Changes

CRITICAL RAVES FOR

DANIELLE STEEL

“STEEL IS ONE OF THE BEST.”—Los Angeles Times“THE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL'S NOVELS TWIST AND WEAVE AS INCREDIBLE STORIES UNFOLD TO THE THRILL AND DELIGHT OF HER ENORMOUS READING PUBLIC.”—United Press International“A LITERARY PHENOMENON… ambitious… prolific … and not to be pigeonholed as one who produces a predictable kind of book.”—The Detroit News“There is a smooth reading style to her writings which makes it easy to forget the time and to keep flipping the pages.”—The Pittsburgh Press“Ms. Steel excels at pacing her narrative, which races forward, mirroring the frenetic lives chronicled here; men and women swept up in bewildering change, seeking solutions to problems never before faced.”—Nashville Banner

Also by Danielle Steel

a cognizant original v5 release october 19 2010

LEAP OF FAITH LONE EAGLE HEARTBEAT JOURNEY MESSAGE FROM NAM THE HOUSE ON HOPE STREET DADDY STAR THE WEDDING ZOYA IRRESISTIBLE FORCES KALEIDOSCOPE GRANNY DAN FINE THINGS BITTERSWEET WANDERLUST MIRROR IMAGE SECRETS HIS BRIGHT LIGHT: THE

STORY OF NICK TRAINË FAMILY ALBUM

FULL CIRCLE THE KLONE AND I CHANGES THE LONG ROAD HOME CROSSINGS THE GHOST ONCE IN A LIFETIME SPECIAL DELIVERY A PERFECT STRANGER THE RANCH REMEMBRANCE SILENT HONOR PALOMINO MALICE LOVE: POEMS FIVE PAYS IN PARIS THE JUNG LIGHTNING LOVING WINGS TO LOVE AGAIN THE GIFT SUMMER'S END ACCIDENT SEASON OF PASSION VANISHED THE PROMISE MIXED BLESSINGS NOW AND FOREVER JEWELS PASSION'S PROMISE NO GREATER LOVE GOING HOME Visit the Danielle Steel Web Site at:

www.daniellesteel.com.

Books by Danielle Steel

SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ NO GREATER LOVE THE COTTAGE HEARTBEAT THE KISS MESSAGE FROM NAM LEAP OF FAITH DADDY LONE EAGLE STAR JOURNEY ZOYA THE HOUSE ON HOPE STREET KALEIDOSCOPE THE WEDDING FINE THINGS IRRESISTIBLE FORCES WANDERLUST GRANNY DAN SECRETS BITTERSWEET FAMILY ALBUM MIRROR IMAGE FULL CIRCLE HIS BRIGHT LIGHT: THE

STORY OF NICK TRAINA CHANGES

THURSTON HOUSE THE KLONE AND I CROSSINGS THE LONG ROAD HOME ONCE IN A LIFETIME THE GHOST A PERFECT STRANGER SPECIAL DELIVERY REMEMBRANCE THE RANCH PALOMINO SILENT HONOR LOVE: POEMS MALICE THE RING FIVE DAYS IN PARIS LOVING LIGHTNING TO LOVE AGAIN WINGS SUMMER'S END THE GIFT SEASON OF PASSION ACCIDENT THE PROMIS'E VANISHED NOW AND FOREVER MIXED BLESSINGS PASSION'S PROMISE JEWELS GOING HOME Visit the Danielle Steel Web Site at:

www.daniellesteel.com

DELL PUBLISHING

To Beatrix, Trevor, Todd,

Nicky, and especially John,

for all that you are, and

all that you have given me.

With all my love,

d.s.

Acknowledgment

And with special thanks to Dr. Phillip Oyer

CHAPTER 1

“Dr. Hallam … Dr. Peter Hallam … Dr. Hallam … Cardiac Intensive, Dr. Hallam …” The voice droned on mechanically as Peter Hallam sped through the lobby of Center City Hospital, never stopping to answer the page since the team already knew he was on his way. He furrowed his brow as he pressed six, his mind already totally engaged with the data he had been given twenty minutes before on the phone. They had waited weeks for this donor, and it was almost too late. Almost. His mind raced as the elevator doors ground open, and he walked quickly to the nurses' station marked Cardiac Intensive Care.

“Have they sent Sally Block upstairs yet?” A nurse looked up, seeming to snap to attention as her eyes met his. Something inside her always leapt a little when she saw him. There was something infinitely impressive about the man, tall, slender, gray-haired, blue-eyed, soft-spoken. He had the looks of the doctors one read about in women's novels. There was something so basically kind and gentle about him, and yet something powerful as well. The aura of a highly trained racehorse always straining at the reins, aching to go faster, farther … to do more … to fight time … to conquer odds beyond hope … to steal back just one life … one man … one woman … one child … one more. And often he won. Often. But not always. And that irked him. More than that, it pained him. It was the cause for the lines beside his eyes, the sorrow one saw deep within him. It wasn't enough that he wrought miracles almost daily. He wanted more than that, better odds, he wanted to save them all, and there was no way he could.

“Yes, Doctor.” The nurse nodded quickly. “She just went up.”

“Was she ready?” That was the other thing about him and the nurse marveled at the question. She knew instantly what he meant by “ready"; not the I.V. in the patient's arm, or the mild sedative administered before she left her room to be wheeled to surgery. He was questioning what she was thinking, feeling, who had spoken to her, who went with her. He wanted each of them to know what they were facing, how hard the team would work, how much they cared, how desperately they would all try to save each life. He wanted each patient to be ready to enter the battle with him. “If they don't believe they have a fighting chance when they go in there, we've lost them right from the beginning,” the nurse had heard him tell his students, and he meant it. He fought with every fiber of his being, and it cost him, but it was worth it. The results he'd gotten in the past five years were amazing, with few exceptions. Exceptions which mattered deeply to Peter Hallam. Everything did. He was remarkable and intense and brilliant… and so goddamn handsome, the nurse reminded herself with a smile as he hurried past her to a small elevator in the corridor behind her. It sped up one floor and deposited him outside the operating rooms where he and his team performed bypasses and transplants and occasionally more ordinary cardiac surgery, but not often. Most of the time, Peter Hallam and his team did the big stuff, as they would tonight.

Sally Block was a twenty-two-year-old girl who had lived most of her adult life as an invalid, crippled by rheumatic fever as a child, and she had suffered through multiple valve replacements and a decade of medication. He and his associates had agreed weeks before when she'd been admitted to Center City that a transplant was the only answer for her. But thus far, there had been no donor. Until tonight, at two thirty in the morning, when a group of juvenile delinquents had engaged in their own private drag races in the San Fernando Valley; three of them had died on impact, and after a series of businesslike phone calls from the splendidly run organization for the location and placement of donors, Peter Hallam knew he had a good one. He had had calls out to every hospital in Southern California for a donor for Sally, and now they had one—if Sally could just survive the surgery, and her body didn't sabotage them by rejecting the new heart they gave her.

He peeled off his street clothes without ceremony, donned the limp green cotton surgery pajamas, scrubbed intensely, and was gowned and masked by surgical assistants. Three other doctors and two residents did likewise as did a fleet of nurses. But Peter Hallam seemed not even to see them, as he walked into the operating room. His eyes immediately sought Sally, lying silent and still on the operating-room table, her own eyes seemingly mesmerized by the bright lights above her. Even lying there in the sterile garb with her long blond hair tucked into a green cotton cap she looked pretty. She was not only a beautiful young woman but a decent human being as well. She wanted desperately to be an artist … to go to college … to go to a prom … to be kissed … to have babies … She recognized him even with the cap and mask and she smiled sleepily through a haze of medication.

“Hi.” She looked frail, her eyes enormous in the fragile face, like a broken china doll, waiting for him to repair her.

“Hello, Sally. How're you feeling?”

“Funny.” Her eyes fluttered for a moment and she smiled at the familiar eyes. She had come to know him in the last few weeks, better than she had known anyone in years. He had opened doors of hope for her, of tenderness, and of caring, and the loneliness and isolation she had felt for years had finally seemed less acute to her.

“We're going to be pretty busy for the next few hours. All you have to do is lie there and snooze.” He watched her and glanced at the monitors nearby before looking back at her again. “Scared?”

“Sort of.” But he knew she was well prepared. He had spent weeks explaining the surgery to her, the intricate process, and the dangers and medications afterward. She knew what to expect now, and their big moment had come. It was almost like giving birth. And he would be giving birth to her, almost as though she would spring from his very soul, from his fingertips as they fought to save her.

The anesthetist moved closer to her head and searched Peter Hallam's eyes. He nodded slowly and smiled at Sally again. “See you in a little while.” Except it wouldn't be a little while. It would be more like five or six hours before she was conscious again, and then only barely, as they watched her in the recovery room, before moving her to intensive care.

“Will you be there when I wake up?” A frown of fear creased her brows and he was quick to nod.

“I sure will. I'll be right there with you when you wake up. Just like I'm here with you now.” He nodded to the anesthetist then, and her eyes fluttered closed briefly from the sedative they had administered before. The sodium pentothal was administered through the intravenous tube already implanted in her arm; a moment later, Sally Block was asleep, and within minutes, the delicate surgery began.

For the next four hours, Peter Hallam worked relentlessly to hook up the new heart, and there was a wondrous look of victory on his face, as it began to pump. For just a fraction of a second, his eyes met those of the nurse standing across from him, and beneath the mask he smiled. “There she goes.” But they had only won the first round, he knew only too well. It remained to be seen if Sally's body would accept or reject the new heart. And as with all transplant patients, the odds weren't great. But they were better than they would have been if she hadn't had the surgery at all. In her case, as with other people he operated on, it was her only hope.

At nine fifteen that morning, Sally Block was wheeled into the recovery room, and Peter Hallam took his first break since four thirty A.M. It would be a while before the anesthetic wore off, and he had time for a cup of coffee, and a few moments of his own thoughts. Transplants like Sally's drained everything from him.

“That was spectacular, Doctor.” A young resident stood next to him, still in awe, as Peter poured himself a cup of black coffee and turned to the young man.

“Thank you.” Peter smiled, thinking how much the young resident looked like his own son. It would have pleased him no end if Mark had had ambitions in medicine, but Mark already had other plans, business school, or law. He wanted to be part of a broader world than this, and he had seen over the years how much his father had given of himself and what it had cost him emotionally each time one of his transplant patients died. That wasn't for him. Peter narrowed his eyes as he took a sip of the inky brew, thinking that maybe it was just as well. And then he turned to the young resident again.

“Is this the first transplant you've seen?”

“The second. You performed the other one too.” And performed somehow seemed the appropriate word. Both transplants had been the most theatrical kind of surgery the young man had witnessed. There was more tension and drama in the operating room than he had ever experienced in his life, and watching Peter Hallam operate was like watching Nijinsky dance. He was the best there was. “How do you think this one will do?”

“It's too soon to tell. Hopefully, she'll do fine.” And he prayed that what he said was true, as he covered his operating-room garb with another sterile gown and headed toward the recovery room. He left his coffee outside, and went to sit quietly in one of the chairs near where Sally lay. A recovery-room nurse and a battery of monitors were watching Sally's every breath, and so far all was well. The trouble, if it arose, was likely to come later than this, unless of course everything went wrong from the beginning. And that had happened before too. But not this time … not this time … please God … not now … not to her … she's so young … not that he would have felt any differently if she had been fifty-five instead of twenty-two.

It hadn't made any difference when he lost his wife. He sat looking at Sally now, trying not to see a different face … a different time … and yet he always did … saw her as she had been in those last hours, beyond fighting, beyond hope … beyond him. She hadn't even let him try. No matter what he said, or how hard he had tried to convince her. They had had a donor. But she had refused it. He had pounded the wall in her room that night, and driven home on the freeway at a hundred and fifteen. And when they picked him up for speeding, he didn't give a damn. He didn't care about anything then … except her … and what she wouldn't let him do. He had been so vague when the highway patrol stopped him that they made him get out of the car and walk a straight line. But he wasn't drunk, he was numb with pain. They had let him go with a citation and a stiff fine, and he had gone home to wander through the house, thinking of her, aching for her, needing all that she'd had to give, and would give no more. He wondered if he could bear living without her. Even the children seemed remote to him then … all he could think of was Anne. She had been so strong for so long, and because of her he had grown over the years. She filled him with a kind of strength he drew on constantly, as well as his own skill. And suddenly that wasn't there. He had sat terrified that night, alone and frightened, like a small child, and then suddenly at dawn, he had felt an irresistible pull. He had to go back to her … had to hold her once more … had to tell her the things he had never said before … He had raced back to the hospital again and quietly slipped into her room, where he dismissed the nurse and watched her himself, gently holding her hand, and smoothing her fair hair back from her pale brow. She looked like a very fragile porcelain doll, and once just before morning burst into the room, she opened her eyes …

“… Peter …” Her voice was less than a whisper in the stillness.

“I love you, Anne …” His eyes had filled with tears and he had wanted to shout, “Don't go.” She smiled the magical smile that always filled his heart, and then with the ease of a sigh she was gone, as he stood in bereft horror and stared. Why wouldn't she fight? Why wouldn't she let him try? Why couldn't he accept what other people accepted from him every day? But he couldn't accept it now. He stood and stared at her, sobbing softly, until one of his colleagues led him away. They had taken him home and put him to bed, and somehow in the next days and weeks he had gone through all the motions that were expected of him. But it was like an ugly underwater dream, and he only surfaced now and then, until at last he realized how desperately his children needed him. And slowly, he had come back, and three weeks later he was back at work, but there was something missing now. Something that meant everything to him. And that something was Anne. She never left his mind for very long. She was there a thousand times a day, as he left for work, as he walked in and out of patients' rooms, as he walked into surgery, or back out to his car in the late afternoon. And when he reached his front door, it was like a knife in his heart again every time he went home, knowing that she wouldn't be there.

It had been over a year now, and the pain was dimmer, but not yet gone. And he somehow suspected that it never would be. All he could do was continue with his work, give everything he could to the people who turned to him for help … and then of course there were Matthew, Mark, and Pam. Thank God, he had them. Without them he would never have survived. But he had. He had come this far, and he would live on … but so differently … without Anne….

He sat in the stillness of the recovery room, his long legs stretched out before him, his face tense, watching Sally breathe, and at last her eyes opened for an instant and fuzzily swept the room.

“Sally … Sally, it's Peter Hallam … I'm here, and you're fine …” For now. But he didn't say that to her, nor did he even let himself think that. She was alive. She had done well. She was going to live. He was going to do everything in his power to see to it.

He sat at her bedside for another hour, watching her, and speaking to her whenever she came around, and he even won a small, weak smile from her before he left her shortly after one in the afternoon. He stopped in the cafeteria for a sandwich, and went back to his office briefly, before coming back to the hospital to see patients at four o'clock, and at five thirty he was on the freeway on his way home, his mind once again filled with Anne. It was still difficult to believe that she wouldn't be there when he got home. When does one stop expecting to see her again, he had asked a friend six months before. When will I finally understand it? The pain he had come to know in the past year and a half had etched a certain vulnerability into his face. It hadn't been there before, that visible hurt of loss and sorrow and pain. There had only been strength there before, and confidence, the certainty that nothing can ever go wrong. He had three perfect children, the perfect wife, a career he had mastered as few men do. He had climbed to the top, not brutally but beautifully, and he loved it there. And now what? Where was there left to go, and with whom?

CHAPTER 2

As Sally Block lay in her room in intensive care at Center City in L.A., the lights in a television studio in New York shone with a special kind of glare. There was a bright whiteness to them, reminiscent of interrogation rooms in B movies. Outside their intense beam, the studio was drafty and chill, but directly beneath their intense gaze, one could almost feel one's skin grow taut from the heat and glare. It was as though everything in the room focused on the object of the spotlight's beam, all points came together as one, intensifying moment by moment, as even the people in the room seemed drawn to its center, a narrow ledge, a shallow stage, an unimpressive Formica desk, and a bright blue backdrop with a single logo on it. But it wasn't the logo that caught the eye, it was the empty chair, throne-like, waiting for its king or queen. Hovering about were technicians, cameramen, a makeup man, a hairdresser, two assistant producers, a stage manager, the curious, the important, the necessary, and the hangers-on, all of them standing ever nearer to the empty stage, the barren desk, on which shone the all-revealing spotlight's beam.

“Five minutes!” It was a familiar call, an ordinary scene, yet in its own remote way, the evening news had an element of “show biz” to it. There was that faint aura of circus and magic and stardom beneath the white lights. A mist of power and mystery enveloping them all, the heart beating just a shade faster at the sound of the words, “Five minutes!", then “Three!", then “Two!” The same words that would have rung out in a backstage corridor on Broadway, or in London, as some grande dame of the stage emerged. Nothing here was quite so glamorous, the crew standing by in running shoes and jeans, and yet, always that magic, the whispers, the waiting, and Melanie Adams sensed it herself as she stepped briskly onto the stage. As always, her entrance was timed to perfection. She had exactly one hundred seconds to go before they went on the air. One hundred seconds to glance at her notes again, watch the director's face to see if there was any last-minute thing she should know, and count quietly to herself just to calm down.

As usual, it had been a long day. She had done the final interview on a special on abused kids. It wasn't a pretty subject, but she had handled it well. Still, by six o'clock, the day had taken its toll.

Five … the assistant director's fingers went up in the final count … four … three … two … one …

“Good evening.” The practiced smile never looked canned, and the cognac color of her hair gleamed. “This is Melanie Adams, with the evening news.” The President had given a speech, there was a military crisis in Brazil, the stock market had taken a sharp dip, and a local politician had been mugged that morning, in broad daylight, leaving his house. There were other news stories to relate as well, and the show moved along at a good clip, as it always did. She had a look of believable competence about her, which made the ratings soar and seemed to account for her enormous appeal. She was nationally known, and had been for well over five years, not that it was what she had originally planned. She had been a political science major when she dropped out of school to give birth to twins at nineteen. But that seemed a lifetime ago. Television had been her life for years. That, and the twins. There were other pastimes, but her work and her children came first.

She collected the notes on her desk as they went off the air, and as always the director looked pleased. “Nice show, Mel.”

“Thanks.” There was a cool distance about her, which covered what had once been shyness, and was now simply reserve. Too many people were curious about her, wanted to gawk, or ask embarrassing questions, or pry. She was Melanie Adams now, a name that rang a certain magic bell … I know you … I've seen you on the news! … It was strange buying groceries now, or going shopping for a dress, or just walking down the street with her girls. Suddenly people stared, and although outwardly Melanie Adams always seemed in control, deep within it still felt strange to her.

Mel headed toward her office, to take some of the excess makeup off, and pick up her handbag before she left, when the story editor stopped her with a sharp wave. “Can you stop here for a sec, Mel?” He looked harried and distracted, as he always did, and inwardly Mel groaned. “Stopping for a sec” could mean a story that would keep her away from home all night. Normally aside from being the anchor on the evening news she only did the major stories, the big newsbreaks, or the specials. But God only knew what they had in store for her now, and she really wasn't in the mood. She was enough of a pro now that the fatigue rarely showed, but the special on abused kids had left her feeling drained, no matter how alert and alive she still looked, thanks to her makeup.

“Yeah? What's up?”

