Then, when he least expected it, Malcolm Moore showed up.
The younger man had avoided Kit’s company for eight full weeks. If Kit arrived someplace and Malcolm was already there, he made excuses to leave within moments. He turned down casual invitations to the Down Time for dinner and had become in general a hard-working recluse. Kit felt sorry for him. Clearly, Malcolm had taken Margo’s rebellion and defection deeply to heart, blaming himself entirely. Kit had tried to apologize, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but Malcolm wasn’t returning Kit’s e-mail or phone calls, either.
When the buzzer on his desk lit up and Jimmy told him Malcolm was headed up, Kit actually sagged in his chair.
”Thank God…”
He hated to lose friends.
A hesitant knock at the door signaled Malcolm’s arrival.
”Come in, it’s open.”
The door slid back, Japanese style. Malcolm Moore glanced into the spacious office. He looked massively uncomfortable. -Uh … you busy, Kit?”
Something in Malcolms eyes told Kit he hoped the answer would be “yes.”
”No. Come on in.”
Malcolm sighed, then slipped off his shoes and entered. His posture told Kit he’d rather have faced the hangman.
”I, uh …” He faltered to a halt, staring at the floor, the walls, anywhere but at Kit.
”Malcolm, it wasn’t your fault. She’s a headstrong little hellion. It wasn’t your fault.”
A deep flush darkened the guide’s cheeks. “You don’t have to be nice about it, Kit. You weren’t there.” He shoved hands into his pockets, then paced uneasily toward the withered-sea landscape garden, leaving his back to Kit. There were holes in the toes of his socks and both heels were threadbare.