Nothing Short of Perfect

by Day Leclaire

  She couldn’t stay.

  Daisy woke to the knowledge while dawn’s first light streamed into her bedroom. Beside her, Justice’s hold tightened protectively and she stirred against him, murmuring a reassurance. She didn’t doubt for one tiny second the need to leave and she fought a growing sense of panic as the certainty became stronger with each passing moment. She would do almost anything if it meant she didn’t have to go. Unfortunately, three simple words stood between them, creating a gulf that couldn’t be bridged.

  The irony didn’t escape her. Justice possessed everything a woman could possibly want. He was worth billions. Owned a company respected around the world. Boasted a respectable intellect. Even better, he wanted marriage. A family. She struggled against tears. Most woman would be satisfied with that, wouldn’t they?

  Why couldn’t she be like “most women”? Why couldn’t she be satisfied with the material possessions he had to offer, the physical relationship that bordered on incandescent, the heart-wrenching way he’d taken to fatherhood? He loved, even if he didn’t believe it. She saw it every time he looked at his daughter. But did he love her? Were the words that important? She closed her eyes and faced the painful truth. Without those words—and the emotions behind them—the rest held no real meaning. Not for her. She’d trade all the other trappings in a heartbeat if only Justice loved her.

  With each passing minute, light eclipsed darkness, slipping effortlessly across the mattress. It encompassed her within a halo of radiance and yearning, pouring passion onto passion while Justice remained caught within night’s lingering death. Gently, with unmistakable finality, he slipped from her embrace, and withdrew from the light and warmth aboveground to retreat to the darkness below.

  No, there wasn’t any question. She was going to have to leave, even though everything within her cried out to stay.

  Ten

  Daisy started to enter Justice’s lab and hesitated at the sound of Noelle’s voice. “Wuv you,” she demanded, patting her father’s cheek, her lashes fluttering flirtatiously.

  “Yes, I love you very much,” Justice assured her as he made an adjustment to Emo’s helmet. The instant he finished, he leaned over and kissed his daughter, and Daisy caught the sheer, unadulterated love in his gaze when Noelle grabbed his ears and pulled him in for a second helping.

  A worried frown darkened her brow. “Emo wuv you?”

  “Yes, Emo loves you, too.”

  He grinned at the exuberant hug and kiss Noelle gave the X-14 model. “Now why is he your favorite? And don’t try to tell me he isn’t because I’d be forced to call you a teeny-tiny fibber.” Noelle babbled in reply and he listened seriously. “Yes, maybe 15 is a bit too sleek, but then he is an upgrade.” More babble and more serious consideration. “Huh. I hadn’t considered painting the chassis. No doubt your mommy could design something bright and colorful, probably paint whimsical faces on them to give them personality. Hmm. Now that I think about it, that’s not a bad idea.”

  Noelle babbled away, this time at Emo, and to Daisy’s amusement, Emo emitted a series of beeps and hums that only served to encourage their daughter’s efforts to communicate. She waved her hands, her piquant features scrunched into an intensely focused frown while she chattered away in her own private baby language. All the while, Justice watched and listened, his focus equally intense, as though attempting to decipher her meaning.

  When the words wound down, he scooped Noelle into his arms and cradled her against his heart. She curled up there with a happy sigh and he closed his eyes, such an expression of undisguised love on his face, it was painful to witness. Daisy stared down at the stack of papers she held, blinking back tears. How could he believe himself incapable of love? How could he doubt it for even one tiny nanosecond? And how could she get him to see the truth?

  Aggie appeared in the hallway just then and tossed a quick smile in Daisy’s direction before hurrying into the lab. Daisy followed behind, relieved that the interruption gave her a moment to regain control of her emotions. “It’s time for Noelle’s lunch,” the housekeeper announced. “Would you like me to bring her back down here after her nap?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.” Justice reluctantly handed over the baby and turned his attention to Daisy. “Perfect timing. I have an idea I want to run by you.”

