Lightning

“It would be a great relief to me, I can promise you. I'm not sure how much longer I can stand this,” he said, kissing her again in desperation.

“Not long, I hope, sweet Sam,” she whispered in his ear, as her hands gripped his buttocks and pressed him to her. His body found her hot and throbbing against him, and he shuddered with desire when he realized she wasn't wearing any underwear, even in the cold November wind of a New York winter. It took all the strength he had to resist her.

“You're killing me,” he said, laughing hoarsely with the delicious agony of it. “And you'll catch pneumo-ma.

“Then you'd better keep me warm, Sam.”

“Oh God, how I want to.” He closed his eyes and pressed her against him.

He finally managed to tear himself away from her, though with ever greater difficulty, and he walked the twenty-five blocks home to regain his senses. It was nearly midnight by then, and Alex was dead to the world with the light on. He stood looking at her for a long time, silently apologizing to her, but his heart longed for Daphne, not Alex. He quietly turned off the light, and went to bed. And it was six o'clock in the morning when he woke to a strange grating sound. It was rasping and mechanical, and it went on and on and on, and no attempt to ignore it would keep him asleep. At first he thought it was a machine, and then he thought it might be the alarm, and then some crazy sense told him the elevator might be broken. But no matter what, the sound wouldn't stop, and when he finally woke up and turned over, he realized that it was Alex, vomiting and retching uncontrollably in the bathroom.

He lay there for a little while, not sure if he should bother her or not, and then finally, he got up, and stood in the doorway.

“Are you all right?” For a long time she didn't answer, and then finally, she nodded.

“Great, thanks.” She hadn't lost her sense of humor, but she still couldn't stop retching.

“Is it something you ate?” Even now, he still had denial.

“I think it's the chemo.”

“Call the doctor.”

She nodded and went on vomiting, and he went to shower in the guest bathroom. He came back half an hour later, and she had stopped and was lying on the bathroom floor with a cold cloth on her head, and her eyes closed.

“You're not pregnant, are you?”

She kept her eyes closed and shook her head. She didn't even have the energy to insult him. She had gotten her period before the surgery. Another “blue day” had come and gone since, and he wasn't even speaking to her, let alone making babies. How did he think she could be pregnant? And she was having chemotherapy. How could he be so stupid? For a smart guy, he was a real jerk when it came to cancer.

She finally got enough energy to crawl across the bedroom on her hands and knees and call Dr. Webber. The answering service put her through immediately, and the doctor told her that it wasn't an unusual reaction to the first treatment, though she w&s sorry to hear it. She suggested that she eat carefully, but a little food might actually help to settle her stomach, and she had to take her pill today, no matter how sick she felt, or how much she vomited. She could not miss it. She also offered her additional medication for the vomiting, which might help, but Alex was afraid to put any more chemicals into her system, and the additional medications had their own side effects as well.

“Thank you,” Alex rasped, and went to vomit again, but this time it was all over in a few minutes. There was nothing left but bile anyway. Her whole body felt as though it had been turned inside out. It took her forever to dress and she was green by the time she went to the kitchen to watch Sam and Annabelle having breakfast. He had helped her dress, and had kept her away from Alex.

“Are you sick, Mommy?” Annabelle asked, looking worried.

“Sort of. Remember the medicine I told you about? Well, I took some yesterday and it made me kind of sick.”

“It must be very bad medicine,” Annabelle said loyally.

“It's going to make me better,” Alex said firmly, and forced herself to nibble a piece of toast, in spite of all her inclinations not to touch it. She noticed then that Sam was looking over his paper at her in acute annoyance. It was bad enough to wake him up vomiting, but she knew how he hated her explanations to Annabelle. “Sorry,” she said pointedly at him, in less than pleasant tones, and he went back to his paper.

She hung back while he left to take Annabelle to school, and he made no further mention of her vomiting that morning. But as soon as they were gone, Alex threw up again, and thought about not going to the office. She sat down on her bed, and cried, and decided to call Liz, and then something made her stop. She wasn't going to give in. She was going to go to work if it killed her.

She washed her face again, and brushed her teeth, and put another cold cloth on her head, and then with a look of determination she put on her coat and picked up her briefcase. She had to sit down in the hall again, and her stomach turned, but she made it to the elevator and down to the street, and felt better. The cold air helped, but the cab ride didn't. She felt desperately sick again by the time she got to work, and she barely made it to the ladies' room, where she was violently sick again. She looked awful by the time she got to her office, where Brock and Liz happened to be talking. She was almost a shiny green, which really shocked them. They both followed her inside and looked at her with obvious concern, as Alex collapsed into her desk chair with a look of exhaustion.

