He couldn’t help but think the old man had won. But what had he won? Annie? Their child? What kind of game was he playing? What kind of game was Annie playing? Surely it was a game. Away from the old bastard, Annie was a different woman, strong, independent and focused on her art. Maybe Doug had somehow made a terrible error. Perhaps she never had been anything but what she was now. Perhaps their entire life together had been a colossal lie. She had gone from being De Roché’s girl to Douglas McArthur’s woman, and now it seemed she was reverting back to daddy. In the absence of his wife De Roché would make Annie his woman. Hadn’t he always felt down deep that someday he’d lose her in this way, that everything up till now had all been some crazy yet temporary dream? For Christ’s sake, McArthur, grow up. You’re being a complete and total paranoid jerk. The girl just lost her mother. You know she loves you. You’re just being selfish. You don’t want to share.
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