  “Giving Emo a paint job?” she guessed.

  He stared in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “I overheard you discussing it with Noelle.” Before she could ask him about the papers she held—the reason for her visit—she was distracted by endless images of herself cycling across the computer screens around the room. “Good Lord. What are these pictures for?”

  “They’re photos of your emotional responses to various stimuli. I have videos, too.” He lifted a sooty eyebrow. “You may recall I did ask.”

  The memory clicked. They’d been right here in his lab, the day he’d first introduced her to Emo. “Oh, right. You want to teach Emo to read our expressions.” For some reason all those photos made her uncomfortable, perhaps because they showed her expressing such a range of emotions, some of them downright painful. “You have videos, too?”

  “Yes. They’re excellent teaching tools.”

  “Can you show me?”

  Justice picked up a remote control and aimed it at one of the computers. Instantly, the screen switched from slide show to video and exhibited an image of her walking toward the kitchen. She remembered that day. It had been weeks ago, not long after she’d arrived and before she’d begun to paint the walls. It had been an unusually bad afternoon and she watched in dismay, forced to relive her misery.

  The camera switched angles, revealing Aggie puttering at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables for a salad. At the sound of the door opening, she glanced up, a hint of concern drifting across her expression. Daisy dragged herself to the table, took a seat beside the housekeeper and buried her head in her arms.

  “I gather the painting didn’t go well?” Aggie asked sympathetically. She reached out, her hand skimming across Daisy’s head in a motherly caress.

  “You could say that.” Daisy lifted her face, her expression miserable. “I don’t understand, Aggie. I should be over it by now. But every time I see that blank canvas…” The breath shuddered from her lungs and her voice escaped, low and desperate. “I don’t think I’ll ever paint again.”

  Aggie tutted, worry pulling at the lines bracketing her mouth. “Of course you will. It’s only a matter of when,” she said, her encouraging comment ripe with sympathy.

  “How long a when, Aggie? It’s been nearly two years. It’s like the desire to paint has drained right out of me. I lost it right after Justice and I…” She trailed off and shook her head. “Anyway, I thought maybe I’d find it here.”

  For an instant Aggie appeared at a loss, then she said bracingly, “Now that you’re with Justice again, I’m betting it’ll come storming back. You wait and see.”

  “I love…” Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head, the words bottling in her throat.

  Daisy remembered she’d been about to admit she loved Justice, that her hopelessness on that front had infected her creative ability, and had ever since they’d parted nearly two years before. But she’d been unable—or unwilling—to admit the painful truth and had altered what she’d ultimately said. She slid a sideways look at Justice. Did he know? Had he picked up on the subtext at all?

  “I love painting so much,” the video continued, her true feelings for Justice left unstated. “You have no idea how much I miss it.”

  “There, there, sweetheart. You’ve gone and gotten yourself all upset.” Setting aside her vegetable peeler, Aggie bustled to the stove and turned on the burner beneath a copper kettle. “How about a nice cup of tea to cheer you up?”

  “Thanks, Aggie.” Daisy forced out a smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you and your tea. I’m feeling better already.”

  The clip ended and Daisy fought against that old sense
of panic and fear and helplessness. Before she could say anything, Justice was there. He tugged the papers from her hand, tossed them aside and pulled her tight into his arms.

  “I’m sorry. In all honesty, I’d forgotten that particular video was the next one in the queue. That was thoughtless of me. There are times I think I could use the sort of emotion chip I’m attempting to design for Emo.” He held her, offering his strength and compassion, while she struggled to regain some distance from the events he’d taped. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll survive.” She pulled back, determined to stand on her own. “I don’t understand. Why would you keep that video, Justice, when you must know how painful it is?”

  “Precisely because it is so emotional. You four are rarely sad. I have several of Noelle crying, but it’s not quite the same. Adults aren’t as open as children. I want Emo capable of spotting more subtle cues.”