“Are you all right?” Liz asked worriedly as Brock stared at her, frowning.

“Not really. It's been a rough morning.” She closed her eyes, as she felt a wave of nausea come over her again, but she refused to give in to it, and it passed. She opened her eyes again to see Brock and not Liz. He looked very worried.

“She went to get you a cup of tea. Do you want to lie down?”

“I don't think I'd ever get up again,” she said honestly. “Why don't we get to work,” she said bravely.

“Are you up to it?”

“Don't ask,” she said grimly, and shaking his head, he went to get his papers. As always, he was working in his shirtsleeves, with his horn-rims pushed high on his head when he didn't need them. He had pencils in his pocket, a pen in his teeth, and a foot-high stack of papers when he came back to her office, with a box of Saltines for Alex.

“Try these.” He dropped them on her desk, and sat down with the work they were sharing. And as they made their way through it, he watched her carefully. She looked awful, but she seemed to feel a little better while she was working. It distracted her from her miseries. And Liz kept her well supplied with tea, and she nibbled at the crackers Brock had brought her.

“Why don't you lie down for a while during lunch?” he suggested, but she shook her head, she didn't want to break their momentum. They were doing some very detailed work on one of her new cases. And they ordered chicken sandwiches instead, which Alex actually felt well enough to eat by lunchtime.

It was fully an hour later when the food caught up with her, and suddenly she looked panicked, as she felt it rising. She had a tiny bathroom adjacent to her office, and without a word to Brock, she disappeared, and vomited horribly and then retched for half an hour while he couldn't help but hear it. It was agonizing listening to her, and after a while he went out, and came back with a cold damp cloth, an ice pack, and a pillow. Without knocking or saying anything, he opened the door, which she hadn't locked fortunately, and she suddenly felt his strong arms behind her, as she knelt huddled over the bowl, and slumped against the wall. For a moment, he was afraid she had fainted but she hadn't.

“Lean against me, Alex,” he said quietly, “just let yourself go.” She didn't argue, she didn't say a word, she was just too sick and too grateful for the help, from any quarter. She slumped back into his arms, as he sat on the floor holding her, the bathroom was barely big enough for both of them with their long legs, but they just made it. He put the ice pack on the back of her neck, and the wet cloth on her forehead. And for an instant, she opened her eyes and looked up at him, but she didn't speak. She couldn't.

He flushed the toilet for her, and put the lid down, and after a little while, he laid her down on the pillow, and covered her with a blanket. She was grateful for all of it, and he sat with her the entire time, watching her, holding her hand, and saying nothing.

It was almost an hour later when she finally spoke to him, in a soft voice. She was completely drained, and even talking was an effort. “I think I can get up now.”

“Why don't you lie here for a while?” he said softly, and then he had a better idea. “I'm going to move you, Alex. Don't do anything. Just let yourself go.” She had stopped vomiting long enough to be moved to the other room, and with no effort at all, he scooped her up, surprised at how light she was for her size, and laid her down on the gray leather couch in her office. It felt wonderful to her, and he put the pillow under her head and the blanket over her. She was mildly ashamed of herself for giving up so completely, but she didn't really care. She was just grateful that he was there to help her.

“Lock the door,” she whispered to him as he stood next to her, like a mother watching her baby.

“Why?”

“I don't want anyone to walk in and see me.” She had assured everyone that she was going to be able to work during chemotherapy, and this was hardly an auspicious beginning.

He did what she asked, and then came to sit in a chair next to her. He didn't want to leave her alone, but she did look a little better.

“Do you want me to take you home?” he asked cautiously, but she shook her head in answer to the question.

“I'm staying.”

“Do you want to sleep for a while?”

“I'll just lie here. “¥bu work I'll get up in a few minutes.”

“Are you serious?” He was amazed at her. He had never admired her more than at this moment. She refused to give up or to be beaten. She was a real trouper.

“Tes,” she answered him. “You work …and Brock? …” She was whispering and so was he. “Thank you.”

“Never mind. That's what friends are for.” It only saddened her to know that Sam couldn't do this.

Brock turned off some of the lights, and she lay there for a while with her eyes closed, and then half an hour later, she got up and joined him at her desk. She looked a little rumpled and her hair was mussed, and her voice was hoarse, but she was ready to go back to work, and neither of them mentioned what had happened.