“I've got something I want you to see.” The story editor pulled out a reel of tape and flicked it into a video machine. “We did this on the one o'clock. I didn't think it was big enough for the evening news, but it could make an interesting follow-up for you.” Mel stared at the video machine as the tape began to roll, and what she saw was an interview with a nine-year-old girl, desperately in need of a heart transplant, but thus far her parents had been unable to get her one. Neighbors had started a special fund for Pattie Lou Jones, an endearing little black girl, and one's heart went out to her at once. And as the interview came to an end, Mel was amost sorry she had seen the film. It was just one more person to hurt for, to care about, and for whom one could do nothing at all. The children in her child-abuse special had made her feel that way too. Why couldn't they give her a good political scandal on the heels of the other piece? She didn't need this heartache again.

“Yes.” She turned tired eyes to the man removing the reel. “So?”

“I just thought it might make an interesting special for you, Mel. Follow her for a while, see what you can set up. What doctors here would be willing to see Pattie Lou.”

“Oh, for chrissake, Jack … Why does that have to fall on me? What am I, some kind of new welfare bureau for kids?” Suddenly she looked tired and annoyed, and the tiny lines beside her eyes were beginning to show. It had been a hell of a long day, and she had left her house at six o'clock that morning.

“Listen”—he looked every bit as tired as she—“this could be a hot piece. We get the station to help Pattie Lou's parents find a doctor for her, we follow her through the transplant. Hell, Mel, this is news.”

She nodded slowly. It was news. But it was ghoulish too. “Have you talked to the family about it?”

“No, but I'm sure they'd be thrilled.”

“You never know. Sometimes people like taking care of their own problems. They might not be so crazy about serving Pattie Lou up to the evening news.”

“Why not? They talked to us today.” Mel nodded again. “Why don't you check out some of the big-wheel heart surgeons tomorrow and see what they say? Some of them like being in the public eye, and then you could call the parents of that kid.”

“I'll see what I can do, Jack. I have to tie up my child-abuse piece.”

“I thought you finished that today.” He scowled instantly.

“I did. But I want to watch them edit some of it at least.”

“Bullshit. That's not your job. Just get to work on this. It'll be a much tougher piece than even the child-abuse thing.” Tougher than burning a two-year-old child with matches? Cutting off a four-year-old's ear? There were still times when the business of news made her sick. “See what you can do, Mel.”

“Okay, Jack. Okay. I'll see what I can do.” … Hello, Doctor, my name is Melanie Adams and I was wondering if you'd like to perform a heart transplant on a nine-year-old girl … possibly for free … and then we could come and watch you do it, and blast you and the little girl all over the news … She walked hurriedly back to her office, with her head down, her mind full, and collided almost instantly with a tall dark-haired man.

“My, don't you look happy today. Being on the news must be fun.” The deep voice, trained long ago as a radio announcer, brought her eyes up from the floor and smiled when she saw her old friend.

“Hi, Grant. What are you doing here at this hour?” Grant Buckley had a talk show that went on every night after the late news, and he was one of the most controversial personalities on the air, but he was deeply fond of Mel, and she considered him one of her closest friends, and had for years.

“I had to come in and check out some tapes I want to use on the show. What about you? It's a little late for you, isn't it, kid?” She was usually gone by then, but the story of Pattie Lou Jones had kept her around for an extra half hour.

“They saved an extra treat for me today. They want me to set up a heart transplant for some kid. The usual, no big deal.” Some of the clouds lifted from her face as she looked into his eyes. He was incredibly bright, a good friend, an attractive man, and women all over the network envied the obvious friendship they shared. They had never been more than just friends, although there were numerous rumors from time to time, but none of them true. They only amused Grant and Mel, as they would talk about it over drinks.

“So what else is new? How'd the special on child abuse go?”

Her eyes were serious as they met his. “It was a killer to do, but it was a good piece.”

“You have a way of picking the heavy ones, kid.”

“Either that, or they pick me, like this heart transplant I'm supposed to arrange.”

“Are you serious?” He had thought she was kidding at first.

“I'm not, but apparently Jack Owens is. You got any bright ideas?”

He frowned for a minute as he thought. “I did a show on that last year, there were some interesting people on. I'll look at my files and check the names. Two of them suddenly come to mind, but there were two more. I'll see, Mel. How soon do you need the stuff?”

She smiled. “Yesterday.”

He ruffled her hair, knowing she wasn't going back on the air. “Want to go out for a hamburger before you go home?”

“I'd better not. I should be getting home to the girls.”

“Those two.” He rolled his eyes, knowing them well. He had three daughters of his own, from three different wives, but none of them twins, or quite as adventurous as Mel's two girls. “What are they up to these days?”

“The usual. Val has been in love four times this week, and Jess is working on straight A's. Their combined efforts are defying all my efforts to remain a redhead, and giving me gray hair.” She had just turned thirty-five, but she looked as though a decade of that had gotten lost somewhere. She looked nowhere near her age, despite the responsibilities she bore, the job which weighed heavily on her at times, but which she loved, and the assorted crises that had come through her life over the years. Grant knew most of them, and she had cried on his shoulder more than once, about a disappointment at work, or a shattered love affair. There hadn't been too many of those, she was cautious about whom she saw, and careful too about keeping her private life out of the public eye, but more than that she was gun-shy about getting involved after being abandoned by the twins' father before they were born. He had told her he hadn't wanted kids, and he had meant every word he said. They had married right out of high school and gone to Columbia at the same time, but when she told him she was pregnant, he didn't want to hear.

“Get rid of it.” His face had been rock hard, and Mel still remembered his tone.

“I won't. It's our child … that's wrong …”

“It's a lot more wrong to screw up our lives.” So instead he had tried to screw up hers. He had gone to Mexico on vacation with another girl, and when he came back he announced that they were divorced. He had forged her signature on the forms, and she was so shocked that she didn't know what to say. Her parents wanted her to fight back, but she didn't think that she could. She was too hurt by what he'd done, and too overwhelmed at the prospect of being alone for the birth of her child … which then turned out to be two. Her parents had helped her for a while, and then she had gone out on her own, struggled to find a job, and done everything she could from secretarial work to door-to-door sales for a vitamin firm. At last she had wound up as a receptionist for a television network, and eventually she had wound up in a pool of secretaries typing up pieces for the news.

The twins had thrived through it all, though Mel's climb hadn't been easy or quick, but day after day, typing what other people wrote, she knew what she wanted to do. The political pieces were the ones that interested her most, reminiscent of her college days before her whole life had changed. And what she wanted was to become a writer for the news. She applied countless times for the job, and eventually understood that it wouldn't happen for her in New York. She went first to Buffalo, then Chicago, and at last back to New York, finally getting work as a writer for the news. Until a major strike, when suddenly management looked at her and someone jerked a thumb toward the set. She was horrified, but she had no choice. It was either do what they said, or get her ass canned, and she couldn't afford that. She had two little girls to support, their father had never contributed ten cents and had gone on his merry way, leaving Mel to cope alone. And she had. But all she wanted was enough for them, she had no dreams of glory, no aching desire to deliver the stories she wrote herself, and yet suddenly there she was, on TV, and the funny thing was, it felt good.

They farmed her out to Philadelphia after that, and back to Chicago again for a while, Washington, D.C., and at last home. In their estimation, she had been properly groomed, and they weren't far wrong. She was damn good. Powerful and interesting, and strong, and beautiful to watch on the air. She seemed to combine honesty with compassion and brains to such an extent that at times one actually forgot her striking looks. And at twenty-eight she was near the top, coanchoring the evening news. At thirty, she broke her contract and moved to another show, and suddenly there she was. Sole anchor, delivering the evening news. The ratings soared and they hadn't stopped since.

She had worked like a dog since then, and her reputation as a top newswoman was well deserved. What's more, she was well liked. She was secure now. The hungry days were long gone, the juggling, the struggling, her parents would have been desperately proud, had they still been alive, and she wondered now and then what the twins' father thought, if he regretted what he'd done, if he even cared. She had never heard from him again. But he had left his mark on her, a mark that had dulled, but never quite been erased over the years. A mark of caution, if not pain, a fear of getting too close, of believing too much, of holding anyone too dear … except the twins. It had led her into some unfortunate affairs, with men who were taken with who she was, or used her cool distance to play around, and the last time around with a married man. At first, to Mel, he had seemed ideal, he didn't want anything more than she did. She never wanted to marry again. She had everything she wanted on her own: success, security, her kids, a house she loved. “What do I need marriage for?” she had said to Grant, and he had maintained a skeptical view.

“Maybe you don't, but at least get yourself someone who's free.” He had been insistent and firm.

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“The difference it will make, my friend, is that you'll wind up spending Christmas and holidays and birthdays and weekends alone, while he sits around happily with his wife and kids.”

“Maybe so. But I'm special to him. I'm the caviar, not the sour cream.”

“You're dead wrong, Mel. You'll get hurt.” And he had been right. She had. Eventually it all began to cause her pain for just the reasons he had feared and there had been a terrible parting in the end, with Melanie looking gaunt and drawn for weeks. “Next time, listen to Uncle Grant. I know.” He knew a great deal, mostly about how carefully she had built walls around herself. He had known her for almost ten years. They had met while she was on the way up, and he had known then that he was watching a bright new star rise in the heavens of television news, but more than that, he cared about her, as a human being and a friend. He cared enough not to want to spoil what they had. They had been both careful never to get involved with each other. He had been married three times, he had a stable of “temporaries” he enjoyed spending his nights with, but Mel was much more than that to him. She was his friend, and he was hers, and with Mel it was important not to betray that trust. She had been betrayed before, and he never wanted to be the one to hurt her again. “The truth is, love, most men are shits.” He had confessed to her late one night after interviewing her on his show, which had been a real kick. And afterward they had gone out for a drink, and sat around at Elaine's until three A.M.

“What makes you say that?” There had suddenly been something distant and cautious in her eyes. She knew one who had been, but it was grim to think that they all were.

“Because damn few want to give as good as they get. They want a woman to love them with her whole heart and soul, but they keep an important piece to themselves. What you need is a man who'll give you as much love as you have to give.”

“What makes you think I have that much love left?” She tried to look amused, but he wasn't convinced. The old hurt was still there, distant, but not gone. He wondered if it ever would be.

“I know you too well, Mel. Better than you know yourself.”

“And you think I'm pining to find the right man?” This time she laughed and he smiled.

“No. I think you're scared to death you will.”

“Touché.”

“It might do you good.”

“Why? I'm happy by myself.”

“Horseshit. No one is. Not really.”

“I have the twins.”

“That is not the same thing.”

She shrugged. “You're happy alone.” She searched his eyes, not sure what she'd find, and was surprised to see a trace of loneliness there. It came out at night, like a werewolf he hid by day. Even the illustrious Grant was human too.

“If I were so happy alone, I wouldn't have married three times.” They both laughed at that, the evening wore on, and eventually he dropped her at her front door with a fatherly peck on the cheek. Once in a while she wondered what it would be like to get involved with him, but she knew it would spoil what they had, and they both wanted to avoid that. It was too good like this.

And in the corridor outside her office, she looked up at him now, tired, but relieved to see his face at the end of a long day. He gave her something no one else did. The twins were still young enough to take from her, they had a constant need, for attention, for love, for discipline, limits, new ice skates, designer jeans. But he put something back in her soul, and there was really no one else who did.

“I'll take a rain check on that hamburger tomorrow night.”

“Can't.” He shook his head with regret. “I've got a hot date with a sensational pair of boobs.”

She rolled her eyes and he grinned. “You are without a doubt the most sexist man I know.”

“Yup.”

“And proud of it too.”

“You're damn right.”

She smiled and looked at her watch. “I'd better get my ass home, or Raquel will lock me out, tyrant that she is.” She had had the same housekeeper for the last seven years. Raquel was a godsend with the girls, but she ran a tight ship. She was inordinately fond of Grant, and had tried to press Mel into a relationship with him for years.

“Give Raquel my love.”

“I'll tell her it was your fault I'm late.”

“Fine, and I'll give you that list of cardiac surgeons tomorrow. Will you be around?”

“I'll be here.”

“I'll call.”

“Thanks.” She blew him a kiss, and he went his way, as she stepped into her office and picked up her bag with a quick look at her watch. It was seven thirty and Raquel was going to have a fit. She hurried downstairs and hailed a cab and in fifteen minutes the driver turned into Seventy-ninth Street.

“I'm home!” She called out into the silence, passing through the front hall. It was done in delicate flowered wallpaper and there was a white marble floor. From the moment one walked in, one sensed the friendly, elegant mood of the place, and from the bright colors, big bouquets of flowers, and touches of yellow and pastel everywhere, one had an instant feeling of good cheer. The house always amused Grant Buckley. It was so obviously a woman's house. One would have to begin decorating from scratch were a man to make his home there. There was a big antique hat rack in the front hall, covered with Mel's hats and the favorites left there by the two girls.

The living room was done in a soft peach, with silky deep couches that invited one to be swallowed up, and delicate moirî curtains that hung in lush folds with French tiebacks, and the walls were painted the same delicate peach shade, with creamy trim on the moldings and delicate pastel paintings everywhere. As Melanie sank down now into the couch with a contented sigh, it was the perfect setting for her with her creamy skin and her flaming red hair. Her bedroom was done in soft blues, in watered silks, the dining room was white, the kitchen orange and yellow and blue. Melanie's home had a happy feeling that made one want to wander around and hang out. It was elegant, but not too, chic but no so much so that one was afraid to sit down.

It was a small house, but perfect for them, with the living room, dining room, and kitchen on the main floor, Mel's bedroom, study, and dressing room were one flight up, and above that were two big sunny bedrooms for the two girls. There wasn't an inch of unused space, and even one extra body in the house would have seemed like too much. But just for them, it was exactly the right size, as Melanie had known it would be when she'd first seen it and fallen in love with it the same day.

She walked hurriedly up the stairs to the girls' rooms, faintly aware of an ache in her back. It had been a hell of a long day. She didn't stop in her own room, knowing already what would be there, a stack of mail she didn't want to see, mostly bills relating to the girls, and an assortment of other things. But that didn't interest her now. She wanted to see the twins.

On the third floor, she found both their doors closed, but the music was so loud, she could already feel her heart pound halfway up the stairs.

“Good God, Jess!” Melanie shouted above the din. “Turn that thing down!”

“What?” The tall, skinny redheaded girl turned toward the door from where she lay on her bed. There were schoolbooks spread all around, and she had the telephone pressed to her ear. She waved to her mother, and went on talking on the phone.

“Don't you have exams?” A silent nod, and Melanie's face began to look grim. Jessica was always the more serious of the twins, but lately she had been losing ground in school. She was bored, and the romance she'd had all year had just gone down the tubes, but that was no excuse, and she still had to study for her exams, even more so now. “Come on, hang up, Jess.” She stood leaning against the desk, arms crossed, and Jessica looked vaguely annoyed, said something unintelligible into the phone, and hung up, looking at her mother as though she were not only overly demanding but rude. “Now turn that thing down.”

She unwound the long coltlike legs from the bed, and walked to the stereo, flinging her long coppery mane over her shoulders. “I was just taking a break.”

“For how long?”

“Oh, for chrissake. What do I have to do now? Punch a time clock for you?”

“That's not fair, Jess. You can have all the leeway you need. But the fact is, your last grades …”

“I know, I know. How long do I have to hear about that?”

“Until they improve.” Melanin looked unimpressed by her daughter's speech. Jessica had been testy since the end of the romance with a young man named John. It was probably what had affected her grades, and for Jessica that was a first. But Melanie already sensed that things were on their way back up. She just didn't want to let Jessica off the hook yet, not till she was sure. “How was your day?” She slipped an arm around her daughter's shoulders and stroked her hair. The music had been turned off, and the room seemed strangely still.

“It was okay. How was yours?”

“Not bad.”

Jessie smiled, and when she did, she looked very much as Melanie had when she was a little girl. She was more angular than her mother was, and already two inches taller than Mel in her bare feet, but there was a lot of her mother in her, which accounted for the rare bond the two women shared; there were times when it didn't even require words. And other times when their friendship exploded because of the similarities that made them almost too close. “I saw the piece you did about the legislation for the handicapped on the evening news.”

“What did you think?” She always liked to hear what they said, especially Jess. She had a fine mind, and was very direct with her words, unlike her twin, who was kinder, less critical, and softer in a myriad of ways.

“I thought it was good, but not tough enough.”

“You're mighty hard to please.” But her sponsors were too. Jessica met her eyes with a shrug and a smile. “You taught me to question what I hear and be demanding of the news.”

“Did I do that?” The two women exchanged a warm smile. She was proud of Jess, and in turn Jessica was proud of her. Both twins were. She was a terrific mother to them. The three of them had shared some damn tough years. It had brought them closer, in respect, and attitudes.

Mother and daughter exchanged another long look. In a way, Melanie was just a shade gentler than her oldest child. But she was of another generation, another lifetime, a different world. And for her time, Melanie had already come far. But Jessica would go further, move ahead with even more determination than Mel had. “Where's Val?”

“In her room.”

Melanie nodded. “How are things in school?”

“Okay.” But she thought Jessica sagged a little as she asked, and then sensing her mother's thoughts, she once again sought Melanie's eyes. “I saw John today.”

“How was that?”

“It hurt.”

Melanie nodded and sat down on the bed, grateful for the openness that they always shared. “What did he say?”

“Just ‘hi.’ I don't know, I hear he's going out with some other girl.”

“That's rough.” It had been almost a month now, and Melanie knew that it was the first real blow Jessica had suffered since she had started school. Always near the top of her class, surrounded by friends, and chased by all the best boys in school since she'd turned thirteen. Just shy of her sixteenth birthday, she had experienced her first heartbreak, and it hurt Melanie to watch it, almost as much as it hurt Jess. “But you know, what you've forgotten by now is that there were times when he really got on your nerves.”

“He did?” Jessica looked surprised.

“Yes, ma'am. Remember when he showed up an hour late to take you to that dance? When he went skiing with his friends instead of taking you to the football game? The time he …” Melanie seemed to remember them all, she knew her girls' lives well, and Jessica grinned.

“Okay, okay, so he's a creep … I like him anyway …”

“Him, or just having someone around?” There was a moment's silence in the room, and Jessica looked at her with surprised eyes.

“You know, Mom … I'm not sure.” She was stunned. The uncertainty was a revelation to her.

Melanie smiled. “Don't feel alone. Half the relationships in the world go on because of that.”

Jessica looked at her then, her head turned to one side; she knew how difficult her mother's standards were, how badly she'd been hurt, how careful she was not to get involved. Sometimes it made Jess sorry for her. Her mother needed someone. Long ago, she had hoped it would be Grant, but she knew long since that was not destined to be. And before she could say anything more, the door opened and Valerie walked in.

“Hi, Mom.” And then she saw the serious looks they wore. “Should I go?”

