Death of an Adept

He paused to give Ximena a chance to offer comment. When she remained mute, only lowering her eyes, he forced himself to continue.

"Ximena, yesterday you asked me to promise to think only of the present, and I agreed," he reminded her. "Now I'd like to ask you to change that perspective. I'd like you to overleap all thoughts of the present and think about the future."

"How far into the future?" Ximena asked. Her face was pale and her voice strained, and she would not meet his eyes.

"Far enough to put yourself beyond any of the grief you're no doubt anticipating," Adam said. "Maybe five years from now. If you could shape that future any way you wanted, where would you like to be, and what would you like to be doing?"

Ximena plucked at a fold of her skirt, still not looking at him. "You'll have to give me a minute or two to think about that," she murmured. "You've got to understand that for over a year I've been teaching myself to take things one day at a time."

"I understand completely," Adam said. "Take as long as you want."

He settled down to wait, one arm resting along the back of the pew but not daring to touch her. After a moment, she buried her face in her hands and was motionless for a very long time. When she raised her head at last, she had recovered some measure of her usual composure. She spoke softly, and with great deliberation, as she redirected her attention to Adam's watchful face.

"My father used to say that building a future for yourself is a bit like designing a house," she said. "You draw up the plans to meet your expectations, then start in on the construction. Sometimes there are builders' strikes or shortages of materials, and sometimes you have to modify the plans, but you go on as and when you can.

"The way it looks right now, my future has more than its share of empty rooms," she said more firmly. "But I know what I'd like to put in them, if I were allowed to have my way."

"Please go on," Adam said softly, as she glanced at him for reassurance.

She nodded, her gaze shifting unfocused to a point on the back of the pew before them.

"My career will always be important to me," she said, "but it isn't everything and it certainly isn't enough. Above and beyond the satisfactions of being a doctor, I want to love and be loved in return. I want children to cherish and nurture in celebration of that union. I want the joy of growing old in fond companionship. In other words," she finished on a softer note, looking up at him beseechingly, "I want you."

Adam's heart swelled within him, and his hand shifted to her shoulder. But before he could say anything, Ximena laid a silencing finger tenderly across his lips.

"No, let me finish, darling. This isn't easy to say, and I don't want to lose my nerve. I know I've caused you no end of frustration in the last year or so, with all my dithering and indecision. At the same time, I guess the fact that you're here means you don't intend to hold that against me. With all you've put yourself through on my account, you deserve to hear me say that there isn't anything I wouldn't do to redress the balance - that is, if you think you're still willing to have me."

Their eyes met. Ximena's were bright beyond all shadow of remaining doubt, and answered whatever hesitation Adam himself might have entertained. Only barely containing his joy, he took her hand and turning her palm up, kissed it with a tenderness approaching reverence.

"This is not the setting I imagined," he told her gravely. "Certainly not the one this moment deserves - but it will have to do."

In a single fluid movement, he left the bench and sank down on one knee before her, keeping her hand in his.

"We've talked about marriage before, but never come directly to the sticking point," he continued. "Well, I'm coming to the point now. I would give you the sun, the moon, and the stars thrown in, if that would make you happy. Will you marry me?"

Ximena was wavering between laughter and tears. With her free hand she dashed the wetness from her eyes.

"Adam, you dear fool, of course I will!" she exclaimed. "Just tell me when and where."

Although Dr. Philippa Sinclair was American born and bred, and currently residing in New Hampshire, she had spent more than half of her life in Scotland as the wife of a Scottish laird. Among the British customs she had adopted in the course of her marriage was the time-honored ritual of afternoon tea.

That custom had been introduced as a regular feature at the private psychiatric clinic at which Philippa was chief consultant. On the twenty-second of December, she was taking tea in the parlor with senior members of staff when one of the secretaries poked her head into the room.

"Dr. Sinclair, I have your son on the line. He says he's ringing from San Francisco."

"It's Adam? Good heavens. Put it through to my office, please, Janine."