by MJ Rodgers
He found a couple of empty offices, a small kitchen and a large, vacant habitat room with an enormous skylight and sleeping quarters obviously designed to accommodate one or more chimps. Behind another door was an empty medical examining room. Then, at the far end of the corridor, Marc pushed open a door to a small room smelling of fresh-brewed coffee. It contained a table, a computer and a couple of chairs. Marc entered this room with Louie Demerchant on his heels.
On the other side of a two-way mirror was a large, colorful play area, decorated with plastic furniture in wild splashes of orange and blue and yellow. A woman in a wheelchair, her short dark hair waving around her ears, was gesturing at a chimp, while a younger, muscular man sat and took notes.
There was a chubby child in a blue sailor suit sitting next to the chimp. He had large dark eyes and a tuft of curly black hair at the top of his head. He was watching the woman in the wheelchair. He looked like he was trying to mimic the hand movements the woman was making.
Marc instantly heard the deep sigh beside him. “That child doesn’t look like David at all,” Louie Demerchant said sadly. “He could be anybody’s.”
The chimp got up and took a fake potted plant off an orange shelf and took it to the woman in the wheelchair. The woman shook her head and moved her hands again.
“Well, that’s it, then,” Marc said, relieved. “Let’s go.”
But just as they began to turn away from the scene on the other side of the glass, a toddler, who had previously been hidden from view behind the wheelchair, stomped sturdily over to the chimp, grabbed it by the paw and began to lead it to the bookcase.
As soon as the second boy, wearing a tiger-striped outfit, came into view, Louie Demerchant grabbed Marc’s arm with a grip of iron and sucked in a shocked breath.
Marc looked at his companion. “Mr. Demerchant, what is it?”
“Truesdale, don’t you see? That toddler with the chimp. Look at the color of his hair, his bright blue eyes, his cocky little walk. By God, I’d know him anywhere! That’s David’s son!”
Marc’s eyes swung to the sturdy little boy who was now carrying a book and leading the chimp back to the woman in the wheelchair. The woman was nodding and smiling and gesturing.
Marc watched the boy as the woman in the wheelchair took the book from him. He immediately began to fiddle with the masking tape wrapped around the shoulder button of his tiger-striped outfit. In mere seconds, he had worked both it and the button free. He pulled off his clothing, diaper and all. Then, with a mischievous squeal, he ran around the wheelchair, just out of reach of the woman’s hands, in what was obviously a favorite game.
Children, particularly ones this young, seldom looked like their parents. This one certainly didn’t look like Remy at all. But Louie Demerchant was absolutely right. He did look exactly, uncannily, like David Demerchant.
Until that second—that very second—Marc had not believed it possible. But looking at that little toddler and his antics, he now had no doubt. This boy was his dead friend’s son.
“What are you doing in here!” an angry voice demanded from behind them.
Marc whirled around and came face-to-face with the golden flames in the cinnamon eyes of one very angry Dr. Remy Westbrook.
He had absolutely no idea what to say to her. Louie Demerchant suffered no such hesitation. He bounded forward and wrapped his big arms around the mother of his great-grandson, crushing her to his barrel chest in an old-fashioned bear hug.
“Thank you so much for having him! You don’t know what you’ve done for me!”
* * *
REMY PUSHED AGAINST Louie Demerchant’s chest, trying to free herself from the unwanted, exuberant embrace. But despite his seventy-five-plus years, the tall, silver-and-auburn-haired man proved to be as strong as an ox. She couldn’t budge him.
She lifted her head, ready to demand he let her go, but found she couldn’t when she saw the tears swimming in his moist gray eyes.
Damn.
Louie Demerchant was crazy, of course. But he was obviously sincere. She could forgive this deluded old man who was so desperate to find a great-grandson. But his controlling, pushy attorney was another matter altogether. She deeply resented this impossible position he’d just put her in with Demerchant. Deeply.
After a moment, Louie Demerchant released her and turned his head away, pulling an old-fashioned handkerchief out of his pocket to dry his eyes. Remy immediately faced Marc Truesdale, the real culprit in this awkward assembly.