“No.” Melanie was quick to shake her head. “Hello, love.” Valerie bent to give her a kiss and a smile. She looked so different from Melanie and Jess that one almost wondered if she were related to the other two. She was smaller than both Melanie and her twin, but with a voluptuous body that made men drool as she walked by, large, full breasts, a tiny waist, small, rounded hips, shapely legs, and a curtain of blond hair that fell almost to her waist. There were times when Melanie saw men's reactions to her child and almost visibly cringed. Even Grant had been taken aback when he'd seen her recently. “For God's sake, Mel, put a bag over the child's head until she turns twenty-five, or you'll drive the neighborhood mad.” But Melanie had responded with a rueful smile, “I don't think putting it over just her head would do the trick.” She watched Valerie with a careful eye, more so than Jess, because one sensed instantly about Valerie that she was almost too open and very naive. Val was bright, but not as sharp as her twin, part of her charm was that she was almost totally unaware of herself. She breezed in and out of a room with the happy-go-lucky ease of a child of three, leaving men panting in her wake, as she unconcernedly went on her way. It was Jessica who had always watched over her in school, and even more so now. Jessica was well aware of how Valerie looked, so Valerie had two mothers watching over her.

“We watched you tonight on the news. You were good.” But unlike Jessica, she didn't say why, didn't analyze, didn't criticize, and in a funny way, what went on in Jessica's head made her almost more beautiful than her dazzling twin. And together, they were quite a pair, the one redheaded and long and lean, the other so voluptuous and soft and blond. “Are you having dinner with us tonight?”

“I sure am. I turned down dinner with Grant to have dinner with you two.”

“Why didn't you bring him home?” Val looked instantly chagrined.

“Because I enjoy being alone with you sometimes. I can see him some other time.” Val shrugged, and Jessica nodded, and at that instant, Raquel buzzed them from downstairs on the intercom. Val picked it up first, said “Okay,” and then hung up, and turned to her mother and twin.

“Dinner's on, and Raquel sounds pissed.”

“Val!” Melanie didn't look pleased. “Don't talk like that.”

“Why not? Everyone else does.”

“That's not enough reason for you to.” And with that, the threesome went downstairs, bantering about their day, Mel told them about the special on child abuse, she even told them about Pattie Lou Jones, desperate for a heart transplant which Mel had been assigned to find.

“How are you supposed to do that, Mom?” Jess looked intrigued. She loved stories like that, and thought that her mother did them exceedingly well.

“Grant said he'd give me some names, he did a show on four big heart-transplant specialists last year, and the network research people will give me some leads.”

“It should be a good piece.”

“Sounds disgusting to me.” Val made a face, as they walked into the dining room and Raquel glared.

“You think I gonna wait all night?” She grunted loudly and whisked through the swinging door, as the threesome exchanged a smile.

“She'd go crazy if she couldn't complain,” Jessica whispered to them both, and they laughed, sobering their faces for Raquel's benefit as she returned with a platter of roast beef.

“It looks great, Raquel!” Val was quick to offer praise as she helped herself first.

“Hrmph.” She whisked out again, returning with baked potatoes and steamed broccoli, and the three of them settled down to a quiet evening at home. It was the only place in Mel's life where she could totally, completely free herself of the news.

CHAPTER 3

“Sally? … Sally? …"She had been drifting in and out of consciousness all day, and Peter Hallam had been to see her five or six times. It was only her second postoperative day, and it was still difficult to tell how she would do, but he had to admit to himself that he wasn't entirely pleased. She opened her eyes at last, and realized who he was, and she greeted him with a warm smile, as he pulled up a chair, sat down, and took her hand. “How're you feeling today?”

She spoke to him in a whisper. “Not so good.”

He nodded. “It's still pretty soon. Every day you'll feel stronger.” He seemed to will his strength into her through his words and his voice, but slowly she shook her head. “Have I ever lied to you?”

She shook her head again, spoke again, despite the uncomfortable naso-gastric tube scratching the back of her throat. “It won't work.”

“If you want it to, it will.” Everything inside him went tense. She couldn't afford to think like that. Not now.

“I'm going to reject.” She whispered again. But he doggedly shook his head, a muscle tensing in his jaw. Dammit, why was she giving up? … And how did she know? … It was what he had feared all day. But she couldn't give up the fight … couldn't … dammit, it was like Anne … why did they suddenly lose their grasp? It was the worst battle he fought. Worse than the drugs, the rejection, the infections. They could deal with them all, at least to a point, but only if the patient still had the will to live … the belief that she would live. Without that, all was lost.

“Sally, you're doing fine.” The words were determined and firm, and he sat by her bedside for over an hour, holding her hand. And then he went to make rounds, in each room, turning his full attention to the patient he saw, spending as much time as was needed to explain either surgical procedures that were going to be conducted soon, or what had already happened, what they felt, why they felt it, what the medications and steroids had done. And then at last, he went back to Sally's room, but she was asleep once again, and he stood for a long time watching her. He didn't like what he saw. She was right; he sensed it in his gut. Her body was rejecting the donor's heart, and there was no reason why it should. It had been a good match. But he instinctively sensed that it came too late for her, and as he left the room, he had a sense of impending loss which weighed on him like a lead balloon.

He went to the small cubicle he used for an office when he was there, and called his office to see if they needed him there.

“Everything's fine, Doctor,” the efficient voice said. “You just had a call from New York.”

“From whom?” He didn't sound overly interested in the call, it was probably another surgeon wanting to consult on a difficult case, but his mind was filled with Sally Block, and he hoped it could wait.

“From Melanie Adams, on Channel Four news.” Even Peter knew who she was, as isolated as he sometimes was from the world. He couldn't figure out why she had called him.

“Do you know why?”

“She wouldn't say, or at least not in detail. She only said that it was urgent, something about a little girl.” He raised an eyebrow at that, even television newswomen had kids, maybe this had to do with her own child. He jotted down the number she had left, glanced at his watch, and dialed.

They put him through at once, and Melanie ran halfway across the newsroom to pick up a phone.

“Dr. Hallam?” She sounded breathless, and at his end, his voice was deep and strong.

“Yes. I had a message that you called.”

“I did. I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. Our research department gave me your name.” She had heard it often too, but as he was on the West Coast it hadn't occurred to her to call, and the four names she'd gotten from Grant had done no good at all. Not one of them would do the surgery for the little black child. The publicity frightened them too much, and the surgery had to be done for free. Melanie had also called a surgeon of some note in Chicago, but he was in England and Scotland doing a lecture tour. She explained to Hallam quickly about the little girl, and he asked her a number of pertinent questions that she knew how to answer now. She had already learned a lot in one day, from talking to the other four.

“It sounds like an interesting case.” And then he spoke bluntly. “What's in it for you?”

She took a quick breath, it was hard to say. “On the surface, Doctor, a story for my network, about a compassionate doctor, a desperately sick little girl, and how transplants work.”

“That makes sense. I'm not sure I like the publicity angle though. And it's damn hard to find a donor for a child. Most likely we'd try something a little more unusual with her.”

“Like what?” Mel was intrigued.

“It depends on how severe she is. I'd like to see her first. We might first repair her own heart and put it back in.”

Mel knit her brows, that could create quite a stir. “Does that work?”

“Sometimes. Do her doctors think she'd survive the trip?”

“I don't know. I'd have to check. Would you actually do it?”

“Maybe. For her sake, not yours.” He sounded blunt again, but Mel couldn't fault it. He was offering to do the surgery for the child, not to make a spectacle of himself on the news. She respected him for that.

“Would you give us an interview?”

“Yes.” He spoke up without qualm. “I just want to make it clear why I'd do it at all. I'm a physician, and a surgeon, committed to what I do. I'm not looking to turn this into a circus, for any of us.”

“I wouldn't do that to you.” He had seen her stories on television before, and suspected that that was true. “But I would like to interview you. And if you do the transplant on Pattie Lou, it would provide an opening for a very interesting piece.”

“On what? On me?” He sounded shocked, as though he'd never thought of that before, and at her end Mel smiled. Was it possible that he didn't realize how well known he was? Maybe he was so involved in his work that he really didn't know. Or care. The possibility of that intrigued her.

“On heart surgery and transplants in general, if you prefer.”

“I would.” She heard a smile in his voice, and went on.

“That could be arranged. Now what about Pattie Lou?”

“Give me her physician's name. I'll call and see what I can find out from here. If she's operable, send her out, and we'll see.” And then he had another thought. “Will her parents agree to this?”

“I think so. But I'd have to speak to them too. I'm kind of the matchmaker in all this.”

“Apparently. Well, at least it's for a good cause. I hope we can help the child.”

“So do I.” There was an instant's silence between them, and Mel felt as though miraculously she had fallen into the right hands, and so had Pattie Lou. “Shall I call you back, or will you call me?”

“I've got a critical case here. I'll get back to you.” And suddenly he sounded desperately serious again, as though he were distracted. Mel thanked him again, and a moment later he was gone.

That afternoon she went to see the Joneses, and their desperately ill child, but Pattie Lou was a game little thing, and her parents were thrilled at even the faint shred of hope Mel offered them. There was enough in their meager fund to pay for plane fare to L.A., for one of the parents at least, and the child's father was quick to urge his wife to go. There were four other children at home, all older than the child with the ailing heart, and Mr. Jones felt sure that they could all manage on their own. Mrs. Jones cried, and her husband's eyes were damp when they said good-bye to Mel, and two hours after she returned to her office, Dr. Peter Hallam called again. He had spoken to Pattie Lou's physicians and in their estimation, it was worth taking the risk of the trip. It was the only hope she had. And Peter Hallam was willing to take the case.

Having seen Pattie Lou that afternoon, tears instantly filled Mel's eyes, and her voice was husky when she spoke again. “You're a hell of a nice man.”

“Thank you.” He smiled. “How soon do you suppose you could arrange to have her on the plane?”

“I'm not sure. I'll have the network work out the details. When do you want her there?”

“From what her doctors said, I don't think tomorrow would be too soon.”

“I'll see what I can do.” She checked her watch, it was almost time to do the evening news. “We'll call you in a few hours … and Dr. Hallam … thank you …”

“Don't. It's part of what I do. And I hope we understand each other about all this. I will do it gratis for the child, but there will be no cameras in surgery with us. And what you get is an interview after it's all done. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” And then she couldn't resist stretching it a bit. She had an obligation to the network and her sponsors too. “Could we interview you about some other cases too?”

“In what regard?” He sounded fairly suspicious of her now.

“I'd like very much to do a story of heart transplants as long as I'll be out there with you, Doctor. Is that all right?” Maybe he had some preconceived prejudice about her. She hoped not, but one never knew. Maybe he hated the way she did the evening news. It was broadcast in California after all, so she couldn't be totally unknown to him, and of course she was not. But her fears were ill founded, as he nodded at his end.

“Of course. That's fine.”

There was a moment of silence between them, and then he spoke up, his voice thoughtful. “It's odd to think of a human life in terms of a story.” He was thinking of Sally, hovering on the verge of a massive rejection. She wasn't a “story,” she was a twenty-two-year-old girl, a human life, as was this child in New York.

“Believe it or not, after all these years, it's hard for me to think of it that way too.” She took a deep breath, wondering if she seemed callous to him. But the news business was that way sometimes. “I'll get in touch with you later, and let you know when we're coming out.”

“I'll make arrangements here to receive her.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“This is what I do, no thanks necessary, Miss Adams.”

To Mel it seemed a far more noble task in life than reporting news “stories,” and as she hung up, she thought of what he had said as she went about making the arrangements to get Pattie Lou Jones and her mother to California. In less than an hour, she had taken care of everything from the ambulance from their home to the airport, special service on the flight, a nurse to travel with them, to be paid for by the network, a camera crew to join them from point of departure all the way to California, a similar crew to continue with them to L.A., and hotel accommodations for herself, the crew, and Pattie Lou's mother. All that remained was to let Peter Hallam know, and she left a message with his service. Apparently, he was not available when she called him several hours later, and that night she told the twins that she was going to California for a few days.

“What for?” As usual, Jessica was the first to ask her, and she explained the story to both girls.

“Boy, Mom, you're turning into a regular paramedic.” Val looked amused, and Mel turned to her with a tired sigh.

“I feel like it tonight. It ought to be a good story though.” That word again, a “story,” as weighed against a human life. What if it were Valerie or Jessie? How would she feel then? How much of a “story” would it be to her? She cringed inwardly at the thought, and understood again Peter Hallam's reaction to the term. She wondered too what it would be like to meet him, if he would be pleasant, easy to work with, or terribly egocentric. He didn't sound it on the phone, but she knew that most heart surgeons had that reputation. Yet he had sounded different. She had liked him, sight unseen, and she had deeply respected his willingness to help Pattie Lou Jones.

“You look tired, Mom.” She noticed that Jessica had been staring at her.

“I am.”

“What time do you leave tomorrow?” They were used to her comings and goings, and were comfortable with Raquel in her absence. She always stayed with them when Mel went away, and she was seldom gone long.

“I should leave the house by six thirty. Our flight's at nine, and I'm meeting the camera crew outside the Jones house. I'll be up by five, I guess.”

“Urghk.” Both girls made a face, and Mel smiled at them.

“Exactly. Not always as glamorous as it seems, eh girls?”

“You can say that again.” Val was quick to answer. Both girls knew the truth about Mel's career, what hard work it was, how often she had stood outside the White House, freezing in snow storms, covering hideous events in distant jungles, political assassinations and other horrendous moments. Both of them respected her more for it, but neither of them envied what she did, or longed for the same career. Val thought she'd just like to get married, and Jess had her heart set on becoming a doctor.

She went upstairs with them after dinner, packed her bag for the trip to the West Coast, and went to bed early. Grant called her just after she turned the light out, and asked her how his list of doctors had worked out that morning.

“None of them would help, but research gave me Peter Hallam's number. I called him in L.A. and we're all flying out tomorrow.”

“You and the kid?” He sounded surprised.

“And her mother and a nurse, and a camera crew.”

“The whole circus.”

“I think that's how Hallam felt about it.” In fact he had even used the same word.

“I'm surprised he agreed to do it.”

“He sounds like a nice man.”

“So they say. He certainly doesn't need the publicity, although he keeps a lower profile than the others. But I think that's by choice. Will he let you film the surgery on the kid?”

“Nope. But he promised me an interview afterward, and you never know, he may change his mind once we get there.”

“Maybe so. Call me when you get back, kiddo, and try to stay out of trouble.” It was his usual warning and she smiled as she turned off the light again a few minutes later.

At the opposite end of the country, Peter Hallam wasn't smiling. Sally Block had gone into massive rejection, and within an hour, she had slipped into a coma. He stayed with her until almost midnight, emerging from her room only to speak to her mother, and at last, he allowed the sorrowing woman to join him at Sally's side. There was no reason not to. The fear of infection no longer mattered, and at one o'clock that morning, L.A. time, Sally Block died without ever regaining consciousness to see her mother or the doctor she had so greatly trusted. Her mother left the room in bereft silence, with tears pouring down her cheeks. Sally's war was over. And Peter Hallam signed the death certificate, and went home to sit in his study in total darkness, staring out into the night, thinking of Sally, and Anne, and others like them. He was still sitting there two hours later when Mel left her apartment to go to the Jones apartment in New York. Peter Hallam wasn't even thinking of Pattie Lou Jones at that moment, or Mel Adams … only of Sally … the pretty twenty-two-year-old blond girl… gone now … gone … like Anne … like so many others. And then, slowly, slowly, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, he walked up to his bedroom, closed the door, and sat on his bed in the silence.

“I'm sorry …” The words were whispered, and he wasn't even sure to whom he spoke them … to his wife … his children … to Sally … to her parents … to himself … and then the tears came, falling softly as he lay down in the darkness, sorrowing in his soul for what he hadn't been able to do this time … not this time … but next time … next time … maybe next time … And then at last, Pattie Lou Jones came to mind. There was nothing to do but try again. And something deep within him stirred at the prospect.

CHAPTER 4

The plane left Kennedy airport with Mel, the camera crew, Pattie Lou, the nurse, and Pattie's mother all safely ensconced in a segregated first-class section. Pattie had an I.V., and the nurse seemed highly skilled in the care of cardiac patients. She had been recommended by Pattie's own physician, and Mel found herself praying that nothing untoward would happen before they reached Los Angeles. Once there she knew that they would be in the competent hands of Dr. Peter Hallam, but before that, Mel's idea of a nightmare was having to land in Kansas with a dying child, suffering from cardiac arrest before they could reach the doctor in California. She just prayed that that wouldn't happen, and as it turned out they had a peaceful flight all the way to Los Angeles, where Hallam had two members of his team and an ambulance waiting, and Pattie Lou was whisked off to Center City with her mother. By previous agreement with Dr. Hallam, Melanie was not to join them. He wanted to give the child time to settle in without disruption, and he had agreed to meet Mel in the cafeteria at seven o'clock the following morning. He would brief her then on Pattie Lou's condition, and how they planned to treat her. She was welcome to bring a notepad and a tape recorder, but there was to be no camera crew at that meeting. The official interview would come later. But Mel found that she was grateful for the reprieve from the medical tension, and she went to her hotel and called the twins in New York, showered, changed, and walked the area around her hotel in the balmy spring air, her mind constantly returning to Peter Hall am. She was desperately curious to meet him, and at six the next morning, she rose swiftly, and drove her rented car to Center City.

Melanie's heels clicked rhythmically on the tiled floor as she turned left down an endless hall, and passed two maintenance men dragging wet mops behind them. They watched her back recede into the distance with an appreciative glance, until she stopped outside the cafeteria, read the sign, and pushed open the double doors. Her nostrils were assailed with the rich aroma of fresh coffee. And as she looked around the brightly lit room, she was surprised at how many people there were at that hour of the morning.

There were tables of nurses having coffee and breakfast between shifts, residents taking a break, interns finishing a long night with a hot meal or a sandwich, and one or two civilians sitting bleakly at tables on the sidelines, undoubtedly people who had been up all night watching for news of critically ill relatives or friends. There was one woman crying softly and dabbing at her eyes with a hankie as a younger woman dried her own tears and tried to console her. It was an odd scene of contrasts, the silent fatigue of the young doctors, the mirth and chatter of the nurses, the sorrow and tension of people visiting patients, and behind it all the clatter of trays, and steaming water being splashed on dirty dishes in efficient machines. It looked like the operations center of a strange modern city, the command post of a spaceship floating through space, totally divorced from the rest of the world.

As Melanie looked around, she wondered which white-coated figure was Peter Hallam. There were a few middle-aged men in starched white coats, conferring solemnly at one table over donuts and coffee, but somehow none of them looked the way she expected him to, and none of them approached her. At least he would know what she looked like.

“Miss Adams?” She was startled by the voice directly behind her, and she wheeled on one heel to face it.

“Yes?”

He extended a powerful, cool hand. “I'm Peter Hallam.” As she shook his hand, she found herself looking up into the sharply etched, handsome, well-lined face of a man with blue eyes and gray hair and a smile that hovered in his eyes but didn't quite reach his lips. Despite their conversation on the phone, he wasn't at all what she had expected. She had painted a totally other mental picture of him. He was much taller, and so powerfully built, his shoulders were pressed into the starched white coat he wore over a blue shirt, dark tie, and gray trousers, and one instantly guessed he had played football in college. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not at all.” She followed him to a table, feeling less in control than she would have liked. She was used to having a certain impact on her subjects, and here she had the impression of simply being dragged along in his wake. There was something incredibly magnetic about him.

“Coffee?”

“Please.” Their eyes met and locked, each one wondering what they would discover in the other, Mend or foe, supporter or opponent. But for the moment they had one thing in common. Pattie Lou Jones, and Mel was anxious to ask him about her.

