Tomorrow's Dream by Janette Oke, Davis Bunn Page A

lost her baby two months ago, yet he was fussing over paleness and lack of sleep. What could he possibly expect? But she did not have either the interest or the energy to involve herself in such a discussion.
    But Kenneth did not let the matter drop. “If I make an appointment, will you go see him?”
    â€œWhy?” Kyle’s voice sounded empty even to her own ears.
    â€œBecause I’m not certain you’re as fine as you keep saying. You’re pale. You’re losing weight. Your hands are cold. You have no appetite. What more do you need to convince you that—”
    â€œWhat could a doctor do?”
    â€œWell, at least let him see you, then maybe . . .” He trailed off uncertainly. “Maybe a tonic,” he finished lamely.
    Kyle tossed her napkin on the table and pushed herself to her feet. A tonic is not what I need , she wanted to scream at him. My baby is .
    But she did not say the words. Instead she looked coolly down at her husband and spoke in an even, controlled tone. “I have a bit of a headache. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll take a tablet and lie down.”
    â€œKyle—” Kenneth rose to his feet and started to reach for her, but she turned swiftly away. Her last brief glance at his face caught his deep pain at her rejection, his frustration that he could not help her. But she did not stop. She could not help him any more than she could help herself.

    Abigail sat in the foyer of Chez François, eyes nervously scanning the crowds on the sidewalk outside. The chic restaurant was located just off Embassy Row, and the midday diners were the cream of Washington society. She glanced at her watch once more, aware that the maitre d’ was watching her. It was only because she was a regular that he had held her table this long.
    A couple she knew vaguely entered the restaurant, deep in discussion about a new exhibition at the National Gallery. They halted their conversation long enough to greet her warmly. Just as the maitre d’ led them away to their table, her daughter pushed through the tall double doors. Abigail sprang to her feet. “Kyle, you’re here!”
    Kyle shook the worst of the rain off her coat. “You did invite me.”
    â€œYes, well,” Abigail hesitated, then decided not to mention that her daughter was forty-five minutes late for the luncheon appointment, or that Kyle had refused even to confirm whether she would come at all. Only that she would think about it. Abigail watched how she stiffened as the hostess reached to help with her coat, and knew a kiss and a hug would not be welcome. “What with this weather, I was almost unable to get here myself. Come, let’s see if they held our reservation.”
    The restaurant manager was a gentleman of the old school who greeted both lunch and dinner crowds in a white bow tie and tails. He held the oversized luncheon menus like a banner and bowed ceremoniously. “Mrs. Rothmore, how kind of you to join us.”
    â€œHello, Raymond. You remember my daughter, Kyle Adams.” Which was a fib, but a small one. Kyle had never come here before, since the society circuit was something Kyle generally avoided.
    Another formal bow. “Mrs. Adams, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Now if you ladies will please step this way.”
    Kyle hesitated at the doorway into the main restaurant. Abigail found herself looking at it through her daughter’s eyes—the glitter and the mahogany and all the polished people making Washington chatter and polite laughter. She reached down and grasped her daughter’s hand, and felt a flash of guilt for all the times she had done so in the past—how she had done so with impatience and demands and antagonism, dragging the sensitive child hither and yon to fulfill her own selfish ambitions. But there was none of that now, only love and concern and a wishing she could give her daughter strength and