  “That was hardly subtle,” she pointed out.

  “True. I thought if I started with more obvious emotions, we could refine his program over time.” He picked up the remote. “I can delete it if you prefer. I have other videos of Jett, Pretorius and Aggie. Granted, none of them are sad, but they cover a sufficient emotional range.”

  That stopped her. “Jett, Pretorius and Aggie. And me.” She shot him an odd look. “What about you, Justice? Do you also have teaching videos of your emotional range?”

  A muscle jerked in his jaw. “No.”

  “Is that because you aren’t expressive?” She paused a beat, her heart aching for him. “Or is it because you don’t believe you experience those emotions?”

  He flinched. It was barely perceptible, but it was there. And she caught it. “I experience certain emotions. Just none that will benefit Emo.” Pain filled his gaze and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he wasn’t talking about sharing his emotions with the robot, but about sharing them with her. “I can’t give Emo what I don’t possess.”

  “You’re wrong, Justice,” she dared to argue. “You do possess those emotions. Granted, you’ve safeguarded them behind locked doors and thrown away the key. But if you’d just let me in—”

  “What if you discover there’s nothing behind the locked doors?” he cut in. “That I’m emotionless. Lacking in empathy.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re quoting someone. Who?”

  He shrugged. “Any number of foster parents and counselors. Hell, even my own mother and father never understood me.”

  “Oh, Justice. You were a ten-year-old child when they died. I’m sure that’s not true.”

  He simply stared at her, his glorious eyes blank and empty of all expression. “You’re wrong. I overheard my mother say just that, not long before her death. She was talking to my father about me. She said she thought I was incapable of love. That I took after Pretorius and would turn out just like him.”

  Daisy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re not incapable of love, any more than Pretorius is,” she retorted fiercely. “He may have a social anxiety disorder, but he’s one of the most caring, loving people I’ve ever met. And damn it, so are you. Is that why you refuse to say the words? Because someone was foolish enough to believe you incapable of love and you bought into their ridiculous assumptions?”

  “Enough.” He stepped away, turning his back on her. “Why are you here, Daisy?”

  She debated pressing the issue. But the coldness in his voice, along with the stiffness of his stance warned of the futility of making the attempt. Instead, her gaze settled on the stack of papers he’d tossed aside. A timely reminder. She crossed to his workbench and fanned through the pages before tidying the stack.

  “Justice, are you still looking for an apprentice/wife?”

  “No. After Pamela…” He shrugged. “The program needs further modification. Besides, I no longer have any use for an apprentice. In a few years Noelle will fill that role nicely. Now I’m just interested in acquiring a wife.”

  The matter-of-fact statement nearly brought her to her knees. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but couldn’t get the words past the knot in her throat. She shoved the stack of papers in his direction. “You’re interested in acquiring one of these women for your future wife?” she managed to ask.

  Puzzled, he picked up the first several pages and scanned them. “These are from my apprentice/wife program. How did you get hold of them?”

  “The printer was spitting out women when I walked past.”

  “Huh. I guess the program is still running.”

  “I read the bios on these women. I’m nothing like them, am I, Justice?”

  “No. You’re nothing like these women.” He flipped through a few pages. “This one has a PhD in Biological Systems Engineering. Useless to me as an apprentice. This next one appears perfect on paper, but so did Pamela. Besides, she looks mean.” He showed her the photo. “Doesn’t she look mean to you? This one’s got city girl written all over her. This next one with the glasses has a crazed look about the eyes. No, none of them fit my parameters.”

  “Your parameters for the perfect wife.” When he didn’t immediately reply, she added, “These women aren’t perfect, Justice. No one is. There’s no such thing.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?” She stepped closer, fixing her gaze on him. “Why do you want me, Justice? Is it because I’m Noelle’s mother or because I’m me? I’m not just a body, you know, not just someone to warm your bed.” She gestured in the direction of the printouts. “Nor am I a list of parameters some program has spit out. I’m me, damn it. And my list of parameters for the right husband—not the perfect husband, but the right husband—includes an emotional connection.”