“Cream and sugar?”

“No, thanks.” She made a move as though to join him on the food line, but he waved a hand toward an empty chair.

“Don't bother. I'll be right back. You keep an eye on the table.” He smiled and then she felt something gentle wash over her. He looked like a kind man, and a moment later he returned with a tray bearing two steaming cups, two glasses of orange juice, and some toast. “I wasn't sure if you'd had breakfast.” There was something so basically decent and thoughtful about him. She found herself instantly liking him.

“Thank you.” She smiled at him and then couldn't hold back any longer. “How's Pattie Lou?”

“She settled in nicely last night. She's a courageous little kid. She didn't even need her mother to stay with her.” But Mel somehow suspected that had to do with the comforting welcome she got from Peter Hallam and his team, and she was right on that score. His patient's mental well-being was of major importance to him, which was extremely rare for a surgeon. He had spent several hours with Pattie Lou after she arrived, getting to know her, as a person, not just an accumulation of data. With Sally gone, Peter had no other major crisis to attend to and now he wasn't thinking of Sally, only Pattie.

“How do her chances look, Doctor?” Mel was anxious to hear what he thought, and hopeful that the prognosis would be good.

“I'd like to say good, but they aren't. I think fair is a more accurate assessment of the situation.” Mel nodded somberly and took a sip of coffee.

“Will you do a transplant on her?”

“If we get a donor, which isn't very likely. Donors for children are very rare, Miss Adams. I think my first thought was the right one. Repairing her own heart as best we can and maybe putting in a pig valve to replace a badly damaged valve.”

“A pig's valve?” The thought unnerved her a little.

He nodded. “I think so, that or sheep.” The use of an animal valve had long since been common, at least to Peter.

“When?”

He sighed and narrowed his eyes, thinking about it as she watched him. “We'll run a battery of tests on her today, and we might do the surgery tomorrow.”

“Is she strong enough to survive it?”

“I think so.” Their eyes met and held for a long moment. There were no guarantees in this business. There were never sure wins, only sure losses. It was a tough thing to live with, day by day, and she admired what he was doing. She felt a strong urge to tell him that, but somehow it seemed too personal a statement to make, so she didn't, and kept the conversation to Pattie Lou and the story. After a while, he looked searchingly at Mel. She was so interested, so human. She was more than just a reporter. “What's your interest in all this, Miss Adams? Just another story or something more?”

“She's a special little girl, Doctor. It's difficult not to care about her.”

“Do you always care that much about your subjects? It must be exhausting.”

“Isn't that true of you? Do you care about them all, Doctor?”

“Almost always.” He was being very honest with her and it was easy to believe him. The patient he didn't care deeply about would be a very, very rare exception. She had already sensed that about him. And then he looked at her with a curious smile; her hands were folded in her lap as she watched him. “You didn't bring a notebook. Does that mean you're taping this?”

“No.” She quietly shook her head and smiled. “I'm not. I'd rather we get to know each other.”

That possibility intrigued him, and he couldn't resist asking another question. “Why?”

“Because I can do a better job of reporting what you do here if I learn something about you. Not on paper, or on tape, but by watching, listening, getting to know you.” She was good at what she did, and he sensed that. It was just that she was well known in the business, a star actually, she was in truth a real pro, and an unusually good one. Peter Hallam liked that. It was like being perfectly matched to your opponent in a competitive sport, and it gave him a feeling of excitement, which suddenly led to an offer he hadn't planned to make her.

“Would you like to follow me on rounds this morning? Just for your own interest.”

Her eyes lit up. She was flattered by the unexpected offer, and hoped that it meant that he liked her, or better yet, was already beginning to trust her. That was important for the smooth flow of any story.

“I'd like that very much, Doctor.” She let her eyes convey to him how touched she was by the offer.

“You could call me Peter.”

“If you call me Mel.” They exchanged a smile.

“Agreed.” He touched her shoulder as he stood, and she leapt up, excited by the prospect of following him on rounds. It was a rare opportunity and she was grateful for it. He turned to her again, this time with a smile, as they left the cafeteria. “My patients will be very impressed to see you here, Mel. I'm sure they've all seen you on T.V.” For some reason, the remark surprised her and she smiled.

“I doubt that.” There was a modesty about her that those who knew her well always teased her for, especially Grant and her daughters.

But this time he laughed at her. “You're hardly an anonymous figure, you know. And heart patients watch the news on TV too.”

“I just always assume that people won't recognize me off camera.”

“But I'll bet they do.” He smiled again and Melanie nodded in answer. It was intriguing to him that she hadn't let her success go to her head over the years. He had expected someone very different.

“In any case, Dr. Hallam,” she went on, “you're the star here, and rightly so.” Her eyes shone with frank admiration, but this time a similarly humble side turned up in him.

“I'm hardly a star, Mel.” He was serious as he said it. “I just work here, as a part of a remarkably good team. Believe me, my patients will be a lot more excited to see you than me, and rightly so. It'll do them good to see a new face.” He pressed the button for the elevator, and when it came, he pressed six, and they entered amidst a group of white-coated doctors and fresh-faced nurses. The shifts were just changing.

“You know, I've always liked your views, and the way you handle a story.” He spoke softly as the elevator stopped at each floor, and Mel noticed two nurses staring discreetly at her. “There's something very direct and honest about your approach. I suppose it's why I agreed to do this.”

“Whatever your reason, I'm glad you did. Pattie Lou needed you desperately.” He nodded, he couldn't disagree with her on that score. But now there was more to it. He had opened himself up to an interview on network news, and as they sat in his cubicle on the sixth floor, a few minutes later, he looked with honesty at Mel and tried to explain to her the risks and dangers of transplants. He warned her that she might even come away from the story with negative feelings about them. It was a possibility he'd thought of before agreeing to the interview, but he was willing to take that risk. There was more to be gained by telling all than by hiding from the press, and if she handled it right, she could warm up public opinion considerably, but she seemed startled by the risks he described and odds he gave.

“Do you mean I could possibly decide that heart transplants aren't a good idea? Is that what you're saying, Peter?”

“You might, although that would be a very foolish view. The fact is that transplant patients are going to die anyway, and quite soon. What we give them is a chance, and sometimes not a very good one at that. The risk is high, most of the time the odds are poor, but there is that chance, and the patient makes up his own mind. Some people just don't want to go through what they'd have to, and they opt not to take the chance. I respect that. But if they let me, I try. It's all anyone can do. I'm not advocating transplant for all patients, that would be mad. But the fact is that for some it's ideal, and right now we will need to open new doors. We can't just operate with human heart donors, we need more than there are, so we're groping for new paths, and it's that process that the public resists. They think we're trying to play God, and we're not, we're trying to save lives, and doing our best, it's as simple as that.” He stood up, as she followed suit, and he looked down at her from his considerable height. “You tell me what you think at the end of today, and tell me if you disagree with the means we pursue. In fact”—he narrowed his eyes as he looked at her—“I'd be particularly interested in what you think. You're an intelligent woman yet relatively uneducated in this field. You come to it with fresh eyes. You tell me if you're shocked, if you're appalled, or if you approve.” And as they left his cubicle, he had another thought. “Tell me something, Mel, have you formed any kind of preconceived opinion at all?” He watched her face intently as they walked and she furrowed her brow.

“Honestly, I'm not entirely sure. Basically, I think that everything you're doing makes sense, of course. But I must admit, the odds you're talking about frighten me. The chances of survival, for any reasonable length of time, are so slim.”

He looked long and hard at her. “What may seem unreasonable to you may be the last straw of hope to a dying woman or man or child. Maybe to them, even two months … two days … two hours longer sounds good. Admittedly, the odds frighten me too. But what choice do we have? Right now, that's the best we've got.” She nodded and followed him into the hall, thinking of Pattie Lou, and she watched him as he began to read through his patients' charts, face intent, brows knit, asking questions, looking at the results of tests. Again and again, Melanie heard the names of the drugs given to heart-transplant patients to allay rejection of the new heart. And she began to make a few notes herself, of questions she wanted to ask him when he had time, about the risks of these drugs, their effects on the patients' personalities and minds.

Suddenly she saw Peter Hallam get up, and begin to walk quickly down the hall. She followed him a few steps, and then stopped, unsure of whether or not he wanted her with him, and as though sensing her indecision, he suddenly turned to her with a wave.

“Come on.” He waved to a stack of white coats on a narrow stainless steel cart and indicated to her to grab one, which she did on the run, and caught up with him as she struggled to put it on. He had his arms full of charts, two residents and a nurse were following respectfully behind. Peter Hallam's day had begun. He smiled once at Mel and pushed open the first door, which revealed an elderly man. He had had a quadruple bypass two weeks before and said that he felt like a boy again. He didn't look much like a boy, he still looked tired and pale and a little wan, but after they left his room, Peter assured her that he was going to be fine, and they moved on to the next room, where suddenly Melanie felt a tug at her heart. She found herself staring down into the face of a little boy. He had a congenital heart and lung disease, and nothing surgical had been done for him yet. He wheezed horribly and was the size of a five- or six-year-old child, but a glance at his chart told Mel that he was ten. They had been contemplating a heart-lung transplant on him, but thus far, there had been so few done that they felt it was too soon to attempt it on such a young child, and intermediary measures were being taken to keep him alive. Melanie watched as Peter sat down in a chair next to his bed and talked at great length to him. More than once, Melanie had to fight back tears, and she turned so the boy wouldn't see her damp eyes. Peter touched her shoulder again as they left the room, this time in comfort.

They moved on to a man who had been given a plastic heart, which Melanie learned was powered by air. The patient was suffering from a massive infection, which apparently was sometimes a problem. Given the odds and the circumstances surrounding these desperately sick people, everything was a risk or a threat or a problem. Danger lurked everywhere, within their own defeated bodies, even in the air. And infection was greatly to be feared, and almost impossible to avoid, in their weakened condition. And then there was another patient, obviously comatose, and after speaking briefly to the nurse, Peter didn't linger long in the room. There were two moon-faced men who had undergone heart transplants within the year, and Melanie already knew from the material she'd read that often the steroids they took had that side effect, but eventually it would be controlled. Suddenly these people came alive to her. And what was even more real to her now was how poor the odds were. Peter answered some of her questions now, as they sat in his cubicle again. And as she looked at her watch, she was amazed to discover that it was almost noon. They had been doing rounds for four hours, had probably been to twenty rooms.

“The odds?” He looked at her over his coffee cup. “Heart-transplant patients have a sixty-five percent chance of living for one year after the surgery is performed. That's roughly two chances in three that they'll make it for a year.”

“And longer than that?”

He sighed. He hated these statistics. They were what he fought every day. “Well, the longest we can give anyone is about a fifty-fifty chance for five years.”

“And after that?” She was making notes now, appalled by the statistics, and sympathetic to the defiance in his voice.

“That's about it right now. We just can't do better than that.” He said it with regret, and simultaneously they both thought of Pattie Lou, willing her better odds than that. She had a right to so much more. They all did. One almost wanted to ask what was the point except that if it were one's own life, or one's child, wouldn't one take any chance at all, for a day, or a week, or even a year?

“Why do they die so soon?” Mel looked grim.

“Rejection mostly, in whatever form. Either a straight across-the-board rejection, or they get hardening of the arteries, which will lead to a heart attack. A transplant will kind of step things up. And then the other big problem we face is infection, they're more prone to that.”

“And there's nothing you can do?” As though it all depended on him. She was casting him in the role of God, just as some of his patients did. And they both knew it wasn't fair, but it all seemed to be in his hands, even if it was not. In a way, she wanted it to be. It would have been simpler like that. He was a decent man, he'd make things all right … if he could.

“There's nothing we can do right now. Although some of the new drugs may change that. We've been using some new ones lately, and that may help. The thing you have to remember”—he spoke gently to her, almost as though she were a child—“is that these people would have no chance at all without a new heart. So whatever they get is a gift. They understand that. They'll try anything, if they want to live.”

“What does that mean?”

“Some don't. They just don't want to go through all this.” He waved at the charts and leaned back in his chair, holding his coffee cup. “It takes a lot of guts, you know.” But she realized something else now. It took a lot of guts for him too. He was a matador of sorts, going into the ring with a bull named Death, trying to steal men and women and children from him. She wondered how often he'd been gored by dashed hopes, by patients who had died whom he cared about. Somehow one sensed about him that he was a man who really cared. As though he heard her thoughts, his voice suddenly grew soft. “My wife decided not to take the chance. “He lowered his eyes as Mel watched, feeling suddenly rooted to her chair. What had he said? His wife? And then he looked up, sensing her shock, and his eyes looked straight into Mel's. They weren't damp, but she saw a grief there that explained something to her about him. “She had primary pulmonary hypertension, I don't know if that means anything to you or not. It damages the lungs, and eventually the heart, and it requires a heart-lung transplant, but at the time there had only been two done anywhere in the world, and neither of them here. I wouldn't have done it myself of course”—he sighed and leaned forward again in his chair—“she would have been operated on by one of my colleagues and the rest of the team, or we could have taken her to any of the great men around the world, and she very quietly said no. She wanted to die as she was, and not put herself, or me, or the children through the agonies she knew my patients go through, only to die anyway in six months, or a year, or two years. She faced it all with terrifying calm”—and now Mel saw that his eyes were damp—“I've never known anyone like her. She was perfectly calm about it, right up until the end.” His voice cracked and then he went on, “It was a year and a half ago. She was forty-two.”

He looked deep into Mel's eyes then, unafraid of what he felt, and the silence was deafening in the tiny room. “Maybe we could have changed all that. But not for long.” He sounded more professional now. “I've done two heart-lungs myself in the last year. For obvious reasons, I have particularly strong feelings about that. There's no reason why it can't work, and it will.” It was too late for his wife. But in his heart he would never give up the fight, as though he could still convince her to let him try. Mel watched him with a pain in her soul for what he'd been through, and the helplessness he felt which still showed in his eyes.

Her voice was very soft when she spoke. “How many children do you have?”

“Three. Mark is seventeen, Pam will be fourteen in June, and Matthew is six.” Peter Hallam smiled then as he thought of his children and looked at Mel. “They're all great kids, but Matthew is the funniest little kid.” And then he sighed and stood up. “It's been hardest on him, but it's hard on all of them. Pam is at an age when she really needs Anne, and I can only give her so much. I try to get home early every day, but some crisis or other always comes up. It's damn hard to give them everything they need when you're alone.”

“I know.” She spoke softly. “I have that problem too.”

He turned and watched Mel's eyes, seeming not to have heard what she said. “She could at least have given us a chance.”

Mel's voice was soft. “And she'd most likely still be gone now. It must be very hard to accept.”

He nodded slowly, looking sorrowfully at Mel “It is,” and then as though suddenly shocked at all he had said he picked the charts up in his arms, as though to put something between them again. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I told you all that.” But Melanie wasn't surprised, people often opened their hearts to her, it had just happened a little more quickly this time. He tried to brush it off with a smile. “Why don't we go down the hall and visit Pattie now.” Mel nodded, still deeply moved by all he'd said. It was difficult to find the right words to say to him now. and it was almost a relief to see the child she'd brought out from New York. Pattie Lou was obviously thrilled to see both of them, and it reminded Mel of why she was there. They spent a comfortable half hour chatting with the child and as Peter read the results of her tests, he seemed pleased. He turned to her at last with a fatherly look in his eyes.

“Tomorrow is our big day, you know.”

“It is?” Her eyes grew wide, she seemed at the same time both excited and unsure.

“We're going to work on your old heart, Pattie, and make it as good as new.”

“Can I play baseball then?” Mel and Peter both smiled at the request.

“Is that what you want to do?”

“Yes, sir!” She beamed.

“We'll see.” He explained the procedures of the following day to her, carefully, in terms she could understand, and although she seemed apprehensive, she was obviously not desperately afraid. And it was easy to see that she already liked Peter Hal lam. And she was sorry when they both left her room. Peter glanced at his watch, as they left. It was after one thirty.

“How about some lunch? You must be starved.”

“Getting there,” she smiled. “But I've been too engrossed to think of food.”

He looked pleased. “Me too.” And then he led her outside and it was suddenly a relief to be out in the fresh air. Peter suggested a quick lunch, and Mel agreed, as they strode in the direction of his car.

“Do you always work this hard?” she asked him and he looked amused.

“Most of the time. You don't get much time off from something like this. You can't afford to turn your back on it even for a day.”

“What about your team? Can't you share the responsibility of all this?” Otherwise the burden would be too much to bear.

“Of course we do.” But something about the way he said it made her doubt his words. One had the feeling that he took most of the responsibility on himself, and that he liked it like that.

“How do your children feel about your work?”

He seemed to think for a moment before he spoke. “You know, I'm really not sure. Mark wants to go into law and Pam changes her thoughts on the subject every day, especially now, and of course Matthew is too little to have any idea what he wants to be when he grows up, other than being a plumber, which he decided last year.” And then Peter Hallam laughed.” I suppose that's what I am, isn't it?” He grinned at Mel.” A plumber.” They both laughed in the warm spring air. The sun shone down on them both, and Melanie noticed that he looked younger here. Suddenly, she could almost imagine him with his children.

“Where shall we go to lunch?” He smiled down at her from his great height, obviously comfortable in his kingdom, but it wasn't just that. There was something more. There was a new bond of friendship between them now. He had bared his soul to her, and told her about Anne. And as a result, he felt suddenly freer than he had in a long time. He almost wanted to celebrate the lightness he felt in his heart, and Mel sensed his mood as she smiled at him. It was remarkable to think that he dealt in life and death, and she had come to Los Angeles to deliver a desperately sick child to him. And yet, in the midst of it all, they were still alive, still young, and slowly coming to be friends. And not so slowly at that. Something about him reminded her of the instant openness she had felt when she met Grant, and yet she realized that she felt something more for this man. He was potentially enormously attractive to her, his strength, his gentleness, his vulnerability, his openness, his modesty combined with his enormous success. He was an unusual man, and as he watched her, Peter Hallam was thinking many of the same things about her. He was glad he asked her out to lunch. They had earned the break. They were both people who worked hard and paid their dues, and it didn't seem out of place to take a little time together now. Mel told herself that it would help the interview.

“Do you know L.A. well?” he asked.

“Not very. I always come here to work and dash from one place to the next until I leave. I never have much time for relaxed meals.” He smiled, neither did he, but today it felt right. He also felt as though he had made a new friend. And she smiled up at him now. “I suspect you don't usually go out to lunch, do you?”

He grinned. “Once in a while. Usually, I eat here.” He waved at the hospital behind them, and stopped at his car. It was a large, roomy silver-gray Mercedes sedan, which surprised her, The car didn't really look like him, and he read her thoughts.

“I gave this to Anne two years ago.” He said it quietly, but there was less pain in his voice this time. “Most of the time, I drive my own car, a little BMW, but it's in the shop. And I leave the station wagon at home for my housekeeper and Mark to drive.”

“Do you have someone good with your kids?” They were just two people now as they drove in the direction of Wilshire Boulevard.

“Fabulous.” He looked over at Mel briefly with a smile as he drove. “I'd really be lost without her. She's a German woman we've had since Pam was born. Anne took care of Mark herself, but when Pam was born she was already having cardiac problems and we hired this woman to take care of the baby. She was to stay for six months”—he smiled at Mel again—“and that was fourteen years ago. She's a godsend for us now”—he hesitated only slightly—“with Anne gone.” He was getting used to words like that now.

