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He smiled, filled with a sense of anticipation. He wondered if his other beliefs about her would prove to be true. Somehow, he thought they would. The next few weeks should prove to be very interesting. Very interesting, indeed.

Claire tightened her grip on her mother's hand as she swallowed against the lump in her throat. Kitty's eyes, the identical soft gray-green as her own, watched her intently.

"How are you feeling today, Mom?" Claire asked.

The expression in her mother's eyes remained the same: slightly quizzical as they stayed fastened on Claire's. Then she smiled—a slow, sweet smile. "Kitty's dress is pretty," she said. She lifted the skirt of the pink and white striped dress—a dress Claire remembered her mother buying at least ten years earlier—one hot summer day in August. Claire's father had accompanied "his two girls" on their shopping trip, and Claire could still see the pride reflected in his eyes as he studied his beautiful Kitty pirouetting in her new dress. A familiar sadness gripped Claire at the bittersweet memory. John Kendrick had loved his wife and daughter, but he hadn't been sensible enough to provide for them if anything ever happened to him.

Forcing her attention back to her mother, she said, "Yes, it's a pretty dress."

Kitty's smile remained, but her eyes drifted toward the doorway and the sound of laughing voices coming from the hall.

As she had a thousand times before, Claire wondered how much her mother comprehended. Sometimes when Claire talked to her, Kitty responded quickly, with an almost adult logic. Other times her responses were childlike, if she responded at all. On those days, Kitty's attention span, never very long, was almost nonexistent. The doctors had said there was so much damage to her brain that Kitty had the mentality of a two-year-old.

Claire used to think Kitty's condition was contradictory, because she had retained most of the natural, physical instincts of a woman, flirting outrageously with her doctors and acting the part of a coquette whenever any man was near. In the six years since her mother had been injured, Claire had seen Kitty pout coyly one minute and need help buttoning her sweater the next. One day, she could put makeup on unassisted—and she always wore makeup—the next she couldn't remember how to tie her shoes. But the doctors had assured Claire that this was normal in cases such as Kitty's.

After the boating accident that had killed her father and injured her mother, Claire had tried to keep Kitty at home with her. But it hadn't worked. Kitty would put water on to boil, then walk away and leave the kettle; she'd wander off if Claire wasn't looking, then Claire would spend frantic minutes driving up and down the streets looking for her. She'd cut herself trying to slice an apple or a piece of bread. She'd burn herself touching the hot electric coil of Claire's stove. She would walk outside in her underwear and think nothing of wandering through the house naked.

After only a few days of this behavior, Claire knew she'd have to do something. But what? If she tried to keep her mother with her, Kitty would require round the clock care—ideally a trained nurse to tend to her needs. Claire simply couldn't afford it. Although Pinehaven Nursing Home was very expensive, at-home individual care was more—much more. So Kitty had ended up at Pinehaven, and Claire had learned to live with her sorrow and guilt, which she assuaged by visiting her mother several times a week. And despite everything, Claire clung to the faint hope that someday, somehow, her mother might recover.

Now Kitty began to hum. Claire bit her bottom lip and stared out the window. The rain had continued unabated all day long. It was depressing—like my life, she thought—then immediately shook off the dreary thought. There was no percentage in feeling sorry for herself. Instead, Claire always tried to focus on her blessings. She had a good job, she was healthy and strong, and she had the support of her Aunt Lily and Uncle David as well as a few loyal friends.

I'll make it. I can make it.

All I have to do is take life one day at a time.

The one-day-at-a-time philosophy was one self-help groups taught, and it was a wise credo, Claire felt. There really wasn't any sense in worrying about the future because so much of Claire's future was beyond her control. Unlike other young women, she had stopped dreaming about marriage and children. Who would be willing to share the crushing financial and emotional burden Kitty's chronic condition had imposed?

Dreaming of any other kind of life would only make her own prospects seem more bleak, and Claire didn't want to become bitter—one of those people who resented their lot in life and took it out on everyone around them. No, much better to adopt a one-day-at-a-time outlook and concentrate her energies on moving up in her chosen career.

