“Would you like me to serve you and Elise in the dining room, then?”
“No . . . I couldn’t eat . . . I’m too . . .”
Elise stood when she saw Francesca so flustered. “Perhaps I could come with you and bring a little something for Francesca to eat now. I’m sure she could use the food, but she’s waiting for a call.”
“Of course—the beef is done enough. I’ll slice some off for you,” Mrs. Hanson assured her, looking politely puzzled and concerned for Francesca. Knowing Francesca was in no state to answer questions, Elise escorted Mrs. Hanson back to the kitchen and helped her make a tray.
Francesca barely swallowed two mouthfuls of the aromatic beef before she pushed her tray back and picked up her phone, checking for messages.
“Do you know Ian’s mother well?” Elise asked when Francesca gave up and set down her phone. Francesca shook her head.
“I’ve only visited her a few times. Other than the first time I met her, she’s usually fairly sedated.”
“I can’t imagine how hard it would be for Ian to see her that way.”
Francesca nodded. “Sometimes I want to tell him not to go, although I know that’s awful to think. I’d never say that about his mother. Still . . . it seems to take away a bit of his soul every time, to see the mere shell of someone he loves.” There was a pause. “What Ian said there at the end . . . that’s true,” Francesca said in a bereft tone. “Helen does shrink away from him sometimes, when she’s least in contact with reality. Perhaps Ian was right. Maybe she is reminded of . . . that man.”
Elise understood Francesca’s hesitance to say Trevor Gaines’s name. No wonder Lucien looked like he’d just eaten something foul every time the topic of Gaines was broached.
Several minutes later, Elise’s phone rang. She checked the caller identification and quickly hit receive.
“Lucien?”
“Yes. Ian’s fine. I’m with him.”
“Ian’s fine,” Elise immediately conveyed to a wide-eyed Francesca. “Where are you?” she asked Lucien.
“We’re on our way to London.”
“What?”
“I took a guess and followed Ian to the airport in Indiana where he keeps his jet. I thought if I couldn’t find him, I could charter a plane there. I figured he’d want to get to his mother’s side as soon as possible,” Lucien added under his breath, something about the hushed quality to his voice making her think Ian wasn’t far away.
“Are you . . . are you going to try and see Helen, too?” Elise asked shakily, suddenly wondering where she stood with him. She couldn’t read his mood. Was he furious? Worried? Preoccupied? Elise sensed mostly the last, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.
“It depends upon her state. I assured Ian I wouldn’t push the issue.” Guilt washed through her at his words. She recalled how he’d insisted that day in his office that he wouldn’t force things with Ian when Ian was dealing with his own private anguish. But Elise just had to be the one to push . . .
“Please tell Francesca that Ian said he would call her later,” Lucien was saying. “He’s . . . tired at the moment.”
“Lucien . . .” she began, glancing anxiously at Francesca. She desperately wanted a private word with him. She longed to apologize for her faux pas.
“Can you tell Sharon that I’ll be out of town indefinitely as well?”
“But Lucien, can’t—”
“I’ll be in touch when my plans are settled.”
“Lucien,” she blurted out, desperate lest he hang up before she got the opportunity to apologize. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know . . . I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Of course you didn’t. You never do.”
Shame swept through her at his words. He’d said something similar to her before, when she’d offered up a lame excuse for her impulsiveness.
“It’s done now. Try not to worry,” he said.
The line went dead. Elise pulled the phone from her ear, feeling numb all over again.
“What is it?” Francesca asked sharply.
“Ian is with Lucien. They’re on Ian’s plane, flying to London.”
“Ian left without me?” Francesca asked, her voice ringing with shock.
“He says to tell you he’ll call later. Lucien said he was tired,” Elise said soothingly, even though she was quite sure that Lucien was using tired as a euphemism. She sincerely doubted Ian Noble was sleepy at that moment.
Francesca stood and picked up her phone, paging for a number.
“What are you doing?” Elise asked.
“Booking a flight to London,” Francesca replied grimly.
Helplessness gripped at Elise. She envied Francesca’s position as Ian’s fiancée that she could make such a decision. She—Elise—felt like a powerless outsider. She couldn’t go storming into the private hospital, demanding to see Lucien. Not after what she’d done.
No, she was worse than an outsider. It’d been her impetuousness that had created all this anguish tonight.
* * *
Twelve days later, Elise rode the elevator up to Ian Noble’s penthouse, her heart feeling as heavy as a lead weight in her chest. Francesca was waiting for her in the foyer when the elevator slid silently open. Francesca had lost weight in the past week, with the result that her dark eyes looked larger than usual . . . haunted. Without saying a word, Elise walked over to her and they hugged.
“The funeral was today,” Francesca said while they still embraced. “Anne, Ian’s grandmother, just called to tell me right before I called you at Fusion. I can’t believe it,” she said shakily. “I’m still in shock. Ian promised me he’d give me time to get there.”