Donovan's Child by Christine Rimmer

in the past hour and a half. They briefly discussed what was going well. And what wasn’t quite coming together.
    They agreed that they had a good handle on the arrangement of space now. But they’d also decided the design had to speak of fun, of possibility. Probably of flight. That, they had begun to think, was the eventual parti: early flight.
    Somehow, they needed to get the theme of flight into the facade and the main entry, so that when parents and children and teachers came to the center every daythey felt a sense of uplift, that anything could happen in this special place, that they, the children who grew and learned there, could do anything they set their young minds to accomplishing.
    This was the central idea for the structure. And that meant they needed to get a serious grip on it soon, since the rest of the complex would be likely to change, once they found the true heart of the project.
    â€œSoon,” he said, affirming what they both knew needed to happen. “I know you’re going to find it soon.”
    She was straightening her workspace by then. “Well, probably not tonight. Right now, I think I could use a long, hard swim.”
    He had a sudden, stunning vision of her, emerging from the courtyard pool, all wet and gleaming, the water sliding off her body in glittering streams.
    â€œUh. Yeah,” he said stupidly. “A swim. Good idea. Clear your head.”
    She regarded him. It was a strange, piercing sort of look. He almost wondered if she could see inside his mind, if she knew that he had watched her, in her blue tank suit, out in the courtyard, when she thought she was alone.
    Well, if she did suspect him of spying on her, she could stop worrying. He would never do such a thing again.
    â€œSee you at dinner,” she said, still eyeing him in that odd way—or at least, so it seemed to him.
    â€œYes,” he answered distractedly. “See you at dinner.”
    And she left him.
    He made himself stay behind in the studio, which was one of the few main floor areas without a view of the courtyard—and the pool. He went to his desk and he pushed his computer monitors out of the way, and hespent an hour sketching, plugging away at the facade problem.
    At six-thirty, no closer to any kind of solution than he had been when he started, he went back to his own rooms to shower before dinner.
    The lights in the courtyard were on by then. And before he turned on any lights in his sitting room, he went to the glass doors and gazed out.
    The pool was deserted—which he had known it would be.
    And he felt disappointed, that she wasn’t still out there, after all—a feeling he knew to be completely reprehensible.
    He whirled and rolled through his bedroom, and the wide-open double doors to the bathroom, where he tore off his sweats and used the railings he’d had installed months ago, to get into the open shower and onto the bathing stool waiting there.
    Twenty minutes later, he was clean and dressed and on his way to the dining room.
    Abilene was already there, in a simple long-sleeve black dress, standing at the doors that looked out on the courtyard. She turned when he entered.
    In her eyes, he thought he saw questions. His guard went up.
    But then she smiled. And all she said was, “There you are.” Now she seemed almost happy to see him.
    And he was glad, absurdly glad. That she hadn’t asked any questions. That she had smiled.
    They went to the small table that Olga had set for them. He wished he could stand up, step close to her, pull back her chair. Such a simple gesture, but not something he could do. Not yet, anyway.
    And possibly, not ever.
    She sat. He wheeled around the table and took the waiting place across from her. Olga had lit the candles, and already served the soup. And the wine was there, opened.
    He poured. For Abilene. And then for him. He raised his glass. She touched hers to it. They sipped. Shared a nod.
    Ate the