make a difference where the all-powerful Christopher Darnell was concerned. She must have been crazy to dream the report would sway him when her other attempts failed.
Well, she'd tried one last time. She'd given it her best effort. But for once her best wasn't good enough.
"It's obvious that nothing short of a miracle will change your mind," she finally managed, her voice tinged with anger and frustration.
"Probably more than a miracle," Chris replied stiffly. He paused. "I'm leaving Harte's Desire, Libby."
"W-w-when?"
"After I get back from London. This will be my last night here."
Libby didn't stop to analyze the unexpected pitching of her heart or the sense of utter desolation his announcement brought. Edwina had told her of Chris's temporary encampment at Harte's Desire, but Libby thought he'd stay at least through the summer. Yet here he was calmly informing her that this was the last time she would see him. With his maddening, unwavering position on Harte's Desire's future, why was she so suddenly bereft at the thought of his leaving?
"I assumed you'd be here through the s-summer," she stammered, trying not to show how much his departure affected her.
"It's not really necessary for me to be around anymore. Ed Fulbright, one of my senior vice presidents, is coming up Monday to oversee the project now. Edwina's agreed to stay for the next several weeks while he learns his way around. She said she’d continue to help you with the fundraiser if you want."
"That's kind of Edwina. I'll call her if I need her," Libby replied softly.
"And, if I can help in anyway...?" Chris added, his voice trailing hesitantly.
"Sure, I'll give you a buzz."
"I really should be on my way," Chris said, glancing at his watch. "I have an early flight out of Philly and I need to get a couple hours sleep tonight."
Libby merely nodded and started loading the tray with their empty plates.
"I'll help you get this stuff back in," he said, gathering up the report.
"No need," Libby replied tartly.
"I insist. Isn't doing dishes the hallmark of a truly liberated man?"
Under different circumstances, Libby would have teased him back. Instead, she brusquely headed back inside wishing he'd drop off the face of the earth. As if aware of her mood, Chris silently followed her to the kitchen and again helped to clean up.
"This room would be just a collection of old things to me, but it’s more than that to you, isn't it?" he asked, putting the last plate into the dishwasher.
Libby stopped wiping the counter and stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Yes," she responded, meeting his inquiring gaze steadily. "My ancestors made or used these things, so they’re very special. For some crazy reason, my heritage means a lot to me," Libby ended softly. She sensed her love for family might make him uncomfortable, but it was who she was, and she wasn't about to pretend otherwise.
"You never mention your father?" he said, the words more a statement than a question.
Libby hesitated only slightly before answering. "He died a month before I was born, so I never knew him. My mother did her best, though, to keep his memory alive for me through stories about him. And, I have lots of photographs. A few of my favorites are on the piano in the living room."
Chris's blue-green eyes were riveted on her.
"How did you know this room is special to me?" she asked.
"By the way you described its contents to me earlier. You were almost reverent."
"I suppose I do get carried away,” she said with a sigh. “Sorry." She folded the dishrag and draped it over the faucet, anxious now for him to leave.
"Don't apologize. I guess I'm a little bit envious." Chris leaned against the counter and stared wistfully out the bay window into the darkness beyond.
Libby sensed a profound change come over him. A deep sadness was clearly visible beneath the controlled veneer he usually projected. His jaw was clenched tightly and a small muscle twitched near his left temple. The adversarial mood between them had faded. Two foes were now two friends sharing confidences, past disappointments, and revealed sorrows.
"Were you placed in the orphanage after your father died?" she half-whispered, afraid to break the spell.
"Yes." He stared motionlessly out the window, deep in thought, his face devoid of emotion.
"Your mother?" she asked softly.
Chris shifted to face her.
"I don't know who my mother is. Or even if she's dead or alive." His voice was low, forceful.
Libby heard the long-buried anger in his voice and