And Mel was quick to pick up the conversational ball and keep it rolling. “I have a wonderful Central American woman to help me with my girls.”

“How old are they?”

“Almost sixteen. In July.”

“Both of them?” He looked surprised and this time Mel laughed.

“Yes. They're twins.”

“Identical?” He smiled at the idea.

“No, fraternal. One is a svelte redhead, who people say looks like me, but I'm not sure she does. And the other one I know doesn't look like me at all, she's a voluptuous blonde who gives me heart failure every time she goes out.” She smiled and Peter laughed.

“I've come to the conclusion, in the last two years, that it's easier to have sons.” His smile faded as he thought of Pam. “My daughter was twelve and a half when Anne died. I think that the loss compounded with the onset of puberty has been almost too much for her.” He sighed. “I don't suppose adolescence is easy for any child, but Mark was so easy at her age. Of course he had us both.”

“That makes a difference, I guess.” There was a long pause as he searched her eyes.

“You're alone with the twins?” She had said something about that, hadn't she?

Mel nodded now. “I've been alone with them since they were born.”

“Their father died?” He looked as though he hurt for her. He was that kind of man.

“No.” Mel's voice was calm. “He walked out on me. He said he never wanted kids, and that's exactly what he meant. As soon as I told him I was pregnant, that was it. He never even saw the twins.”

Peter Hallam looked shocked. He couldn't imagine anyone doing a thing like that. “How awful for you, Mel. And you must have been very young.”

She nodded with a small smile. It didn't really hurt anymore. It was all a dim memory now. A simple fact of her life. “I was nineteen.”

“My God, how did you manage alone? Did your parents help you out?”

“For a while. I dropped out of Columbia when the girls were born, and eventually I got a job, a whole bunch of jobs”—she smiled—“and eventually I wound up as a receptionist for a television network in New York, and a typist in the newsroom after that, and the rest is history, I guess.” She looked back on it now with ease, but he sensed what a grueling climb it had been, and the beauty of it was that it hadn't burned her out. She wasn't bitter or hard, she was quietly realistic about the past, and she had made it in the end. She was at the top of the heap, and she didn't resent the climb.

“You make it sound awfully simple now, but it must have been a nightmare at times.”

“I guess it was.” She sighed, and watched the city slide by. “It's actually hard to remember it now. It's funny, when you're going through it, there are times when you think you won't survive, but somehow you do, and looking back it never seems quite so hard.” He wondered, as he listened, if one day he would feel that way about losing Anne, but he doubted that now.

“You know, one of the hardest things for me, Mel, is knowing that I'll never be both a mother and father to my kids. And they need both, especially Pam.”

“You can't expect that much of yourself. You're only you, and you give the best you have to give. More than that you can't do.”

“I guess not.” But he didn't sound convinced. And he glanced over at her again. “You've never thought of remarrying for the sake of the girls?” It was different for her, he told himself, she didn't have the memory of someone she had loved to overcome, or perhaps she had loved him but there was anger she could hang on to and in that way she was far freer than he, and for her, also, it had been a much longer time.

“I don't think marriage is for me. And I think the girls understand that now. They used to bug me about it a lot, when they were younger. And yeah, there were times when I felt guilty too. But we were better off alone than with the wrong man, and the funny thing is”—she smiled sheepishly at him—“sometimes I even think I like it better like this. I'm not sure how I'd adjust to someone sharing the girls with me now. Maybe that's an awful thing to admit, but sometimes that's what I feel. I've gotten very possessive about them I guess.”

“That's understandable if you've been alone with them for all this time.”

He sat back against his seat and looked at her.

“Maybe. Jessica and Val are the best things in my life. They're a couple of terrific kids.” She was all mother hen as they exchanged a smile and he got out of the car to open her door. She slid off the seat and looked up at him with a smile. They were in posh Beverly Hills, only two blocks from the illustrious Rodeo Drive. And Melanie looked around. The Bistro Gardens was a beautiful restaurant that seemed to combine art deco and a riot of plants leading to the patio outside, and everywhere she looked there were the chic and the rich and the fashionably dressed. Lunch was still in full swing. She saw faces she knew at several tables, movie stars, an aging television queen, a literary giant who made the best-seller lists every time, and then suddenly as she looked around, she noticed that people were looking at her, she saw two women whisper something to a third, and when the headwaiter approached Peter with a smile, his eyes took in Melanie too.

“Hello, Doctor. Hello, Miss Adams, it's nice to see you again.” She couldn't remember ever seeing him before, but it was obvious that he knew who she was and wanted her to know. She was amused as she followed him to a table beneath an umbrella outside and Peter looked at her with a questionable glance.

“Do people recognize you all the time?”

“Not always. It depends on where I am. I suppose that in a place like this they do. It's their stock-in-trade.” She glanced at the well-filled tables all around, the Bistro Gardens catered to the moneyed, the chic, the celebrated, the successful, a host of important names. And then she smiled at Peter again. “It's like being around Dr. Hallam at the hospital where everyone was staring at you. It depends on where you are.”

“I suppose.” But he had never noticed people staring at him. He could see a number of people watching Melanie now, and she handled it very well. She didn't seem aware of the curious stares at all.

“This is a wonderful place.” She breathed a sigh in the balmy air, and turned so that she would get the sunshine on her face. It really felt like summer here, and one didn't have the feeling of being trapped in the city, which could happen in New York. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sun. “This is just right.” And then she opened them again. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He sat back in his seat with a smile. “I didn't think the cafeteria was quite your style.”

“It could be, you know. Most of the time, it is. But that's what makes something like this such a treat. When I'm working I don't have much time to eat, or to bother with the niceties of a delightful place like this.”

“Neither do I.”

They exchanged a grin, and Melanie raised an eyebrow with a smile. “Do you suppose we both work too hard, Doctor?”

“I suspect we do. But I also suspect we both love what we do. That helps.”

“It sure does.” She looked peaceful as she looked at him, and he felt more comfortable than he had in almost two years.

As she watched him, she realized again that she admired his style. “Will you go back to the hospital again today?”

“Of course. I want to do some more tests on Pattie Lou.” Mel frowned at his words, thinking of the child.

“Is it going to be rough for her?”

“We'll make it as easy as we can. Surgery is really her only chance.”

“And you're still going to take her heart out and repair it and put it back?”

“I think so. We haven't had any suitable donors for her in weeks, we may not in months. There are few enough donors for the adults, who it's easier to find matches for. On the average we do twenty-five to thirty transplants a year. As you saw from our rounds today, most of what we do is bypass surgery. The rest is very special work and we don't do very much of it, although of course that's all you hear about in the press.”

“Peter.” She looked puzzled and took a sip of the white wine the waiter had brought. She found that she was growing fascinated by his work, and regardless of the story she was here to do, she wanted to learn more. “Why are you using a pig valve?”

“We don't need blood thinners with animal valves. And in her case, that's a real plus. We use animal valves all the time, and they don't reject.”

“Could you use the whole animal heart?” He was quick to shake his head.

“Not a chance. It would reject instantly. The human body is a strange and beautiful thing.”

She nodded, thinking of the little black girl. “I hope you can fix her up.”

“So do I. We've got three others waiting for donors right now too.”

“How do you determine which one gets the first chance?”

“Whoever is the best match. We try to come within thirty pounds from donor to recipient. You can't put the heart of a ninety-pound girl into a two-hundred-pound man, or vice versa. In the first case, it wouldn't support the man's weight, and in the second, it wouldn't fit.”

She shook her head, more than a little in awe at what he did. “It's an amazing thing you do, my friend.”

“It still amazes me too. Not so much my part in it, but the miracle and mechanics of it all. I love my work, I guess that helps.” She looked carefully at him for a moment, and then glanced around the glamorous crowd at the restaurant and back at him. He was wearing a navy blue linen blazer over his light blue shirt, and she decided he had a casual but distinguished air.

“It feels good to like what you do, doesn't it?” He smiled at her words. Obviously her own work made her feel that way. And then Melanie suddenly found herself thinking about Anne.

“Did your wife work?”

“No.” He shook his head, remembering back to the constant support she'd given him. She was a very different breed of woman from Mel, but he had needed her to be that way at the time.

“No, she didn't. She stayed home and took care of the kids. It made it even harder on them when she died.” But he was curious about Mel now.

“Do you think your daughters resent your work, Mel?"”

“I hope not.” She tried to be honest with him. “Maybe once in a while, but I think they like what I do.” She grinned and looked like a young girl. “It probably impresses their friends, and they like that.” He smiled too. It even impressed him.

“Wait till my kids hear I had lunch with you.” They both laughed and he paid for their lunch when the check came. They stood up regretfully, sorry to leave, and to end the comfortable exchange. She stretched as they got in the car.

“I feel so lazy.” She smiled happily at him. “It feels like summer here.” It was only May, but she would have enjoyed lounging at the pool.

And as he started the car, his own mind drifted ahead. “We're going to Aspen, as usual this year. What do you do in the summer, Mel?”

“We go to Martha's Vineyard every year.”

“What's that like?”

She squinted her eyes, with her chin in her hand. “It's a little bit like being a little kid, or playing Huckleberry Finn. You run around in shorts and bare feet all day, the kids hang out at the beach, and the houses look like the kind of place where you'd visit your grandmother, or a great-aunt. I love it because I don't have to impress anyone while I'm there. I don't have to dress up, or see anyone if I don't want to, I can just lie around and hang out. We go there for two months every year.”

“Can you leave your work for that long?” He seemed surprised.

“It's in my contract now. It used to be one month, but for the last three years it's been two.”

“Not bad. Maybe that's what I need.”

“Two months at Martha's Vineyard?” She looked enchanted at the idea. “You would adore it, Peter! It's an absolutely wonderful, magical place.”

He smiled at the look on her face, and suddenly noticed the texture of her hair. It shone like satin in the sun and he suddenly wondered to himself how it felt to the touch. “I meant a contract for my work.” He tried to pull his mind and his eyes away from her shimmering copper hair. And her eyes were of a green he had never seen before, almost emerald with gold flecks. She was a beautiful woman, and he felt something deep within him stir. He drove her back to the hospital then, and tried to keep the conversation centered on Pattie Lou. They had come close enough in the past few hours, almost too close, and it worried him. He was beginning to feel as though he had betrayed Anne by what he felt for Mel. And as they walked back into the hospital, Mel wondered why he was suddenly cool.

CHAPTER 5

The next morning, Mel left her hotel at exactly six thirty, and drove to Center City, where she found Pattie Lou's mother seated in a vinyl chair in the corridor outside her daughter's room. She was tense and silent, as Mel slipped quietly into the seat beside her. The surgery was scheduled for seven thirty.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee, Pearl?”

“No, thanks.” The soft-spoken woman smiled at Mel, and she looked as though she had the weight of the world on her frail shoulders. “I want to thank you for everything you've done for us, Mel. We wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you.”

“That's not my doing, that's the network.”

“I'm not so sure of that.” Her eyes met Mel's. “From what I know, you called Peter Hallam for us, and you got us out here.”

“I just hope he can help her, Pearl.”

“So do I.” The black woman's eyes filled with tears, and she turned away, as Mel gently touched her shoulder.

“Is there anything I can do?” Pearl Jones only shook her head in answer, and dried her eyes. She had already seen Pattie Lou that morning, and now they were prepping her for surgery. It was only ten minutes later when Peter Hallam came down the hall, looking businesslike and wide awake despite the early hour.

“Good morning, Mrs. Jones, Mel.” He said nothing more, but disappeared inside Pattie Lou's room. A moment later they heard a soft wail from within and Pearl Jones stiffened visibly in her chair, and spoke almost to herself.

“They said I couldn't go in there while they prep her.” Her hands were shaking and she began to twist a hankie, as Mel firmly took one of Pearl's hands in hers,

“She's going to be fine, Pearl. Just hang in there.” Just as she said the words, the nurses wheeled the child out on a gurney, with Peter Hallam walking beside her. They had already begun the intravenous, and inserted the ominouslooking naso-gastric tube. Pearl steeled herself as she walked quickly to her daughter's side and bent to kiss her. Her eyes were bright with tears, but she spoke in a strong, calm voice to her daughter.

“I love you, baby. I'll see you in a little while.” Peter Hallam smiled at them both and patted Pearl's shoulder, glancing quickly at Mel. For an instant, something rapid and electric passed between them, and then he turned his full attention back to Pattie. She was faintly groggy from a shot they had just given her, and she looked wanly at Peter, Mel, and her mother. Hallam signaled to the nurses, and the gurney began to roll slowly down the hall, with Peter holding Pattie's hand, and Mel and Pearl walking just behind him. A moment later she was wheeled into the elevator to the surgery on the floor above, and Pearl stood staring blankly at the doors, and then turned to Mel, her shoulders shaking. “Oh, my God.” And then the two women clung to each other for a long moment, and returned to their seats to wait for the news of Pattie.

It was a seemingly endless morning, with silence, spurts of conversation, countless cardboard cups of black coffee, long walks down the corridor, and waiting, waiting … endless waiting … until finally Peter Hallam reappeared, and as Mel held her breath, she searched his eyes, as the woman beside her froze in her seat, waiting for the news. But he was smiling as he came toward them, and as he reached Pattie Lou's mother, he beamed.

“The operation went beautifully, Mrs. Jones. And Pattie Lou is doing just fine.” She began to tremble again, and suddenly slipped into his arms as she burst into tears.

“Oh my God … my baby … my God …”

“It really went very well.”

“You don't think she'll reject the valve you put in?” She looked worriedly up at him.

Peter Hallam smiled. “Valves don't reject, Mrs. Jones, and the repair work on her heart went just beautifully. It's too soon to be absolutely sure of course, but right now everything looks very good.” Mel's knees felt weak as she watched them both, and she fell limply into a chair. They had waited for four and a half hours, which had seemed the longest in her life. She had really come to care about the little girl. She smiled up at Peter then, and he met her eyes. He seemed ebullient and jubilant as he took a seat beside her.

“I wish you could have watched.”

“So do I.” But he had forbidden her to, and he had been adamant about not wanting a camera crew there.

“Maybe another time, Mel.” He was slowly opening all his private doors to her. “What about doing our interview this afternoon?” He had promised to do it after surgery on Pattie Lou, but he hadn't said how soon.

“I'll line up the crew.” And then she looked suddenly concerned. “But are you sure that's not too much for you?”

He grinned. “Hell, no.” He looked like a boy who had just won a football game. It made up for all the other times. And Mel just hoped that Pattie Lou didn't begin to fail and dash all their hopes again. Her mother had just gone to call her husband in New York, and Mel and Peter were left alone. “Mel, it really went very well.”

“I'm so glad.”

“So am I.” He glanced at his watch then. “I'd better do rounds, then I'll call my office, but I could be free for you by three. How would that be for an interview?”

“I'll see how fast the camera crew can be here.” They had been waiting in the wings for two days, and she was pretty sure it could all be arranged. “I don't think it'll be a problem though. Where do you want to do it?”

He thought for a minute. “My office?”

“That sounds fine. They'll probably come at two and start to set up.”

“How long do you think it'll take?”

“As long as you can spare. Does two hours sound like too much?”

“That's fine.”

She thought of something else then. “What about Pattie Lou? Any chance we can get a few minutes on her today?”

He frowned and then shook his head. “I don't think so, Mel. Maybe a couple of minutes tomorrow though, if she does as well as I think she will. The crew will have to wear sterile gowns, and it'll have to be short.”

“That's fine.” Mel jotted down a few quick notes on a pad she always kept in her bag. She would get an interview with Pearl Jones that afternoon, then Peter, then Pattie Lou the following morning, and the camera crew could shoot some more general footage the following day, and that would wrap it up. She could catch the “red-eye” flight to New York the following night. End of story. And maybe in a month or so, they could do a more lengthy interview with Pattie Lou, as a follow-up, about how she had felt, how she was doing by then. It was premature to think of that. The crux of the story could be done now, and it was going to be powerful stuff to show on the evening news. She looked up at Peter then. “I'd like to do a special on you one day.”

He smiled benevolently, still basking in their success with the child. “Maybe one day that could be arranged. I've never much gone for that kind of thing.”

“I think it's important for people to know what transplants and heart surgery are all about.”

“So do I. But it has to be done in the right way, at the right time.” She nodded her agreement and he patted her hand as he stood up. “See you in my office around two, Mel.”

“We won't bother you until three. Just tell your secretary where you want us to set up, and we will.”

“Fine.” He hurried to the nurses' station then, picked up some charts, and a moment later he disappeared, and Mel sat alone in the hall, thinking back on the long wait they'd all been through and feeling relief sweep over her. She made her way to a bank of pay phones then, and waved at Pearl, crying and laughing in an adjoining booth.

She got the camera crew set up for an interview with Pearl at one o'clock. They could do it in a corner of the hospital lobby, so she wouldn't have to be far from Pattie Lou. Mel looked at her watch, and mentally worked it all out. At two o'clock they would go over to the complex where Peter's offices were, and set up for the interview with him. She didn't expect any problem with the interviews, and she began to think about going home to the twins the following night. It had been a good story, and she would have only been gone for three days, though it felt more like three weeks.

She went downstairs to wait for the crew. They arrived promptly and interviewed a deeply grateful and highly emotional Pearl Jones. The interview went very well, sketched out beforehand by Mel as she gobbled a sandwich and gulped a cup of tea. And at two o'clock they moved on, and were ready for Peter promptly at three. The office where he sat for the interview was lined with medical books on two walls, and paneled in a warm rose-colored wood. He sat behind a massive desk, and spoke earnestly to Mel about the pitfalls of what he did, the dangers, the realistic fears, and the hope they were offering people as well. He was candid about both the risks and the odds, but since the people they did transplants on had no other hope anyway, the risks almost always seemed worthwhile, and the odds were better than none at all.

“And what about the people who choose not to take that chance?” She spoke in a soft voice, hoping that the question wasn't too personal and wouldn't cause him too much pain.

He spoke softly too. “They die.” There was a moment's pause and he went back to talking specifically about Pattie Lou. He drew diagrams to explain what had been done, and he seemed very much in command as he described the surgery to both the camera and Mel.

It was five o'clock when they finally stopped, and Peter seemed relieved. It had been a long day for him, and he was tired by the two-hour interview.

“You do that very well, my friend.” She liked the term he used, and she smiled as the cameraman turned off the lights. They were pleased with what they'd gotten too. He presented well, and Mel instinctively knew that they had gotten exactly what she needed for the extended piece for the news. It was to be done as a fifteen-minute special report, and she was excited now about seeing what they'd gotten on tape. Peter Hallam had been both eloquent and remarkably at ease.

“I'd say you're pretty good at that stuff too. You handled it very well.”

“I was afraid I'd get too technical or too involved.” He knit his brows and she shook her head.

“It was just right.” As had been, in its own way, the interview with Pearl. She had cried and laughed, and then soberly explained what the child's life had been like for the past nine years. But if the surgery was as successful as he thought it would be, Peter's prognosis for her was very good. And viewers' hearts would undeniably go out to her as Mel's had, and Peter's too. Sick children were impossible to resist anyway, and Pattie Lou had a magical kind of light to her, perhaps because she had been so sick for so long, or maybe that was just the way she was. And over the past nine years, a great deal of love had been lavished on her.