She kept her tone quiet and controlled, but it took a lot of effort. “If you are not out of here in one minute, I’m calling campus security to throw you out.”
“We have a pass to tour the center,” Marc countered with all the polish of his brassy manner as he stepped forward and fished a paper out of his suit pocket. He grasped her hand and slid the paper into it.
Remy took a deep, startled breath as she felt the bold insistence of his warm touch melting inside her like hot molasses. The physical reaction to his touch infuriated her, but it excited her, too. Very much. Too damn much.
His eyes held hers until she tore them away to look at what he had forced into her hand. She snatched both the pass and her hand from out of his grasp.
She looked at the pass, then at Demerchant, and finally back to Marc. “So now it becomes clear who the mysterious anonymous donor of twenty thousand dollars is and why Dr. Feeson kept trying to delay me in his office.”
“Mr. Demerchant just wanted to see—”
“You don’t have to tell me what Mr. Demerchant wanted to see,” Remy interrupted Marc, her eyes blazing as she tore up the pass. “This paper is worthless. There are no unescorted passes to my building.”
She swung back to face the older man. “Mr. Demerchant, I understand you are in pain over your tragic loss, but you will only invite more pain if you allow yourself to be deluded further. My child is not your great-grandson.”
Louie Demerchant smiled indulgently as he pointed to Nicholas, who was now being firmly held by the male lab assistant on the other side of the soundproof glass. “But he is, Dr. Westbrook. It’s all over his cute little mug. What’s his name?”
Remy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Please leave. Both of you,” she said, far more calmly than she felt. “Immediately.”
“Let me bring by a baby video of David that we had made from an old home movie,” Louie pleaded. “All you have to do is take a look.”
“Mr. Demerchant, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to look at your grandson’s baby video. Even if there is a resemblance between him and my child, it proves nothing. A lot of babies resemble adults who are not their parents. Now, this is over. Leave.”
“Come on, Mr. Demerchant,” Marc said, taking hold of his arm. “We’d best go.”
“But he’s David’s child! He’s my great-grandchild!” Louie protested.
“Mr. Demerchant, I’ll handle this.”
Remy watched as Louie Demerchant reluctantly let Marc lead him toward the door. But just before they exited the room, Marc turned to Remy, his lips drawn back into a charming smile, his cobalt blue eyes icy with intent. “I’ll be back,” he said.
It was a promise. And a threat.
A crazy shiver filled with both excitement and dread ran up Remy’s spine.
She was still listening to the echoes of their shoes down the long corridor and fighting her conflicting emotions, when Phil wheeled herself in from the sign-language room.
“Well, Nicholas has pulled his strip act again and... Remy? For heaven’s sake, you look ghastly. What’s up?”
“Phil, I’m beginning to think a trip out of the country might not be such a bad idea, after all. Do you think you could carry on without Nicholas and me for a few weeks?”
“You’re considering leaving your work? Remy, what’s happened?”
Remy told Phil about the visit from Demerchant and Marc Truesdale.
“So the old guy thinks Nicholas is his great-grandson. So what?”
“What if he comes back?”
“You throw him out. Remy, the guy can think anything he wants. He can’t do anything about it. Nicholas is yours. You have the right to say who sees him and who doesn’t.”
As always, Phil was right. Remy nodded. But she still worried. Because she had seen something Phil hadn’t. She had seen Marc Truesdale’s eyes when he said he would be back.
* * *
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked the jury, who had returned after less than an hour’s deliberation.
“Yes, we have, Your Honor,” the foreman said.
“And what is that verdict?” she asked.
“We find for the plaintiff, Mr. Louie Demerchant, in the amount of ten million dollars,” the short man with the big nose and receding chin said with a smile.
Louie Demerchant reached for Marc’s hand and gave it a hearty shake as the courtroom erupted in response. The judge rapped for order and got only a halfhearted compliance. She gave up, thanked the jury and quickly adjourned.