Thinking about her career caused her thoughts to meander back to the morning's interview with Nick Callahan. Once again, she realized this was a big chance for her—a chance to really solidify her niche in the company. And if a promotion, bringing more money, should result from it, her life would be eased considerably. Even a couple of hundred dollars a month more would make a tremendous difference in the quality of her life—and in what she was able to do for Kitty.

Sighing, she forced her attention back to her mother's dreamy face and soft contralto voice as she hummed some old song. "Yesterday." Her father's favorite song. Tears misted Claire's eyes as suddenly she was gripped by nostalgia. Yesterday. How many yesterdays had she come home from school and heard her mother singing in her clear, sweet voice? Those had been such carefree, happy days. She had always felt so secure. She had always known how much both of her parents loved her.

Other girls had complained bitterly about their mothers. How they didn't understand them. How mean they were. But Kitty had been a loving, supportive mother— someone Claire could always count on. Claire knew many of her friends were envious because she and Kitty were so close.
Oh, Mom. I miss you so much. I wish
—

"Claire?"

Claire looked around. She hurriedly composed herself, blinking away her tears when she saw her mother's doctor standing in the doorway to Kitty's room. Dr. Aaron Phillips had been overseeing her mother's care ever since Claire had put her into Pinehaven. His lined face was kindly, his dark eyes caring.

"How are you?" He flipped through her mother's chart.

"I'm okay. How's she doing?" Claire walked to where Kitty was sitting and smoothed a strand of gray-blonde hair back from her forehead. Kitty stopped humming, her eyes flicking from Dr. Phillips back to Claire.

"About the same. Aren't you, Kitty?" He smiled down at his patient, and Kitty preened, stretching like a cat.

Claire heard the absence of encouragement in his flat statement. She knew he really cared, that he sympathized with the plight of both of them, but he never held out false hope. He told Claire once that he considered it a criminal act to give people hope when no hope existed.

"Better to let them face the truth. Then they can get on with their lives, make plans," he said unequivocally. Normally Claire appreciated his candor, but occasionally she wished he'd give her a comforting platitude—something she could hang onto—something that might shore up her crumbling faith and natural optimism.

Twenty minutes later she brushed a light kiss against Kitty's soft cheek, turned on the television set, and said, "Good-bye, Mom. I'll see you soon."

" 'Bye," Kitty said distractedly, her eyes firmly fixed on the television screen.

To dispel her sudden sense of gloom, Claire whispered, “I love you.” There was no answer from Kitty. Claire turned and walked out the door. She could hear Kitty laughing happily and clapping her hands at some-thing she saw on television. Once again, Claire blinked back tears, this time angrily. What was wrong with her? It wasn't Kitty's fault she didn't care whether Claire stayed or not. A two-year-old couldn't be expected to understand the concept of someone else needing reassurance ... or love. A two-year-old was totally wrapped up in her own world, and the only needs she understood were hers.

Face it! Yesterday will never be recaptured.

Claire sighed wearily. She was exhausted, and it was after nine. As she drove home through the rain, she couldn't help thinking how wonderful it would be to have someone to go home to. Someone who would understand her plight and who would share her burden. But what man in his right mind would want to be shackled by Claire's problems?

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and nearly cloudless—the front gone toward the Louisiana coast—and the air had an invigorating nip to it. On days like this, Claire's spirits always lifted. But by the time she reached her office, her good mood was tempered by a return of yesterday's anxiety. Just thinking about going up to the 50th floor at nine o'clock caused a knot to form in her breast, and by the time the hands of the clock showed five minutes to nine, her stomach was jumping.

She took several deep breaths as she rode up on the express elevator. It was ridiculous to be so nervous. Nick Callahan wouldn't bite her.

The elevator dinged its arrival. The doors slid open, and as she stepped off onto thick gray carpeting, she forced herself to breathe evenly. She was proud of her easy smile and relaxed voice as she greeted Wanda.