Peter watched Mel as she instructed her crew, and there was frank admiration in his eyes, much as there had been in hers whenever she watched him. But his train of thought was interrupted as one of his nurses came in. She spoke to him in a low voice, and he immediately frowned, just as Mel turned, and she felt her heart sink. She couldn't stop herself from walking toward them and asking if something had happened to Pattie Lou.

But Peter was quick to shake his head. “No, she's fine. One of my associates saw her an hour ago, this is something else. Another transplant case just came in. A red hot. She needs a donor now, and we don't have anything for her.” He was instantly enveloped by the new problem to solve. He glanced quickly at Mel. “I have to go.” And then, on impulse he turned to Mel. “Do you want to come?”

“To see the patient with you?” She was pleased that he would ask, and he was quick to nod.

“Sure. Just don't explain who you are. I can always explain you as visiting medical personnel from a hospital in the East.” He smiled briefly. “Unless they recognize you. I just don't want the family to get upset, or think that I'm exploiting the case.” It was one of the reasons why he had always been gun-shy about publicity.

“Sure. That's fine.” She grabbed her handbag, said a few words to the crew, and hurried out to his car with him. And moments later, they were back at Center City, on the sixth floor, hurrying down the hall to the new patient's room.

As Peter opened the door for Mel, she was startled at what she saw. A remarkably beautiful twenty-nine-year-old girl.

She had pale, pale blond hair and huge sad eyes, the most delicate milky blue-white skin that Melanie had ever seen, and she seemed to take in each one of them as they were introduced, as though she had to remember each face, each pair of eyes. And then she smiled, and suddenly she seemed younger than she was, and Melanie's heart went out to her. What was this lovely girl doing in this terrifying place? She already had a thick bandage on one arm, covering where they had had to cut down to reach her veins to take extensive amounts of blood, and the other arm was black and blue from an intravenous she had received only a few days before. And yet somehow one forgot about all that as one listened to her speak. She had a soft lilting voice, and it was obviously hard to breathe, and yet she seemed happy to see them all, said something funny to Mel when they were introduced, and she bantered easily with Peter as they all stood around. And Melanie suddenly found herself praying for a heart for her. How could all these people be in such desperate need, and what was wrong with the world to strike all these people down, dying slowly with their weak hearts, while others dug ditches, climbed mountains, went dancing, skied? Why had they been so cheated, and while still so young. It didn't seem fair. And yet there was no resentment in the girl's face. Her name was Marie Dupret, and she explained that her parents had been French.

Peter smiled. “It's a beautiful name.” But more than that, she was a beautiful girl.

“Thank you, Dr. Hallam.”

And on those words, Mel noticed that she had a slight Southern drawl, and a moment later Marie mentioned that she had grown up in New Orleans, but she had been in L.A. now for almost five years. “I'd like to go back to N'Orleans someday”—the way she said the words delighted the ear, as she smiled up at Peter again—“after the good doctor here patches me up.” And then she looked searchingly at him as her smile faded and one began to glimpse her worry and pain. “How long do you think that will be?” It was a question no one had an answer to, save God, as they all knew, including Marie.

“We hope soon.” Just the tone of his voice was reassuring, and he went on to reassure her about other things, and to explain to her about what they would be doing to her that day. She didn't seem frightened about the endless tests, but she kept wanting to come back to the big questions again, her enormous blue eyes turned up to him in a pleading way, like a prisoner on death row, seeking a pardon for a crime she did not commit. “You're going to be very busy for the next few days, Marie.” He smiled again and patted her arm. “I'll stop in again to see you tomorrow morning, Marie, and if there's anything else that comes to mind, you can ask me then.” She thanked him, and he and Mel left the room, but once again Melanie was struck with the enormity of each circumstance, the terrors that each one faced, alone, in the end. She wondered who Marie would have to hold her hand, and she somehow sensed that the young woman was alone in life. If not, wouldn't her husband or her family have been there? In other rooms there was evidence of spouses or at least friends, but not here, which was why she seemed so much more dependent on Peter than the others had, or perhaps it was because she was new. But as they walked slowly down the hall, somehow Melanie felt as though they were abandoning her. And Mel looked sadly up at Peter as they went downstairs.

“What'll happen to her?”

“We have to find a donor. And soon.” He seemed preoccupied as well as concerned, and then he remembered Mel. “I'm glad you came along.”

“So am I. She seems like a nice girl.” He nodded, to him they all were, the men, the women, the children. And they were all so desperately dependent on him. It would have frightened him if he had dwelled on it too much. But he seldom did. He just did what he could for them. Although sometimes there was damn little he could do. Mel had wondered for days how he bore the burden of it. With so many lives with so little hope in his hands, and yet there was nothing dismal about the man. He seemed almost a vehicle of hope himself, and once again Melanie was aware of how much she admired him.

“It's been quite a day, hasn't it, Mel?” He smiled at her as they walked outside, still side by side.

“I don't know how you do this every day. I'd be dead in two years. No”—she smiled up at him—“make that two weeks. My God, Peter, the responsibility, the strain. You go from operating room to sickbed to office and back again, and these aren't just people with bunions, each one is a matter of life and death …” She thought of Marie Dupret again.” … like that girl.”

“That's what makes it worthwhile. When you win.” They both thought simultaneously of Pattie Lou, the last report of the day had still been good.

“Yeah, but it's incredibly rough on you. And on top of everything else, you gave me a two-hour interview.”

“I enjoyed that.” He smiled, but his mind was still half engaged with Marie. He had checked the charts, and his colleagues had her well in hand. The main issue was whether or not they would find a donor in time, and there was nothing he could do about that, except pray. Mel found herself thinking of that too.

“Do you think you'll find a donor for Marie?”

“I don't know the answer to that. I hope we do. She doesn't have much time to spare.” None of them did. And that was the worst of it. They sat waiting for someone else to die and give them the gift of life, without which they were doomed.

“I hope so too.” She took a deep breath of the spring air and glanced over at her rented car. “Well”—she stuck out her hand—“I guess that's it for today. For me anyway. I hope you get some rest after a day like this.”

“I always do when I get home to my kids.”

She laughed openly at that. “I don't know how you can say that, if they're anything like mine. Invariably, after an absolutely bitching eighteen-hour day, I crawl home, and Val is torn between two boys she absolutety has to discuss with me, and Jess has a fifty-page science project I have to read that night. They both talk to me at once, and I explode and feel like a total bitch. That's the hard part of being alone, there's no one else to share the load, no matter how tired you are when you get home.”

He smiled. It had a familiar ring. “There's some truth to what you say, Mel. At my house, it's mostly Matt and Pam. Mark is pretty independent by now.”

“How old is he?”

“Almost eighteen.” And then he suddenly had an idea. He looked at Melanie with a small smile as they stood in the parking lot. It was six fifteen. “How about coming home with me now? You could have a quick swim, and eat dinner with us.”

“I couldn't do that.” But she was touched by the thought.

“Why not? It's no fun going back to a hotel room, Mel. Why not come home? We don't eat dinner late, and you could be home by nine o'clock.”

She wasn't sure why, but she was tempted by the idea. “Don't you think your kids would rather have you to themselves?”

“No. I think they'd be very excited to meet you.”

“Don't overestimate that.” But suddenly, the idea really appealed to her. “You're really not too tired?”

“Not at all. Come on, Mel, it would be fun.”

“It would for me.” She smiled. “Shall I follow you in my car?”

“Why not just leave it here.”

“Then you'll have to drive me back. Or I could take a cab.”

“I'll drive you. Then I can have another look at Pattie Lou.”

“Don't you ever stop?” She smiled as she slid into his car, pleased to be going home with him.

“Nope. And neither do you.” He looked as pleased as she as they pulled out of the parking lot and headed for Bel-Air.

Melanie leaned back against the seat with a sigh as they drove through the huge black wrought-iron gates leading into Bel-Air.

“It's so pleasant here.” It was like driving around in the country as the road swooped and turned, giving glimpses of secluded but palatial homes.

“That's why I like it here. I don't know how you can stand New York.”

“The excitement makes it all worthwhile.” She grinned.

“Do you really like it, Mel?”

“I love it. I love my house, my job, the city, my friends. I'm sold on the place, and I really don't think I could live anyplace else.” And as she said the words, she suddenly realized that it wouldn't be so bad after all to go home the next day. New York was where she belonged, however much she liked L. A. and admired him. And when he glanced at her again, he saw that she looked more relaxed, and with that he made one final left turn, into a well-manicured drive, which led to a large, beautiful French-style house, surrounded by neatly trimmed trees and flower beds. It looked like something on a French postcard and Melanie looked around in surprise. It wasn't at all what she'd expected of him. Somehow she had thought he would live in something more rustic, or a ranch house. But this was actually very elegant, she noticed as he stopped the car.

“It's beautiful, Peter.” She looked up at the mansard roof, and waited to see children but there were none in sight.

“You look surprised.” He laughed.

“No.” She blushed. “It just doesn't look like you.”

And then he smiled again. “It wasn't at first. The design was Anne's. We built it just before Matthew was born.”

“It's really a magnificent house, Peter.” It was, and now she was seeing a whole other side of him.

“Well, come on.” He opened his door and looked over his shoulder for one last instant. “Let's go in, I'll introduce you to the kids. They're probably all around the pool with fourteen friends. Brace yourself.” And with that they both stepped out of the car, and Melanie looked around. It was so totally different from her town house in New York, but it was fun to see how he lived. She followed him inside, with only a slight feeling of trepidation about meeting his children, wondering if they too would be terribly different from her twins.

CHAPTER 6

Peter unlocked the front door and stepped into a front hall whose floor was inlaid with black and white marble in a formal French diamond pattern, with crystal sconces on the wall. There was a black marble console table with gold Louis XVI legs and on it was set a magnificent crystal bowl filled with freshly cut flowers that sent a spring fragrance into the air as Melanie looked around. It was somehow so totally different from what she had expected. He seemed so relaxed and so unassuming in his ways, that she had never imagined him in a home furnished in elaborate French antiques. But indeed this was. Not in a vulgar, opulent way, but in an obviously expensive way, and as she glimpsed the living room, she saw that there, too, was more of the same, the fabrics on the delicate fauteuils were mostly cream-colored brocades. The walls were beautifully done in several shades of cream, with the moldings done in lighter shades and the detailing on the ceiling intricately highlighted in beige and white and a soft creamy gray. There was still a look of surprise on her face as she looked around and Peter led her into his study and invited her to sit down. Here, everything was in deep rich reds, with antique English chairs, a long leather couch, and hunting scenes on the walls, all handsomely framed.

“You look so surprised, Mel.” He was amused and she laughed and shook her head.

“No, I just saw you in something very different than this. But it's a magnificent home.”

“Anne went to the Sorbonne for two years, and then stayed on in France for two years after that. I think it made a permanent impression on her taste.” He looked around, as though seeing her again. “But I can't complain. The house is less formal upstairs. I'll give you a tour in a little while.” He sat down at his desk, checked the messages on the pad, spun around to face her, and then clapped a hand to his head. “Damn. I forgot to have you stop at your hotel to pick up a bathing suit.” And then he squinted as he looked at her. “Maybe Pam can help out. Would you like to swim?” It was amazing. They had spent the whole day at the hospital and in the interview, he had operated on Pattie Lou, and suddenly they were talking about taking a swim, as though they'd done nothing else all day. It was mind boggling, and yet somehow everything seemed normal here. Maybe that was the way he survived it all, she thought.

Peter stood up and led the way outside to an enormous stone patio surrounding a large oval pool, and here Mel felt more at home. There were at least a dozen teen-agers and one little boy running around, dripping wet, shrieking at the top of their lungs. Remarkably, she hadn't been aware of the noise before but she was now, and she began to laugh as she watched their antics and the boys showed off, pushing each other in, playing water polo at one end, riding on each others' shoulders and falling in. Several well-endowed young girls watched. Peter stood to one side, getting splashed as he clapped his hands, but no one heard, and suddenly the little boy ran up and threw his arms around Peter's legs, leaving his wet imprint where his arms had been, as Peter looked down at him with a grin.

“Hi, Dad. Come on in.”

“Hi, Matt. Can I change first?”

“Sure.” The two exchanged a warm look that passed only between them. He was an adorable impish-looking child, with fair hair bleached by the sun, and no front teeth.

“I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine.” He turned to Mel, and she approached. The little boy looked just like him, and when he smiled, she saw that he had lost both front teeth. He was the cutest child she had ever seen. “Matthew, this is my friend, Melanie Adams. Mel, this is Matt.” The child frowned and Peter grinned. “Excuse me, Matthew Hallam.”

“How do you do.” He proffered a wet hand, and she formally shook his, remembering briefly when the twins were that age. It had been ten years before, but there were times when it seemed only a moment ago.

“Where's your sister, Matt?” Peter looked around. There seemed to be only Mark's friends around the pool, but he had been unable to catch the attention of his eldest son, who was throwing two girls in at once, and then dunking another friend. They were having a grand time as Mel watched.

“She's in her room.” A look of disgust crossed Matthew's face. “Probably on the phone.”

“On a day like this?” Peter looked surprised. “Has she been inside all day?”

“Pretty much.” He rolled his eyes then, and looked at both his father and Mel. “She's so dumb.” He had a rough time with Pam, as Peter knew. At times they all did, but she was going through a difficult stage, particularly in a family made up entirely—except for her—of men.

“I'll go inside and see what she's up to.” Peter looked down at him. “You be careful out here, please.”

“I'm okay.”

“Where's Mrs. Hahn?”

“She just went inside, but I'm okay, Dad. Honest.” And as though to illustrate the point, he took a running leap into the pool, splashing them both from head to foot, as Melanie jumped back with a burst of laughter, and Peter looked at her apologetically as Matthew surfaced again.

“Matthew, will you please not …” But the little head disappeared beneath the surface of the pool and he swam like a little fish underwater to where the others were, just as Mark caught sight of them and gave a shout and a wave. He had exactly his father's build, his height and grace and long limbs.

“Hi, Dad!” Peter pointed to his youngest son, swimming toward where Mark was, and the older boy gave an understanding nod, and caught the child in his arms as he surfaced and said something to him, sending him toward the edge of the game, to where he wouldn't get hurt. And with that, Peter decided that all was well, and they walked back into the house, as he turned to Mel.

“Are you soaking wet?” She was, but she didn't mind. It was a relief from the seriousness of the earlier part of the day.

“I'll dry off.”

“Sometimes I'm sorry as hell that I put in that pool. Half the neighborhood spends their weekends here.”

“It must be great for the kids.”

He nodded. “It is. But I don't very often get a quiet swim, except when they're in school. I come home for lunch once in a while, when I have time.”

“And when's that?” She was teasing him now. It suddenly felt as though everyone was in a lighthearted mood as he laughed.

“About once a year.”

“That's what I thought.” And then she remembered Matt and the toothless smile. “I think I'm in love with your little boy.”

“He's a good kid.” Peter looked pleased, and then thought of his older boy. “So is Mark. He's so responsible, it's frightening sometimes.”

“I have one like that, too. Jessica, the oldest twin.”

“Which one's that?” Peter looked intrigued. “The one that looks like you?”

“How did you remember that?” Mel was surprised.

“I remember everything, Mel. It's important in my field. A little forgotten detail, a hint, a clue. It helps when you're constantly balancing life against death. I can't afford to forget anything.” It was his first open admission to his extraordinary skill, and Mel watched him with interest again as she followed him into the house, into a large sunny room filled with large white wicker chairs, wicker couches, a stereo, an enormous TV, and ten-foot palms that swept the ceiling with their fronds. It looked like a nice room to hang out in on a sunny day. And here suddenly, Melanie saw half a dozen pictures of Anne scattered around in silver frames, playing tennis, with Peter in a photograph in front of the Louvre, with a tiny baby, and one with all the children in front of the Christmas tree. It was as though all at once everything stopped, and Melanie found herself mesmerized by her face, her blond hair, her big blue eyes. She was an attractive woman, with a long, lanky athletic frame. And in some ways she and Peter looked alike. In the photographs, she seemed like the perfect mate for him. And Melanie realized suddenly that Peter was standing at her side, looking down at one of the photographs, too.

“It's hard to believe she's gone.” His voice was soft.

“It must be.” Melanie wasn't sure what to say. “But in some ways, she lives on. In your heart, in your mind, through the children she left.” They both knew that wasn't the same thing, but it was all that was left of her. That and this house, which was so much to her taste. Melanie looked around the room again. It was an interesting contrast to the formal living room and study that she had seen when she came in. “What do you use this room for, Peter?” Melanie was curious. It was so much a woman's room.

“The kids use it to hang around in, even though it's mostly white, there isn't too much damage they can do in here.” Melanie noticed a wicker desk then, looking out at the pool. “She used to use this a lot. I spend most of my time at home in my den, or upstairs.” And then he gestured toward the hall. “Come on, I'll show you around. We'll see if we can find Pam.”

Upstairs everything was formal and French again. The hall floors were done in a pale beige travertine, with matching console tables at either end, and a beautiful French brass chandelier. And here there was another smaller but equally formal sitting room done in soft blues. There were velvets and silks, and a marble fireplace, and wall sconces and a crystal chandelier, pale blue silk drapes with pale yellow and blue trim, tied back with narrow brass arms that allowed one a view of the pool. Beyond it was a little office done in dusty pinks, but Peter frowned as they passed that room and Melanie instantly sensed that it was unused. Not only that, but that it had been Anne's.

And beyond that was a handsome library done in dark greens, which was obviously Peter's sitting room. There were walls and walls of books, a small mountain of chaos on the desk, and on one wall an oil portrait of Anne, and double French doors leading into their bedroom, which Peter now slept in alone. It was all done in beige silk, with French commodes, a beautiful chaise longue, and the same rich curtains and sconces and another beautiful chandelier. But there was something about the place that made one want to take off one's clothes and dance around, and defy the formality of it all. It was almost too much, no matter how beautiful it was, and the more Melanie saw, the more she felt that it just didn't look like him.

They took another staircase upstairs then, and on this floor everything was brightly colored and fun, and the open doors showed three large, sunny children's rooms. The floor of Matt's was littered with toys, and Mark's half-closed door showed total chaos within, and the third door was ajar and all Mel could see was a huge white canopied bed, and a woman's back as she lay on her side on the floor near the bed. At the sound of their footsteps in the hall, she turned and stood up, whispering something into the phone and then hung up. Melanie was astonished at how tall and grown-up she looked. If this was his middle child, it was difficult to believe that she was not yet fourteen. She was long and lanky and blond, with a shaft of wheat-colored hair like Val's, and big wistful blue eyes. But most of all she looked like the photographs of Anne that Mel had just seen.

“What are you doing inside?” Peter searched her eyes and Mel felt them both grow tense.

“I wanted to call a friend.”

“You could have used the phone at the pool.”

She didn't answer him at first and then she shrugged. “So?”

He ignored the remark and turned to Mel. “I'd like you to meet my daughter, Pam. Pam, this is Melanie Adams, the newswoman from New York I told you about.”

