Missing Epilogue

When Complications Come to Your Door

The missing epilogue for Complications: May 30, 2005

It was a few years since Rebecca Godard had been required to use the names Smith or Jones. She’d worked a menial job that was far below her level of education—she had a degree in thermonuclear physics, after all—but she’d done it all because Daddy, an extremely capable doctor, had asked it of her.

Her father had been devoted to another doctor, Pandora Gautier, and Rebecca had always been uncertain if it was because he worshipped Dr. Gautier’s genius and believed in her studies or because he was emotionally attached to her. Dr. Gautier wanted him to keep an eye on an agent named Mark Vincent, and of course her father had fallen all over himself to accede to the woman’s wishes. He’d taken employment with the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security in order to do so. Daddy had made a huge mistake, though, and although Rebecca had no idea what it was, she was certain he couldn’t be blamed for it. Who would have thought a man born to an abusive, alcoholic mother in a poor section of small city in Massachusetts would make something of himself? Would have wound up with friends who’d look out for him?

Well, that was all behind her now, and she was happy to be able to use her real name once again.

Rebecca stretched in her bed, enjoying the feel of her joints popping. The salt-scented ocean breeze blew in through the windows of the tiny beachfront bungalow she owned, and she relished it. This was her favorite time of year. Later in the summer she’d rely on screens to keep out the mosquitos and biting flies that would descend on the town like a plague, but for now, living in Montauk was a little slice of heaven.

She threw back the light bedspread and rolled out of bed, then drew on her cotton bathrobe and padded down the stairs to the kitchen. Something else she enjoyed—the feel of the cool slate tiles beneath her bare feet. The coffee maker she’d programmed the night before had the coffee ready, and she took the pink mug that was her favorite from the cabinet above the sink. The mug had been a gift from Daddy when she’d received her doctorate.

“Always remember, sweet pea, no matter how grown up you are, you’ll always be my little girl.”

“I will, I promise.” She’d hugged him and kissed his cheek. The mug read Daddy’s Little Girl in elegant purple script.

She poured herself a cup, added some creamer, stirred the coffee, then added more creamer until it took the hue she preferred.

She took a sip and tipped back her head. Mmm. This was such excellent coffee, well worth its cost.

She strolled into the foyer, opened the front door, and frowned. No newspaper awaited her on the shallow steps leading to her door. The person who delivered the paper was late today, but that probably had to do with the holiday. Well, she wouldn’t make a big deal over it this time. She closed the door and carried her coffee to the living room, where she stood before the bow window, cradling the mug between her palms. She savored its warmth while she gazed out the window onto the small patch of beach she could call hers. Although the bungalow cost an outrageous sum, considering its size, she’d bought it because of its view, which had given Daddy a good deal of pleasure. It was a view she, herself, never tired of, and as she enjoyed it, she sipped her coffee, waited for her paper, and contemplated her plans for the day.

She loved Memorial Day, not for what it represented, but for all the fun things that were associated with it—the red, white, and blue bunting draped over the vintage buildings in town, the flags flying from all the homes, and later in the morning the parade down Main Street, with the gorgeous volunteer firefighters, the members of the police department in their crisp blue uniforms, and the bagpipers whose cute knees peeked from under their kilts as they marched to the town square. Later this afternoon, she’d roast wieners and hamburgers and ears of corn on the charcoal grill on her back deck, and afterward, after the sun went down, she’d leave a pot of coffee to percolate on the briquettes while she enjoyed the fireworks. The slow perking of the coffee gave it a rich flavor, and perhaps she’d bring someone home to enjoy it with her. She thought of all the pretty girls who would be arriving from the city to spend the summer.

Montauk, at the end of Long Island, was so different from DC, which was as much of a rat race as Manhattan, and she was relieved to have left it all behind. Thanks to what Daddy had left her and what she’d earned working for Dr. Gautier, she had enough so she wouldn’t have to look for another job for quite some time.

She frowned for a second. Dr. Gautier had been an intriguing employer, but she’d had two obsessions: plastic surgery and Mark Vincent, the WBIS agent behind Daddy’s decline and Rebecca’s own failure at her assignment—to keep track of the man and throw a spanner in the works whenever she could in hopes his resulting firing would make him available for Dr. Gautier to scoot him up.