“You did a hell of a job, Truesdale,” Demerchant said as they remained at the plaintiff’s table and let the courtroom clear.
“You got that Binick good,” Colin Demerchant echoed as he and his wife, Heddy, came forward to congratulate Marc.
Marc acknowledged the praise with a brief nod in the direction of David’s parents.
“Now, what are you going to do about my great-grandson?” Louie demanded.
Marc had expected the question. But he hadn’t expected to discuss it in front of Colin and Heddy. Marc didn’t have a whole lot of respect for the couple who had ignored their only son for most of his life.
“There’s plenty of time to decide,” Marc said evasively, gathering up his papers.
Louie turned to his son and daughter-in-law. “Why don’t you two go see the woman in Kent who has those eighteenth-century English enamel boxes for sale that you are so eager to add to your collection. I’ve some things to discuss with Truesdale, here.”
“She’s asking fifteen thousand apiece,” Colin said, leaning toward his father. “You’ll cover my check?”
“I will not,” Louie said, his irritation clear. “What do you do with your money?”
Colin’s smile flashed all his teeth, suddenly making them appear as the most prominent feature in his face. “I spend it, of course. That’s what money is for.”
Louie flipped his wrist dismissively, shooing away his son and daughter-in-law. Colin took hold of Heddy’s bony arm and headed out of the courtroom.
As soon as they left, Louie turned back to Marc.
“Now, what do you intend to do about my great-grandson?”
“I intend to do plenty. What do you want?”
“Well, for starters, I want to know his name.”
“It’s Nicholas Alexander.”
“Nicholas Alexander Demerchant,” Louie Demerchant said with definite approval.
“Nicholas Alexander Westbrook,” Marc corrected him.
Louie waved his hand as though the reminder was merely an insignificant impediment. Then his eyes suddenly snapped back toward Marc. “Wait a minute. You knew his name? All along?”
“No, not all along. I called Ariana Justice at her private-investigation firm yesterday during the noon break and asked her to start checking into the background of Remy Westbrook and her child. A.J. came by the office last night and filled me in on what she had learned so far. That’s how I knew his name and that his mother takes him to work with her and involves him in the sign-language research she’s conducting with a chimpanzee.”
“If you knew his name last night, why didn’t you call to tell me?”
“Because until you saw him this morning, you weren’t even sure he was David’s son. There wasn’t any point in telling you the name of a boy who might have been no relation to you.”
Demerchant shrugged, accepting the explanation a bit grudgingly.
“Now, Mr. Demerchant, tell me,” Marc began, “what else do you want in respect to this child?”
“What anyone in my position would, Truesdale. I want to see the boy. Be a part of his life. I never told you before, but that last night with David, well, we had this terrible argument. It’s haunted me as much as his death has these last couple of years. I could never make it up to him. Now I have another chance. Now there’s Nicholas.”
“You’re sure you want to go ahead with this?”
“Truesdale, he’s David’s son. My great-grandson. The only hope of the Demerchants living on. You know it. I know it. And, damn it, he should know it, too.”
“I hear you, and I agree. But we’ve got a fight ahead. Remy Westbrook has made her position clear, and unless and until I can establish Nicholas as a Demerchant, we haven’t a chance of getting any legal grounds for you to see him.”
“Well, then, you just have to prove he’s a Demerchant, don’t you,” Louie said, his big, bony, square chin held high as the light of fierce determination lit his gray eyes.
Marc smiled. “Yes, I guess I just have to do that.”
Marc felt the older man studying his face intently. “You have a plan?”
“It’s already gone into effect,” Marc said with a smile. “But I need something from you.”
“Anything. Just ask.”
“Stay away from Dr. Westbrook and her son. Leave this to me. No interference, understand?”
“But, Truesdale, I could—”
“No, Mr. Demerchant. You can’t. Only I can do what must be done.”
* * *
REMY LAY BACK AGAINST the pillow on her bed with Nicholas’s warm little body snuggled up next to her, fast asleep. She stroked his soft cheek and ran her fingers through his feather-light curls.