“I know who she is.” Pamela didn't extend a hand at first, but Mel did, and she shook it at last, as her father began to seethe. He never wanted it to be like this between them, and yet it always was. She always did something to get him upset, to be rude to his friends, to make a point of not cooperating when there was no reason for her not to. Why, dammit, why? They were all unhappy that Anne had died, but why did she have to take it out on him? She had for the last year and a half, and she was worse now. He told himself that it was the age, that it was a passing phase, but sometimes he wasn't so sure.

“I was wondering if you could lend Mel a bathing suit, Pam. She left hers at the hotel.”

There was a fraction of a moment of hesitation again. “Sure. I guess I could. She's”—she hesitated on the word, Mel was by no means large, but she wasn't as rail thin as Pam—“she's bigger than me though.” And there was something else too, a look that had passed between them that Pam didn't like. Or more exactly the way her father looked at Mel.

And Mel quickly understood. She smiled gently at the girl. “It's all right if you'd rather not.”

“No, that's okay.” Her eyes searched Melanie's face. “You look different than you do on TV.” There was no smile in the girl's eyes.

“Do I?” She smiled at the slightly uncomfortable but very attractive young girl. She looked nothing like Peter, and there was still an undefined childishness about her face, despite the long legs and full bust, and body that had already outstripped her chronological age. “My daughters always say I look more ‘grown-up’ on TV.”

“Yeah. Sort of. More serious.”

“I think that's what they mean.”

The three of them stood in the pretty white room, as Pam continued to stare at Melanie, as though looking for an answer to something in her face. “How old are your daughters?”

“They'll be sixteen in July.”

“Both of them?” Pam was confused.

“They're twins.” Melanie smiled.

“They are? That's neat! Do they look alike?”

“Not at all. They're fraternal twins.”

“I thought that just meant they were boys.”

Mel smiled again and Pam blushed. “That means they're not identical twins, but it is a confusing term.”

“What are they like?” She was fascinated by Mel's twins.

“Like sixteen-year-old girls.” Mel laughed. “They keep me on my toes. One's a redhead like me, and the other one is a blonde. Their names are Jessica and Valerie, and they love to go out to dances and they have lots of friends.”

“Where do you live?” Peter was watching the exchange intently but he said nothing at all.

“In New York. In a little town house.” She smiled at Peter then. “It's very different than this.” And then she turned back to Pam. “You have a beautiful house, and it must be nice to have a pool.”

“It's okay.” She looked unenthused as she shrugged. “It's either full of my brother's obnoxious friends, or Matthew's peeing in it.” She sounded annoyed and Mel laughed but Peter was not amused.

“Pam! That's not something to say, and it's not true.”

“It is so. The little brat did it an hour ago, as soon as Mrs. Hahn went inside. Right from the edge of the pool too. At least he could do it while he's swimming around.” Mel had to suppress the laughter she felt and Peter blushed.

“I'll say something to Matt.”

“Mark's friends probably do it too.” It was obvious that she didn't enjoy either of the boys, and then she went to hunt for a suit for Mel, and came back with a white one-piece bathing suit she thought might fit. Mel thanked her and looked around again.

“You really have a lovely room, Pam.”

“My mom did it for me just before …” Her words trailed off and there was something desperately sad in her eyes and then she looked at Peter defiantly. “It's the only room in this house that's all mine.” It seemed an odd thing to say and Mel felt for her. She seemed so unhappy and so much at odds with them all. It was as though she couldn't show them her pain, only the anger she felt instead, as though they were all responsible for taking Anne from her.

“It must be a nice room to share with your friends.” Mel found herself thinking of her own girls, and their friends who sat around on the floor of their rooms, listening to records, talking about boys, laughing and giggling and sharing secrets with each other, which they eventually always shared with Mel. They seemed very different from this awkward, hostile girl, with the body of a woman and the mind of a child. It was obviously a very difficult time for her, and Mel could see that Peter had a lot on his hands. No wonder he tried to come home early every day. With a six-year-old child hungering for love, a teen-ager of the older boy's age to watch over, and an adolescent girl as unhappy as this one was, the household needed more than just a housekeeper's care, it needed a father and a mother too. She understood now why Peter felt such a desperate need to be there for them all, and why he felt at times that he was inadequate to the task. Not that he was, but they all needed a great deal from him, and even something more than that, at least this child did. Melanie found herself wanting to reach out to her, to hold her close, to tell her that eventually everything would be all right. And as though sensing Mel's thoughts, Pam suddenly stepped back from her.

“Well, I'll see you downstairs in a while.” It was her invitation to them to leave. And Peter walked slowly to the door.

“Are you coming downstairs, Pam?”

“Yeah.” But she didn't sound too sure.

“I don't think you ought to spend the afternoon in your room.” He sounded firm but she looked as though she were inclined to argue with him, and Melanie didn't envy him his role with her. She wasn't an easy child to deal with, at least not at the present time. “Will you be down soon?”

“Yes!” She looked more belligerent still and Mel and Peter left the room, as she followed him back downstairs to his room and he opened a door across the hall from him, to reveal a pretty blue and white guest room.

“You can change in here, Mel.” He didn't say anything to her about Pam, and when she came out again ten minutes later, he looked more relaxed than he had before, and he led the way back downstairs to the big white wicker garden room. There was a refrigerator concealed there behind white lacquered doors and he took out two cans of beer and handed one to her, as he reached for two glasses from a shelf with one hand and then waved for her to sit down. “We might as well wait a few more minutes for the kids to wear themselves out.” They were already beginning to leave the pool as Melanie looked outside. And she noticed then how good-looking Peter was in his dark blue swimming trunks and a French T-shirt and bare feet. He didn't even look like the same man she had interviewed for the past two days, but rather like someone else. Just an ordinary mortal now, she smiled the thought to herself as he watched her eyes, and then his face sobered as he thought of the child upstairs. “Pam isn't an easy child. She was while her mother was alive. But now she runs the gamut from being intensely possessive of me to hating us all. She thinks nobody understands what she's going through, and most of the time these days she acts as though she's living in an enemy camp.” He sighed with a tired smile as he sipped his beer. “It's hard on the boys at times too.”

“I think she probably just needs a lot of love from all of you, especially you.”

“I know. But she blames everything on us. And well …” He seemed embarrassed to say what was on his mind. “Sometimes she makes herself difficult to love. I understand it, but the boys don't. At least not all the time.” It was the first time that he had admitted to Mel what a problem he had with her.

“She'll come around. Give her time.”

Peter sighed again. “It's been almost two years.” But Melanie didn't dare say what she thought to him. It had been almost two years, and yet all of Anne's photographs were still everywhere in sight, nothing in the place had been touched since Anne died, Mel sensed, and Peter himself acted as though she had only died that week. How could the child be expected to adjust if he himself had not? He was still reproaching himself for what he hadn't been able to convince Anne to do, as though any of it could be changed now. Mel said nothing, as she watched his eyes, and he didn't avert his eyes. “I know. You're right. I'm still hanging on too.”

“Maybe when you close the door to the past, she will too.” Mel spoke in a gentle voice, and without thinking, Peter's eyes drifted to the nearest photograph of Anne, and Mel suddenly asked something she had promised herself not to say. “Why don't you move?”

“From here?” He looked shocked. “Why?”

“To give everyone a fresh start. It might be a relief to all of you.” But he was quick to shake his head.

“I don't think it would. I think it would be more disruptive than helpful, to be in a new house. At least we're all comfortable and happy here.”

“Are you?” Mel didn't look convinced and she knew that he was hanging on, and so was Pam, and she wondered if the others were too, and just as the thought crossed her mind, a stocky woman in a white uniform entered the room, and looked at them both, particularly Mel. She had a face that was well worn by time, and her hands were gnarled from long years of hard work, and yet her eyes were bright and alive and she seemed to take everything in.

“Good afternoon, Doctor.” She seemed to say “doctor” as though she were saying “God,” and Mel smiled. She knew instantly who the woman was, and Peter stood to introduce Mel to her. She was the invaluable housekeeper he had spoken of before, the precious Mrs. Hahn, who shook Mel's hand with an almost brutal shake, her eyes combing the pretty redhead in the borrowed white bathing suit she instantly recognized as Pam's. She knew everything that happened in the house, who came, who went, where they went, and why. She was particularly careful about Pam. There had already been enough trouble with her the year of her mother's death, with that business of scarcely eating a mouthful of food for six months, and then making herself throw up after every meal for months after that. But now at least that problem was in control, and she was much better than she had been. But Hilda Hahn knew that the girl had had a hard time, and she needed a woman's eye on her, which was why Mrs. Hahn was there. She looked Mel over carefully now, and decided that she looked like a nice woman after all. Mrs. Hahn knew who Mel was, and that she was doing a story on the doctor's work, but she had expected Mel to be somewhat arrogant about who she was, and she didn't seem to be. “It's nice to meet you, ma'am.” She was both formal and tight-lipped and did not return Melanie's smile, as Mel almost laughed thinking of the contrast to Raquel. In fact, just about everything was different about their two homes, from their maids to their decor, to their kids, and yet she felt as though she had a great deal in common with him. It was funny how differently they lived. “Would you care for some iced tea?” She looked disapprovingly at their beers, and Mel felt like a wayward child.

“No, thank you very much.” She smiled again, to no avail, and with a curt nod, Hilda Hahn disappeared to her own domain behind the swinging doors that led to the kitchen and breakfast room, pantry, and her small apartment in the rear. She was extremely comfortable here. When Mrs. Hallam had built the house she had promised Hilda her own suite of rooms, and that was what she had now. Mrs. Hallam had been a fine woman, she always said, and would say so again, many times, and did later on in plain hearing of Mel, before she brought the dinner in. And Melanie had noticed Pam's eyes seem to glaze over as Hilda mentioned her mother's name. It was as though they were all still fighting to recuperate and it had been almost two years. One almost wanted to put away the pictures for them, pack them up, and move them to another house. They were all still so devoted to her, as though they were waiting for her to come home, and it made you want to tell them that she never would. They had to get on with their lives, every one of them. The two boys seemed better adjusted to their mother's death. Matthew had been so young when she died that his memories of her were already dim, and he climbed willingly into Mel's lap after they had a swim, and she told him about the twins. Like Pam, he was fascinated by the idea of twins and wanted to know what they looked like. And Mark seemed like a bright easygoing boy of seventeen; there was a look of greater wisdom in his eyes than his years would suggest, and yet he seemed happy as he chatted with both Peter and Mel. He only got annoyed when Pam arrived and complained that his friends were still hanging around the pool. A fight between them seemed imminent until Peter stepped in.

“All right, you two. We have a guest. Several in fact.” He glanced severely at Pam, and then his eyes took in Mark's remaining friends. There were only two boys and one girl left and they were sitting quietly on the concrete nearby chatting and drying their hair. But it was as though Pam resented anyone in her home, except Peter and the boys and Mrs. Hahn, She had solved the problem of Mel by almost totally ignoring her since she'd arrived at the pool, except for furtive, curious glances from time to time, mainly when Peter was talking to Mel. It was as though she wanted to be sure there was nothing special going on, but some instinct deep within told her that danger lurked there.

“Isn't that right, Pam?” Peter had been talking about her school, but she had been intently staring at Mel and hadn't heard what he said.

“Huh?”

“I said that the athletics program there is outstanding, and you won two awards for track last year. And they have access to some fabulous stables too.” Again, it was very different from the school in which she had her girls, which was very much a sophisticated urban school. The life-style in L.A. was much more geared to the outdoors than what they had back East.

“Do you like your school, Pam?” Mel gently spoke to her.

“It's okay. I like my friends.”

At that, Mark rolled his eyes, quick to show that he disapproved, and Pam took the bait at once. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you hang around with a bunch of dumb uptight, anorexic girls.” It was a word that still made her scream.

“I am not anorexic, damn you!” She jumped to her feet, her voice shrill, and Peter began to look tired.

“Stop it, you two!” And then he addressed Mark. “That was unnecessarily cruel.”

Mark nodded, subdued. “I'm sorry.” He knew that the very word was now taboo, but he still wasn't convinced that she was totally cured. She looked unnaturally thin to him, no matter what she and her father said. He looked apologetically at Mel and sauntered off then, to talk to his friends, and Pam went back into the house, followed by Matthew, who was in search of something to eat. For a long moment, Peter sat quietly staring into the pool and then he turned his eyes to Mel.

“Not exactly a peaceful home scene, I guess.” He looked hurt by his children's actions and words, as though he had held himself responsible for all their turmoil and pain. “I'm sorry if it was awkward for you, Mel.”

“Not at all. It isn't always smooth sailing with mine either.” Although she couldn't even remember the last time she'd seen the twins have a fight, but this family still seemed in crisis and Pam seemed like a very unhappy girl.

He sighed and laid his head back against the chair, as he looked out at the pool. “I suppose eventually they'll all settle down. Mark will be going away to college next year.” But the problem was not Mark, as they both knew, it was Pam. And she wasn't going anywhere for a long time. Peter glanced at Mel again then. “Pam took her mother's death the hardest of all.” That much was easy to see, but Peter had taken it harder still, and still was. And what he needed, she sensed, was a woman to replace Anne, and for him to share his burdens with. He needed it as much for him as for the kids. It hurt to think of him so much alone. He was intelligent and attractive, capable and strong, he had a lot to offer anyone. And as she sat there beside him, she smiled to herself, thinking of Raquel and the girls. She could almost hear them ask: “What about you, Mom? … Was he cute? … Why didn't you go out with him? …” He didn't ask. And suddenly she wondered if she would go out with him on a date, if she had the chance. It was funny to think about, as they sat side by side at the pool. He was totally different from the other men she knew. The men she had chosen before were all ineligible in some subtle way. And she had liked it that way. But Peter was different from all of them. He was open and real, and an equal match for her. And more important than that, he appealed to her a great deal. It would actually have frightened her if she weren't leaving the next day.

“What were you thinking just then?” His voice was soft in the late-afternoon sun, and she pulled her thoughts back to him with a smile.

“Nothing much.” There was no reason to tell him about the men in her life, or even what she thought of him. There was nothing personal between them, and yet there was, some intangible presence that she felt when she was near him. It was almost like an illusion that she knew him better than she really did. But there was something very vulnerable about this man, which she liked. Considering who and what he was, he had remained very human, and now that she saw him here at home, she liked him even more.

“You were a million miles away just then.”

“No, not quite that far. I was thinking of some things in New York … my work … the girls …”

“It must be rough having to go away for your work.”

“Sometimes. But they understand. They're used to it by now. And Raquel keeps an eye on them while I'm gone.”

“What's she like?” He was constantly curious about her, and Melanie turned to him with a grin.

“Nothing like Mrs. Hahn. In fact, before I was thinking how totally different our lives are, externally at least.”

“How?”

“Our houses for instance. Yours is much more formal than mine.” She laughed then. “I guess mine is a hen house of sorts. It looks like a woman's house.” She glanced at his home. “Yours is much larger and more formal than mine. And so is Mrs. Hahn. Raquel looks like she has never learned to comb her hair, her uniform is always buttoned wrong, and she talks back all the time. But we love her, and she's wonderful with the girls.” He smiled at her description of Raquel.

“What's your house like?”

“Bright and cheery and small, and just right for me and the girls. I bought it a few years ago, and it scared me to death to take it on at the time, but I've always been glad that I did.” He nodded, thinking of the responsibilities she tackled alone. It was one of the things he admired about her. There was a lot about her he liked. And he was intrigued because she was so different from Anne. And then Melanie smiled at him. “You'll have to come to see me in New York sometime.”

“Someday.” But he instantly found himself wishing that it would be soon, and he wasn't sure why, except that she was the first person in a long time that he had opened up to. And before he could say anything more, Matthew returned with a plate of fresh cookies, and without a second thought, he plonked himself down beside Mel and offered to share the cookies with her. There were crumbs all over his face and his chubby little hands, and he dropped the rest all over himself and her, but she didn't seem to mind. Little boys were a novelty to her. They got into a serious discussion about his school and his best friend, as Peter watched, and then left them to go for a swim, and when he returned, they were still deeply engrossed in their talk, and Matthew had climbed into her lap and was nestled against her, and he seemed totally happy there.

As Peter climbed out of the pool, he stopped at the top of the ladder for a moment and looked at them with a sad smile. The boy needed someone like her, they all did, and for the first time in almost two years he realized how much had been missing from his life. But as the thought crossed his mind, he pushed it from him, and rejoined them with a quick step, grabbing a towel from a table as he approached and drying his hair, as though to chase the new thoughts he'd had from his head. And at that moment Mark's friends left, and he joined Melanie and Matthew, and sat down in Peter's empty chair.

“I hope my friends didn't drive you nuts.” He smiled shyly at her. “They get a little unruly at times.”

She laughed thinking of Val and Jessie's friends, they came near to destroying her house from time to time, and seemed no less unruly than Mark's friend. “They seemed fine to me.”

“Tell my dad that.” Mark smiled appreciatively at her, and tried not to notice how sexy she looked in his sister's bathing suit.

“What's that? Taking my name in vain again?”

Mark looked victoriously at him. He liked his father's new friend, and the girls had been tremendously impressed that Melanie Adams was just “hanging out” at their pool.

“Miss Adams thinks my group's not so bad.”

“She's just being polite. Don't believe a word of it.”

“That's not true. You should see Val and Jessie's friends. They gave a party once, and someone accidentally set fire to a chair.”

“Oh my God.” Peter cringed and Mark smiled. He liked her. She was so easy and open and natural, not like a TV star at all, and if Mel could have heard his thoughts she would have laughed. She never thought of herself that way, as a “TV star,” nor did the twins. “What happened after that?”

“I put the girls on restriction for two months, but I let them off the hook after one.”

“They're lucky you didn't send them to reform school.” Mark and Mel exchanged a conspiratorial grin in the face of Peter's tough stance, and Matthew, indifferent to it all, leaned a little closer to her, so she wouldn't forget him. She gently stroked his hair, and he didn't seem to mind having lost her ear. He knew that in her own way she was still paying attention to him. And at exactly that moment she happened to look up at the house, and saw Pam, standing almost hidden at her bedroom window, looking down at them. Their eyes met and held and then a moment later Pam disappeared. Melanie wondered why she didn't come back to the pool. It was almost as though she wanted to be left out. Or maybe she wanted Peter to herself, and didn't want to share him with her, or the two boys. She wanted to say something about it to Peter, but she didn't want to interfere. Instead the banter between them rambled on, until a slight breeze came up and they all began to feel the chill. It was after six o'clock by then, and Mel looked at her watch, and realized that she'd have to go soon. It was almost dinnertime and Peter had seen her look at her wrist.

“You haven't swum yet, Mel. Why don't you go in for a minute. And then we'll eat. Mrs. Hahn will go berserk if we're late.” It all seemed so mechanized, so perfectly run, and without being told, Mel knew it was all the legacy of Anne, who had run her home like a well-oiled machine. It wasn't Mel's style, but it was impressive to see. And it was part of what had kept them all going after she was gone, even though it would probably have done them all good to change now, if they could. But old habits were hard to break, especially for Peter and Mrs. Hahn. A moment later, the children left, and Mel dove neatly into the pool as Peter watched. She was so easy to have around and so good to see. He felt an enormous hunger well up within him again as she glided through the water with expert ease, and at last she returned to the side, her hair wet, her eyes bright, with a happy smile on her face, just for him. “You were right. This was just what I needed.”