  He closed his eyes. “We discussed this. I explained—”

  “Why are you building a robot that can interpret emotions? Is it so Emo can tell you what you can’t figure out for yourself…how people feel? How many versions of Emo have there been? How many Emos have been dismantled and their parts repurposed?” She hammered the questions at him. “Is that what’s going to happen to me if you’re dissatisfied with the way I function? When you realize you can’t mold me into your idea of perfection? I’ll be scrapped so you can start over?”

  If she’d hoped for an emotional reaction, she finally got one. “Have I ever said any of those things to you?” he demanded. “Have I ever demanded perfection from you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Fierce anger glittered to life, turning his tawny gaze from cool and remote to incandescent. “Oh, please. Please do be exact. And allow me to repeat… Have I ever said anything along those lines?”

  “No,” she grudgingly admitted.

  “No.” The satisfaction sweeping through that single word set her teeth on edge. “I’ve never said it. And, for your information, I’ve never even thought it.”

  “You must have at some point,” she snapped back. “Since I have a mile-high stack of women specifically tailored for the role of Mrs. Sinjin, Incorporated, all somewhat short of perfect because you haven’t fine-tuned the program.”

  “If I’d wanted one of those women in that stack, she’d be here right now instead of you. I’d have chosen Pamela. Or I would have picked someone at that engineering conference twenty months, twenty-five days, twenty…twenty—” He heaved the remote against the wall where it shattered. “Damn it to hell, Daisy! I can’t even tell you the hours and minutes, you have me so pissed off with your endless pushing, pushing, pushing.”

  She stared, stunned. “Twenty-one hours and twelve minutes ago,” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes, exhaustion carving deep lines alongside his mouth. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. The only woman I want is you.”

  That simple statement had the anger draining right out of her. She went to him, wrapped herself up in him. His arms closed around her, pulling her tight. “What are we going to do, Justice?”

  “Keep trying. We have to keep trying.” He lifted her face to his, took her mouth in an endless k
iss. “Please, Daisy. Please, don’t give up on me.”

  But she did. He discovered that painful fact the very next day.

  “Phone call from Cord O’Malley,” the computer announced.

  “Put him through,” Justice ordered. He waited until the computer made the connection, before asking, “Yes, Cord, what can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to confirm a work order.”

  Impatient with the interruption, Justice returned his focus to Emo and settled his magnifying headset over his face. “Daisy is in charge of all work orders. I thought I made that clear.”

  “You did. But since you’re the one paying the bills, I thought I’d better check before we hopped on this particular job.”

  “Fine. What does the job entail? More furniture? Plumbing or electrical alterations?” He touched the tip of his tool to one of Emo’s circuits and a brief smile slipped across his mouth. “Or maybe she’s run out of walls to paint and wants you to add a few.”

  “Actually, this does have to do with painting walls. Only she wants me doing the painting.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Justice responded absently. “They’re already painted.”

  “Yeah, that’s the thing. I thought those pictures she drew were real pretty, but she wants us to whitewash over them. And take out all that nice furniture she bought. Even the Christmas tree. Strip it post-Pamela clean. Her exact words.”

  Justice’s attention snapped to the conversation with laser-sharp focus. Straightening, he yanked off his headset and tossed it to his workbench. “What the hell are you talking about?” He bit out the words.

  The sound of a hand slapping paper came through the speakers. “I’m talking about this work order I have right here that says I’m supposed to come the day after Christmas and yank out all that furniture we dragged in there and paint every last wall white. I’m talking about this work order that says we’re supposed to… Hang on and I’ll read it like she wrote it. We’re to, quote, return the house to the exact same condition it was before our advent. Strip it post-Pamela clean. End quote. Now unless my dictionary is mistaken, that means put everything back the way it was before she came.”