"Mr. Callahan is expecting you, Miss Kendrick. He said for you to go right in." The secretary returned Claire's smile and gestured her in the direction of Nick Callahan's office, then returned to squinting at her com-puter terminal.

The heavy walnut doors stood open and bright sunlight poured through the plate glass windows. Claire could see the cathedral-like peaks of the NCNB Center building and the angled glass roofs of Pennzoil Place as she glanced at the view.

Nick Callahan rose to greet her, extending his tanned hand. She took his hand and clasped it firmly, looking him straight in the eye.

He returned her handshake and smiled briefly. If possible, his eyes looked even bluer this morning in the strong sunlight. Claire could feel herself responding to his compelling gaze. That, coupled with the aura of power he exuded, were enough to cause her pulse to flutter. No wonder he was such a respected and feared adversary.

"Good morning, Miss Kendrick."

"Good morning."

"Please have a seat." He waited until she'd taken one of the burgundy chairs, then sat in his own large, black leather one.

Claire withdrew a yellow pad and a fine-point felt-tipped pen from her briefcase.

"Before we start on the briefing, I'd like to ask a favor of you."

"All right." She opened the pen.

"When the two of us are in a business environment with others, as we will be at this morning's managers' meeting, I think addressing each other as Mr. Callahan and Ms. Kendrick is necessary. But when it's just the two of us, could we drop the formality? I'd like you to call me Nick and I'd prefer to call you Claire." He smiled again, the same mocking smile he'd exhibited yesterday. Its effect on Claire was instantaneous. She felt exactly like she'd felt when she was fifteen years old and jumped off the ten-meter diving platform because of a dare.

"All right . . . Nick." Saying his name aloud gave her a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. The smile played around his mouth as he watched her intently, almost as if he knew how uncomfortable and self-conscious she felt. She had a strong urge to smooth her hair, to touch her pearl earrings, to make sure there was no lipstick on her teeth. But she smothered it, sitting quietly as she waited for his next instruction.

She knew it wasn't a good idea to call him by his first name. The familiarity would change their relationship. Already, just saying his name once had broken down a barrier between them. Why had he suggested it?

He glanced away, picking up a paper from his desk, then he handed it to her. "That's the agenda for this morning's meeting—so you'll know what's going on. The following page is a list of the attendees. I had Wanda list their titles and give you a brief description of their function within the corporation."

"Thank you." Claire read through the agenda quickly, then turned to the list.

"Let's go through them together," Nick suggested. "The first name on the list is Paul Branch, Vice President of our Engineering Division. He's an old hand with the company, started with me when we had one job and no money to speak of. He's loyal and conservative."

Claire made a quick note next to Branch's name.

"Ben Bullard is Vice President of our Construction Division. He's only been with us for three years. He spent more than twenty years in Saudi Arabia and has excellent field experience. He's stubborn, but brilliant."

Claire scribbled another quick note.

"Next on the list is Hank Conti, Vice President of the Project Management division. Hank is a relative newcomer, been with us about two years after working all over the world. Then comes Albert Girard, Vice President of Finance. Have you met Bert?"

"Yes, briefly."

"He's our youngest vice president and very ambitious. I have a feeling he's angling for my job."

Claire looked up and Nick smiled briefly.

"Am I going too fast for you?" he asked.

"No."

"Any questions so far?"

"No." It was too soon for questions, she thought. So far, these men were only names on a sheet of paper.

Nick quickly went through the rest of the list, ending with Ken Boudreaux, Manager of Human Resources and Public Relations. Claire's department fell under Ken, so she knew him, although not well.

She noticed the absence of any female names and almost said something, then thought better of it. She was here to write an article, not to champion causes.

"Normally, Tim Sutherland would also be attending the meeting. He has a law background which serves us well. I depend upon him to advise me on all matters concerning contracts and administration." When she didn't answer, Nick shuffled through some other papers on his desk, selecting one and handing it to her. "That's my schedule for the rest of the week. From now on, Wanda and Tim will keep you up to date on any changes. They'll try to give you advance notice, especially if you're going to be required to leave Houston, but occasionally you'll be called at the last minute. My schedule is erratic at best."