eyes squeeze shut as she cries out in fright. And suddenly, just as suddenly as his violence appeared, the storm ends.
"Oh Jesus," she hears him whisper, releasing his grip on her arms. "Oh Jesus, Rena, I'm sorry."
She opens her eyes, taking deep breaths. Jem stands closely to her, his arms now crossed over his chest as if he's cold. He shakes his head, staring at the floor. "I'm sorry," he slurs quietly.
"I'm all right," Rena stammers. "It's o-okay, I know you're upset."
"I didn't mean to hurt you. I swear I didn't. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. You think they'll understand that?"
Nodding, Rena again risks touching his arm. When he doesn't pull away, she pulls him with some difficulty over to the armchair, and when he's seated, she works to make him physically comfortable. At last she stands in front of him, meeting his gaze with what she hopes is a comforting stare. "No one could possibly blame you for this, Jem."
He's practically falling asleep, but somehow dizzy words start tumbling out of him. "Elaine can sure as hell blame me. But she wasn't supposed to be there. That was the whole point. I don't know what she was doing there. The building's supposed to be empty on Thursday nights, and she said she was going home early. Why was she there?"
"I -- I don't know."
He reaches towards her, this time so gently that Rena doesn't feel afraid, and clutches at her coat lapel as if pleading with her. "If they both get better, and the money comes through, it'll all be okay. It's not like I wanted this to happen. It'd be different if I knew they were gonna be there, but it's my building, I have a right to do what I want. You understand that, right? You understand me, I think sometimes you get me even better than Chelsea does. She's just like me, she only thinks about herself. But you..."
Rena waits until he falls into silence at last. "Jem," she says very quietly, hardly daring to breathe. "What do you mean, it'd be different if you knew they were going to be there? What are you saying to me?"
He gets still, so still that she almost thinks he's died in her arms. But then he pulls away to look up at her. "Confidentially? Is this confidential, Rena?"
Her throat is so dry she can hardly swallow. "You're my patient," she repeats for the fourth time tonight, all too aware of the irony. "You're under my care."
But he just leans against her, closing his eyes. Automatically she puts her arm around him, pulling his head to rest against her chest. As her hand rubs his back in a circular motion, she can feel the tremors of exhaustion and fear reach her fingers through his silk bathrobe.
It takes nearly an hour for Jem to fall asleep at last. And Rena stays with him, embracing him in the silent apartment, praying against all reason that her terrible suspicion is wrong.