“I'm always right. You needed dinner here too.”

She decided to be honest with him. “I hope the children don't mind too much.” She had already seen a great deal in Pam's eyes. More than Peter would have wanted her to see.

“I don't think they quite know what to make of my being here.”

Their eyes met and held and he approached the pool and sat down, unable to stop what he felt, or had to say. “Neither do I.” His eyes dug into her, and he was stunned by his own words, and Mel suddenly looked scared.

“Peter …” She suddenly felt that she should tell him something more about herself, her old scars, her fears of getting too deeply involved with men. And yet they both sensed that there was something strange happening to them.

“I'm sorry. That was a crazy thing to say.”

“I'm not sure it was … but… Peter …” And then, as she looked away from him, searching for her words, she glimpsed Pam at the window again, and an instant later she disappeared. “‘I don't want to intrude into your life.” She forced her eyes back to his.

“Why not?”

She took a deep breath and pulled herself out of the pool and he almost gasped as he saw the long, lean limbs and the white suit. This time he looked away, but he felt a wave of emotion wash over him. Her voice was almost too gentle as she spoke again. “Has there been anyone else since Anne?”

He knew what she meant and shook his head. “No. Not in that sense.”

“Then why upset everyone now?”

“Who's upset?” Peter looked surprised and Mel decided to be blunt.

“Pam.”

And with that Peter sighed. “That has nothing to do with you, Mel. The last couple of years have been hard on her.”

“I understand that. But the reality is that I live three thousand miles away and it's not very likely we'll see each other again for a long time. And what we're doing with the interview about you is exciting for both of us. And funny things happen to people when they go through something like that. It's like being cast adrift on a ship, you grow amazingly close. But tomorrow the interview will be complete and I'm going home.” Her eyes were almost sad as she said the words.

“So what harm will one dinner do?”

She sat pensively beside him for a long time. “I don't know. I just don't want to do anything that doesn't make sense.” She looked into his eyes again and saw that he looked sad too. It was crazy. They liked each other, almost too much, but what was the point?

“I think you're making too much of all this, Mel.” His voice was deep and almost gruff.

“Am I?” Her eyes never wavered from his and this time he smiled.

“No. Maybe I am. I think I like you a lot, Mel.”

“I like you too. There's no harm in that, as long as we don't get carried away.” But suddenly she wished they would. And it was crazy really, sitting there at the side of the pool talking of something that had never been and would never be, and yet there was something there. And Mel couldn't decide if it was illusion created by working so closely side by side for two days or if it was real. There was no way to know, and by the next day she'd be gone. Maybe there was no harm in one dinner after all, and she was expected to stay.

Peter looked down at her again and spoke softly to her. “I'm glad you're here, Mel.” He sounded like Matt, and she smiled.

“So am I.” And for a long moment their eyes met and held and Mel could feel cold chills run up her spine. There was something magical about this man. And he seemed to feel it too. He stood up with a happy smile on his face and held out a hand to her. He looked almost shy, and she smiled and followed him inside, glad that she had decided to stay. She went back to the guest room, and changed her clothes, rinsed out the bathing suit and went upstairs to return it to Pam, her wet hair pulled back into a knot, and her face lightly tanned with only mascara and lipstick on. There weren't many women her age who looked as well with almost no makeup on. And she found Pam sitting in her room, listening to a tape with a dreamy look on her face. She seemed almost startled to see Mel, who knocked on the open door and stepped in.

“Hi, Pam. Thanks for the suit. Shall I put it in your bathroom?”

“Sure … okay … thanks.” She stood up, feeling awkward with Mel, and Mel suddenly felt the same overwhelming urge to take the young girl in her arms, however tall and grown-up she was. Inside, she was still a lonely, unhappy little girl.

“That's a nice tape. Val has that too.”

“Which one is she?” Pam looked intrigued again.

“The blonde.”

“Is she nice?”

Mel laughed. “I hope so. Maybe someday if you come east with your dad, you could meet them both.”

Pam sat down on her bed again. “I'd like to go to New York someday. But we hardly ever get to go away. Dad can't leave his work. There's always someone he has to be around for. Except for a couple of weeks in the summer, when he goes nuts, leaving the hospital, and calls back there every two hours. We go to Aspen.” She looked unimpressed, and Mel watched her eyes. There was something broken there. Everything about her looked as though it needed some pep, some excitement, some joy. But Mel had a feeling that a woman could work wonders for the girl. Someone to love her and take her mother's place. The child was keening for Anne, and no matter how much she would resist someone new, it was what she needed most. That dry stick of a German woman downstairs couldn't give her love, and Peter did his best, but she needed something more.

“Aspen must be nice.” Mel was fighting to open a closed door between herself and the girl. And once or twice she thought she could see a glimmer of hope, but she wasn't sure.

“Yeah, it's okay. I get bored going there though.”

“Where would you rather go instead?”

“The beach … Mexico … Europe … New York … someplace neat.” She smiled hesitantly at Mel. “Someplace where interesting people go, not just nature lovers and people who hike.” She made a face. “Yuck.”

Mel smiled. “We go to Martha's Vineyard every summer. That's the beach. It's not too exciting, but it's nice. Maybe someday you could visit us there.” But at that, Pam looked suspicious again, and before Mel could say anything more, Matthew bounded into the room.

“Get out, squirt!” She leapt quickly to her feet, protecting her domain.

“You're a creep.” Matthew looked more annoyed than hurt, and he looked possessively at Mel. “Dad says dinner's ready and we should all come downstairs.” He stood waiting to accompany her down, and she had no further time alone with Pam, to reassure her that the invitation was just a friendly thought on her part, and not an omen of things to come between her father and herself.

Mark joined them on the stairs and he and Pam gnawed at each other all the way down, as Matthew kept up a running patter with Mel. And Peter was already waiting in the dining room, as Mel saw something haunting cross his face as they entered the room en masse, but he quickly recovered himself. There must have been a familiar look to it all, something he hadn't seen in a long time.

“Were they holding you hostage upstairs? I was afraid of that.”

“No. I was talking to Pam.”

He looked pleased at that, and everyone took their chairs, as Mel hesitated, not quite sure where to sit. Peter quickly pulled out the chair to his right, and Pam looked shocked and half rose from her seat. She sat at the foot of the table, facing Peter, with both boys on one side. “That's….”

“Never mind!” His voice was firm, and Mel knew instantly what he had done. He had put her in his late wife's chair, and she wished that he had not. There was a long, heavy silence in the room, and Mrs. Hahn stared as she came in, as Mel looked at Peter imploringly. “It's all right, Mel.” He looked reassuringly at her, and took the others in with one glance, and the conversation began again. A moment later the dining room was filled with the usual noise, as everyone started with Mrs. Hahn's cold watercress soup.

As it turned out, it was a pleasant meal, and Peter had been right. There was no need to make a major event of it. He and Mel shared coffee in the den when they were through, and the children went upstairs, and Mel didn't see them again until she was ready to leave. Pam rather formally shook her hand, Mel sensed she was relieved to see her go, Marie asked for her autograph, and Matthew threw his arms around her neck and begged her to stay.

“I can't. But I promise I'll send you a postcard from New York.”

Tears filled his eyes. “That's not the same.” He was right, but it was the best she could do. She held him for a long moment and then gently kissed his cheek and stroked his hair.

“Maybe you'll come to see me in New York one day.” But when he looked into her eyes, they both knew that it wasn't likely to happen for a long time if at all, and she felt desperately sorry for him. When she finally left, and they drove away from the house, Matthew kept waving as the car pulled down the block. Mel was almost in tears. “I feel like such a rat leaving him.” She looked at Peter and he was touched by what he saw in her eyes, and he reached out and patted her hand. It was the first time he had actually touched her, and he felt a thrill run through his arm. He quickly withdrew his hand as she looked away. “What a super kid he is … they all are …” Even Pam. She liked them all, and felt for what they'd been through, and Peter too. She sighed softly then. “I'm glad I stayed.”

“So am I. You did us all good. We haven't had a happy meal like that in … years.” And she knew just how many too. They had been living in a tomb, and again she found herself thinking that he should sell the house, but she didn't dare say that to him. Instead she turned to him, thinking of his children again.

“Thank you for inviting me over this afternoon.”

“I'm glad you came.”

“So am I.”

The hospital parking lot came too fast, and they were standing awkwardly outside her car not sure what to say. “Thank you, Peter. I had a wonderful time.” She made a mental note to send flowers the next day, and maybe something special for the children if she had time to shop before she left. She still had to shop for the twins too.

“Thank you, Mel.” He looked into her eyes for a long time and then held out a hand to shake hers. “I'll see you tomorrow then.” She would be briefly shooting Pattie Lou before she left and it would be her last chance to see him. He walked her to her car, and they stood there for another moment before she slid in.

“Thanks again.”

“Good night, Mel.” He smiled and turned to walk into the hospital for a last look at Pattie Lou.

CHAPTER 7

The brief filming of Pattie Lou in intensive care went smoothly the next day. Despite the surgery and the tubes, she already looked infinitely healthier than she had before, and Melanie was amazed. It was almost as though Peter had wrought a miracle cure, and she didn't let herself dwell on how long it would last. Even if it was only for a few years, it was better than a few days. With the living example of Pattie Lou, Peter Hallam had totally won her over.

She saw him in the hall, shortly after she left Pattie Lou. The crew had already left, and she had been about to say good-bye to Pearl. She had to check out of her hotel, and there were a few errands in Beverly Hills she wanted to do, including bringing a little something back for the girls. Mel brought them something from her trips whenever possible. It was kind of a tradition maintained over the years. So now she was going to steal an hour to do a little shopping on Rodeo Drive.

“Hello there.” He looked handsome and fresh, as though he hadn't worked all day. “What are you up to today?”

“Winding up.” She smiled. “I just saw Pattie Lou. She looks great.”

“Yes, she does.” He beamed, a proud rooster. “I saw her this morning too.” In fact he had seen her twice, but he didn't mention that to Mel. Not wanting to make her worry that anything was wrong.

“I was going to call you this afternoon, to thank you for dinner last night. I had a wonderful time.” She carefully sought his eyes, wondering what she would see there.

“The children loved meeting you, Mel.”

“It was nice meeting them.” But she couldn't help wondering if Pam had reacted badly when he returned home again.

She noticed then that he was looking wistfully at her, and she wondered if something was wrong. He seemed to hesitate, and then he spoke up. “Are you in a rush?”

“Not really. My flight isn't until ten o'clock tonight.” She didn't mention her shopping on Rodeo Drive for the girls, it seemed far too frivolous here, amidst the battle for human life. “Why?”

“I wondered if you wanted to stop in and see Marie Dupret again.” She could see that the girl already meant something to him. She was his latest little wounded bird.

“How is she today?” Mel watched his eyes, wondering how any one man could care so much. But he did. It was obvious in everything he did and said.

“About the same. We're getting down to the wire on that donor heart for her.”

“I hope you get one soon.” But again, that seemed a ghoulish thought, as she followed Peter to Marie's room.

The girl seemed paler and weaker than she had the day before, and Peter sat quietly with her and talked, in an almost intimate way, that excluded everyone else in the room save themselves. It was as though there were a special communion between them, and for only a fraction of an instant Mel found herself wondering if he was attracted to her. But his style with her had no sexual overtones, it was just that he seemed to care so much, and one had the feeling that they had known each other for years, which Mel knew wasn't the case. It was a striking case of there being an extraordinary kind of rapport between them. After a little while Marie seemed more peaceful than she had been before, and her eyes reached out to Mel.

“Thank you for coming by to see me again, Miss Adams.” She seemed so weak and pale, one easily sensed that she wouldn't live much longer without the transplant she so desperately needed. She seemed to have worsened since the day before, and Mel felt a tug at her own heart as she walked toward the young woman.

“I'm going back to New York tonight, Marie. But I'll be looking forward to hearing good news about you.”

For a long moment the young woman with the translucent pallor said nothing, and then she smiled almost sadly. “Thank you.” And then, as Peter watched, she let her fears overwhelm her and two tears slid down her cheeks. “I don't know if we'll find a donor in time.”

Peter stepped forward again. “Then you'll just have to hang in there, won't you?” His eyes were so intense in their grasp of the girl that it was almost as though he were willing her to live, and Mel felt as though she could almost touch the magnetic force between them in the room.

“It'll be all right.” Melanie reached out and touched her hand, and was surprised at how cold it was. The girl had practically no circulation, which accounted for the bluish pallor. “I know it will.”

She turned her eyes to Mel then, and seemed almost too weak to move. “Do you?” Melanie nodded, fighting back tears. She had the terrifying feeling that the girl was not going to make it, and she found herself silently praying for her as they left the room, and in the safety of the hall, she turned to Peter with worried eyes.

“Can she hold out until you find a donor?” Mel doubted it now, and even Peter looked unsure. He suddenly seemed exhausted by it all, which was rare for him.

“I hope so. It all depends on how soon we find a donor.” Melanie didn't ask the obvious question, “And if you don't?” because the answer to that was too easily guessed from the condition of the patient. She was the frailest, most delicate girl Melanie had ever seen, and it seemed miraculous that she was still alive at all.

“I hope she makes it.”

Peter looked at her intently, and then nodded. “So do I. Sometimes the emotional factors help. I'll come back and see her again later, and the nurses are keeping a very close watch on her, not just through the monitors. The problem is that she has no family or relatives at all. Sometimes people so alone have less reason to hang on. We have to give them that reason as best we can. But in the end, what happens is not our decision.” Was it hers then? Was it up to this frail girl to will herself to live? It seemed a lot to expect of her, and Melanie was silent as she followed Peter to the nurses' station again, almost dragging her feet. There was no further reason to linger here. Peter had his work to do and she had to move on, no matter how little the project appealed to her. Somehow she wanted to stick around now, to watch Pattie Lou, talk to Pearl, pray for Marie, drop in on the others she'd seen. But the issue was none of them, as she suspected now. It was Peter himself. She really didn't want to leave him. And he seemed to sense that too. He left the nurses and the charts and walked to where she stood.

“I'll take you downstairs, Mel.”

“Thank you.” She didn't decline. She wanted to be alone with him, but she wasn't even sure why. Maybe it was just his style that had gotten to her, the bedside manner, the warmth, yet she knew that it was something more. She was remarkably drawn to the man, but to what end? She lived in New York and he lived in L.A. And if they had lived in the same town? She wasn't even sure of that as he walked her to her car in the parking lot, and she turned to face him again. “Thank you for everything.”

“For what?” He smiled gently down at her.

“For saving Pattie Lou's life.”

“I did that for Pattie Lou, not you.”

“Then for everything else. Your interest, your time, you cooperation, dinner, lunch …” She was suddenly at a loss for words and he looked amused.

“Anything else you want to add? Coffee in the hall?”

“All right, all right …” She smiled at him and he took her hand.

“I should be thanking you, Mel. You did a lot for me. You're the first person I've opened up to in two years. Thank you for that.” And then, before she could respond, “Could I call you in New York sometime, or would that be out of line?”

“Not at all. I'd like that very much.” Her heart pounded in her chest, and she felt like a very young girl.

“I'll call you then. Have a good trip back.” He squeezed her hand once more, and then turned, waved, and was gone. As simple as that. And as she drove toward Rodeo Drive, she couldn't help wondering if she would ever see him again.

CHAPTER 8

While Mel finished her shopping that afternoon, she found that she had to push Peter Hallam from her head again and again. It wasn't right that she should think so much about him. What was he to her after all? An interesting man, the subject of an interview, nothing more, no matter how appealing he was. She tried to fill her mind with thoughts of Val and Jess, and suddenly he would crop up. She was still thinking of him as she threw her suitcase into the back of a cab and headed for the airport at eight o'clock that night, and suddenly in her mind's eye, she saw a crystal-clear vision of Pam, a troubled, brokenhearted, lonely little girl.

“Shit.” She muttered out loud, and the driver glanced at her.

“Something wrong?”

She had to laugh at herself, and shook her head. “Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”

He nodded, nonplussed. He had heard it all before anyway, as long as she gave him a decent tip, that was all he cared about, and she did. That was good enough for him.

Once there, she checked her bag at the curb, she went in and checked in, bought three magazines, and sat down near the gate to wait for her flight. It was already nine o'clock, and in twenty minutes they would board. She looked around and realized that the flight would be full, but as usual, she would be traveling first class, so it probably wouldn't be too bad. And she flipped through the magazines waiting for the flight to be called, keeping one ear alert to the flight number. It was the last flight of the day headed for New York, familiarly termed “the red eye,” because that was how one would arrive at six o'clock the next morning, red-eyed and exhausted, but at least one didn't lose an entire day flying.

And as she listened, she suddenly started. She thought that she had heard her name, but decided that she had been mistaken. They called the flight, and she waited for the first crush of passengers to get on board, and then picked up the briefcase and handbag she was carrying and got on line with her ticket and her boarding pass in her hand, and again she heard her name. But this time she was certain it was not her imagination.

“Melanie Adams, please come to the white courtesy phone … Melanie Adams … white courtesy phone, please … Melanie Adams …” Glancing at her watch to see how much time she had, she dashed for a white phone on the far wall and picked it up, identifying herself to the operator who answered.

“Hello, this is Melanie Adams. I believe you were paging me a moment ago.” She set her bags down on the floor next to her feet and listened intently.

“You had a call from a Dr. Peter Hallam. He wants you to call him back immediately if you can.” And with that, she gave Mel his home number. She repeated it to herself, as she ran to the nearest phone booth, digging in her bag for a dime, and keeping one eye on the large clock hanging above. She had five minutes left to board her flight, and she couldn't afford to miss it. She had to be in New York by the next morning. The dime found, she slipped it into the slot in the phone and dialed the number.

“Hello?” Her heart pounded as he answered, wondering why he had called her.

“Peter, it's Mel. I only have a couple of minutes to catch my flight.”

“I don't have much more than that either.” His voice sounded terse. “We just got a donor for Marie Dupret. I'm leaving for the hospital now, and I just thought I'd let you know on the off chance that you'd want to stay.” Her mind raced as she listened, and for only the flash of a second she was disappointed. She had thought he had called her to say good-bye, but now she felt the adrenaline course through her system as she thought of the transplant. Now Marie had a chance. They had found a heart for her. “I didn't know if you'd want to change your plans, but I thought I'd let you know, in case. I wasn't even sure what airline you were on and I took a wild guess.” His guess had been a good one.

“You just caught me.” And then she frowned. “Could we film the transplant?” It would be a sensational addition to the story, and it would give her justification for staying another day.

There was a long pause. “All right. Can you get a camera crew there right away?”

“I can try. I have to get clearance from New York to stay.” And the time it would take to call could cost her her flight. “I don't know what I can do. I'll leave a message at the hospital for you either way.”

“Fine. I've got to go now. See you later.” His voice was businesslike and brusque and he hung up without saying more, as Melanie stood in the phone booth for a second gathering her thoughts. The first thing she had to do was talk to the ground supervisor at the gate. She had done this before, and with any luck at all, they would hold the flight for five or ten minutes, which would give her time to call New York. She just hoped that she could reach someone of sufficient rank in New York to get clearance. And grabbing her briefcase and handbag, she took off at a dead run for the gate, where she found a supervisor, and explained who she was, flashing her press card from the network.