He made her life so perfect—so complete. She never knew she could find so much perfection in such a small hand, so much beauty in a pair of wondering eyes, so much love inside herself. He had done this for her. She wanted to give it all back to him. The wonder. The beauty. The love. They were life’s real treasures—these priceless and heart-expanding emotions.
The TV news droned on in a low volume about the problems of the world.
Remy knew it was necessary to keep abreast of the turmoil that was going on in the world, but she purposely limited her news exposure in order to maintain her serenity and sanity. She was just about to switch off the set and put Nicholas in his own bed, when she heard something that stayed her hand.
“After only an hour’s deliberation, the jury in the case of Demerchant vs. Bio-Sperm awarded Louie Demerchant ten million dollars today, ending the sensational two-year-old case. Demerchant’s attorney, Marc Truesdale, met with reporters afterward to discuss the verdict.”
Remy watched as the newsreel showed Marc being interviewed earlier in the day. He was standing outside the courtroom, the lights shining off his blond hair, his cobalt eyes clear, a professional, boldly polished smile—not boyish at all—lifting his lips. He looked handsome as hell, like some damn crusader, beaming because he’d brought home the Holy Grail.
An irritating thrill zipped up her spine.
“Mr. Truesdale, were you surprised that the jury awarded the full ten-million-dollar award you were asking for?”
“No, not at all. I knew Binick and his attorney’s deliberate two-year delay in getting this case to court would have no effect on its eventual outcome.”
“Did Binick’s surprise testimony about Remy Westbrook’s child being David Demerchant’s son cause you concern over the eventual outcome of this case?”
“Absolutely not. As Dr. Westbrook herself testified, there is no real proof that her son is David Demerchant’s.”
“What about Louie Demerchant? What does he believe about the boy?”
“That’s the great tragedy in all of this. Mr. Demerchant will never know for sure, and that will continue to be a constant and painful uncertainty, haunting him for the rest of his life.”
The newsreel ended and cove
rage switched back to the anchorman.
“In other news—” he began.
Remy flipped off the TV set.
“Mr. Demerchant will never know for sure,” she repeated, mimicking Marc’s words and tone. “Yeah, well, he certainly seemed to be convinced this morning. How could you say that with a straight face, Truesdale? Tell me that?”
The telephone rang beside the bed. Remy snatched at it. At the last instant, she remembered Nicholas asleep at her side and lowered her voice.
“Hello,” she said as softly as she could.
“It’s been a long time, Remy.”
The man’s voice sounded familiar, but Remy couldn’t immediately place it. “Who is this?”
He laughed. “You’ve forgotten me?”
Remy stiffened as memory flooded back. No, she hadn’t forgotten him. She only wished she could.
Chapter Four
Marc stood beneath the shaded overhang above the cedar deck that looked out on the well-kept garden at the back of the Primate Language Studies Lab. Unseen and silent, he observed Remy and Nicholas as they sat beside a chimp on the grass.
It had been two weeks since he’d seen Remy. She was even lovelier than he’d remembered. The subdued autumn sun added licks of milk to the cream of her skin and lazily stirred cocoa streaks through the dark chocolate strands of her thick, waist-length hair.
In front of the trio was a stone table on which lay a tiny purple flower. Remy was pointing at the flower and then making some sort of hand motion toward her nose. Nicholas was watching her intently. After a while, he raised his hand and tried to mimic her. His gesture lacked definition.
Marc watched as Remy patiently repeated the movement. Nicholas tried again, improving somewhat in definition.
The chimp didn’t even try. After studying Remy’s repeated hand motion and Nicholas’s attempt to copy it, the chimp snatched the flower off the stone table and ate it.
Nicholas immediately rolled onto his back, a delighted belly laugh spontaneously erupting from him. Remy succumbed a few seconds later to a deep and joyous explosion of merriment, flopping next to her son on the lush green grass.
The chimp screeched in excitement at his companions, jumped up and down for a moment on the stone table, then lost interest in them and lumbered over to play on a nearby set of swings.