Rebecca frowned. That hadn’t been successful in the least, and after a second failed attempt, she’d had to abandon her assignment. It wasn’t exactly fortuitous that someone in the WBIS who loathed Vincent as much as the doctor adored him had helped Rebecca get away. Dr. Gautier might not have realized it, but Vincent wasn’t universally loved and admired.

In spite of how Vincent might have regarded her, she wasn’t stupid. She’d left him a note that kept Dr. Gautier completely out of it and a disc Rebecca hoped would give him something else to think about. She hadn’t been certain how Dr. Gautier would react to her failure, but the doctor hadn’t held her responsible for the collapse of her plans and had even seemed pleased when Rebecca reported it to her.

“He’s a very intelligent man,” she’d said. The expression in her eyes was the only indication of her satisfaction in that; she refused to permit any look—pleasure, displeasure, it didn’t matter—to mar her face in her almost fanatical desire for a smooth, youthful appearance.

That was when Rebecca decided to cut her losses entirely. She didn’t trust Dr. Gautier, and if Vincent was as smart as the doctor thought, then there was a possibility he intended to come after Rebecca. She handed in her resignation and moved to Long Island, taking Daddy with her.

She glanced back at the clock on the wall. If the newspaper didn’t arrive soon, she’d have to leave it for later. She’d finish her coffee, have breakfast, and change into shorts and a sleeveless blouse and head off to town to watch the parade.

She wished Daddy could have joined her, but he’d spent his last days in the Hospice of St. Joseph the Carpenter. She wasn’t particularly religious, but St. Joseph was the patron saint of the easy death, and she hoped that had been granted to her father. She missed him, but he hadn’t been the same since he’d been pushed out of his position at the WBIS; his mental acuity had become vaguer than his doctors had anticipated at such a relatively young age, so it was probably for the best that he’d passed a year ago.

The thud against her front door startled her out of her thoughts, and she placed her mug on the table in the breakfast nook before she hurried to the foyer and gazed through the window that looked out onto her front yard and the curved walkway that led to the street. She could see the car drive slowly down the street while another newspaper flew out of the driver’s side window to land on her neighbor’s doorstep.

Well, the paper wasn’t toolate.

She retrieved it and closed the door with a shove of her hip, then stripped off the plastic bag that encased the newspaper. That was new, but perhaps there had been complaints of the paper arriving wet on those days that it rained. Although today looked like it was going to be beautiful, and hopefully as warm as the weathermen predicted.

She tied the plastic bag into a knot and threw it away the plastic bag before she sat down at the kitchen table. The headline was the usual promise of doom and gloom, and she dismissed it and began to thumb through the newspaper. A heading on the obituary page caught her attention.

Renowned socialite/scientist, Pandora Gautier, dead at age seventy-four.

Rebecca’s mouth went dry and she had to take a sip of coffee before she could swallow. The picture beneath it showed a woman thirty years younger, but Rebecca was uncertain if that was due to Dr. Gautier’s constant plastic surgeries or if it actually had been taken thirty years before.

She hurriedly scanned the rest of the article to see if any reason was given why such a healthy, relatively young woman should suddenly pass away.

Ah. It seemed the doctor’s obsession with plastic surgery had led to her demise. Apparently she’d suffered cardiac arrest while on the operating table.

Rebecca cocked her head and considered that. She wasn’t a medical doctor, but she’d been with Daddy often enough to garner some bits of knowledge from him. Hadn’t the operating team made any effort to revive her? She read on, absently flexing her fingers.

Hmm. Apparently they had, but they just hadn’t been successful.

Daddy had always been concerned Dr. Gautier’s desire to have the perfect features might result in her passing, and it seemed he was right.

To be certain that was all it was, Rebecca reread the article more carefully, then smiled in grim satisfaction. No, there was no mention of Mark Vincent—not a one.

Relief flooded through her. She’d been certain all along the man was all bark and no bite. She could dismiss him and go on with her life, especially now that Dr. Gautier was gone as well.

That part of her life was well and truly behind her, and she no longer had to keep a wary eye over her shoulder.

Rebecca flexed her fingers again and reached for her coffee mug, but for some reason her perception must have been off, and she knocked it over. She frowned as the remains of her mug spilled onto the tablecloth. Now she’d have to send it out to the laundry.

She rose and almost lost her balance. Taken aback by how unsteady she was, she rested her hand on the back of her chair and stood for a second while she regained her equilibrium. What could have caused that attack of vertigo?

Well, whatever it was, she was fine now. She picked up her mug, went to the coffeemaker and reached for the carafe, and tipped it to refill her mug.

Now, what outfit should she— “Ow!” She dropped the mug, wincing at the pain. She’d poured coffee over her hand. How could she have missed the mug? She swayed a bit before she got herself under control once more and staggered to the sink, upset now by her unsteadiness. She turned on the cold water and stuck her reddened hand under the faucet, sighing in relief as the pain ebbed.

She blinked, then blinked again as her vision suddenly blurred. What was wrong with her? She tried shaking her head, and when that did nothing to clear her vision, she dug her fingers into her eyes. That didn’t help either, and she gave a muted cry when her eyes began to burn.

She had an eyewash cup in the cabinet in the first floor bathroom, and she hurried to get it. This time she stumbled over a small throw rug and nearly fell to her hands and knees. She managed to catch herself, and finally she arrived in the bathroom. It took her two tries to find the handle to open the cabinet, and then she had to squint in an attempt to locate the cup.

For the first time in a long while, she became frightened, not only by the tingling sensation in her fingers but by the feeling of numbness that was creeping over her. She drew in a breath and tried to steady her nerves, not that it helped. The pain in her eyes grew worse. It took her forever to get any water into the cup—she had to do it by feel, because by this point her eyes were tearing profusely and she couldn’t see much—and when she tried to angle it up to her eye, it slipped from her hand and soaked the front of her bathrobe.

A tightness squeezed her throat, and panic gripped her. Her tongue felt swollen, as if it blocked her throat, and when she tried to swallow, she couldn’t.

She staggered into the kitchen and reached for the phone on the wall, but it fell off the hook and dangled uselessly at the end of its cord. Unable to draw a breath, desperate for oxygen, she staggered toward the front door. At this point she was frantic for any sort of help, but the door seemed a million miles away.

Finally—finally—she reached it and managed to fumble it open. The spring air felt cool against her heated cheeks, and she took a wavering step out onto the curving walk.

Black dots danced in front of her eyes, and she opened her mouth to cry for help, but no sound emerged.

As she toppled to the walk, she heard shouts of “Call 9-1-1!”

Oh, thank God. Help was on the way. She closed her eyes and let darkness engulf her.

**

“What happened?” one of the neighbors, late to the scene, asked an onlooker.

“Looks like some kind of asthma attack to me—her lips were really blue—but the doctors at the ER will have to figure it out.”

“Do you think she’ll make it?”

“Probably. The EMTs did a tracheotomy and got a tube in her throat. The thing is, no one knows how long her brain was starved for oxygen.”

“So she might wind up a vegetable?”

The response was a shrug.

“I didn’t know her, but I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

“No. Oh, well. Say, are you going to the parade?”

“I was just on my way.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Thanks. I’d like the company.”

Quinn looked up when I strolled into the room just off ours, which we were setting up for Destiny and Alexander. He held the plaque Andrea had brought for the twins when she’d come to stay with us. Portia told me it was a quote from Winnie the Pooh. As soon as I saw you, I knew an adventure was going to happen.

Yeah, I guessed it was.

“Where are the kidlets?”

Quinn brushed aside the lock of hair that was always falling into his eyes. No sign of the Ice Man. Just then, those eyes held a warm light as he smiled at me.

“Andrea’s taken them to the park. Joe is with them,” he told me before I could ask.

“So we’re alone?” I waggled my eyebrows at him.

“That we are.”

I grinned and watched as he hung the plaque on the wall above where our daughter’s crib would go. The back of his shirt rode up, revealing an expanse of smooth, pale skin, and predictably, my cock twitched and began to harden.

“Where’ve you been, babe?” he asked as he nodded in satisfaction at the plaque’s placement.

“Tying up a loose end.”

“Mmm.” He saw the way I was looking at him, and a slight flush colored his cheeks. He took my arm and tugged me after him, and I wasn’t surprised when he led me to our bedroom.

I locked our bedroom door—just in case—leaned back against it, and watched as he started stripping off his clothes, then began to remove mine as well.

I’d tell him about my visit to Long Island later.

~End~

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