He remembered to unlock the door, and Liz came in with tea and coffee and a snack, and no one was any the wiser. And at five o'clock Brock walked her to the elevator, and carried her briefcase.

“I'll catch a cab for you, and then come back up,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Don't you have anything else to do than help old ladies across the street?” she teased, but they had become friends that afternoon, and she knew she wouldn't forget it for a lifetime. She didn't know what she had done to deserve that kind of friendship from him, but it had made an enormous impression. “You must have been a Boy Scout.”

“Matter of fact, I was. There was nothing else to do in Illinois. Besides, I've always had a soft spot for old ladies.”

“Apparently,” she grinned at him. She felt about a thousand years old at that moment, but he thought she was remarkable.

It took him a few minutes to catch a cab, and he told her to wait inside while he did. She was about to argue with him, but he didn't hang around to discuss it with her, and he was very firm in his directions. He had already paid the taxi for her, so no one else would hijack it, when he came back inside to get her.

“All set.” He put her in and waved as she drove off, still amazed at all he'd done for her. She wondered how she would ever thank him. And by the time she got home to Annabelle, she felt like a dishrag. She would have liked to have a warm bath with her, but Annabelle still hadn't seen her scar, and she had no intention of letting her see it. So she had a bath by herself with her bathroom door locked, and sat at dinner with Annabelle, but ate nothing. She said she was going to eat later, with Daddy.

He came home at seven o'clock just before Annabelle went to bed, and read her a story. And then he and Alex sat down to the dinner Carmen had left them. But Alex only picked at her food. In spite of making an effort to eat it, she just couldn't.

“Did things get better today?” he asked, as solicitously as he could, although Alex clearly had the feeling he didn't really want to discuss it.

“I was fine,” she said, eliminating totally the report that she had spent an hour on the bathroom floor of her office, and another half hour on the couch, with Brock Stevens holding her ice pack. “I have a lot of new cases.” It was what he wanted to hear, even if it was only part of the story.

“So do we,” he smiled, trying to forget their argument of the night before and all the ugly things they had said to each other. “We have an awful lot of new clients, thanks to Simon.”

“You don't suppose there's any hanky-panky there, do you, Sam?” she said suspiciously, a lot of new clients of that magnitude almost made her a little nervous.

“Stop looking for problems in everything. Don't be such an attorney,” he chided her, none too gently.

“Occupational hazard.” She smiled weakly at him, feeling nauseous again, just from the smell of his dinner.

She cleaned up alone afterwards, but by the time she was through the little she had eaten had come back to haunt her. She wound up on her bathroom floor again, retching horribly, and this time there was no Brock Stevens with a pillow and an ice pack.

“What's wrong with you?” Sam finally asked as he came to look at her. He had to admit, she looked awful. “Maybe it's not just the chemotherapy. Maybe you have appendicitis or something.” It was hard for him to believe the chemo would actually do that.

“It's the chemo,” she said, sounding like the voice out of The Exorcist, and vomiting instantly again, and he left, unable to watch it.

Eventually, she made it to their bed, and collapsed exhausted, while he glanced over at her in annoyance. “I know this is unsympathetic of me, but why is it that you were fine at work all day, and you get sick the minute you see me? Is this a bid for sympathy, or do I have this effect on you?” he asked, not realizing what she'd been through all day, and she didn't want to tell him she'd lied about what had happened at the office.

“Very funny.”

“Do you think you're reacting to this emotionally, or maybe you're allergic to this stuff?” He just couldn't understand it or believe it. He had never seen anyone throw up that violently or that often.

“Trust me, it's the chemo,” she said again. “I have a sheet that tells you what to expect. Would you like to read it?”

“Not really,” he said honestly, “I'll take your word for it.” And then, as though he were still trying to explain it, “You were never like this when you were pregnant.”

“I didn't have cancer, and I wasn't having chemotherapy,” she said dryly, still trying to recover from the onslaught. “Maybe that made a difference.”

“I think this is psychological. I really think you should call your doctor.”

“I did. She said this is unfortunate, but normal.”

“It doesn't seem normal to me.” He didn't want to understand it. He had complete denial.

In the end, they went to sleep, and when she awoke the next morning, she was nauseous again, but she didn't vomit. They both went to work normally, and she took Annabelle to school, which made her feel better. Every little step toward normalcy was a victory suddenly, and she managed to get through an entire morning at work without feeling sick or being distracted.

It was only that afternoon, working with Brock again, that her turkey sandwich got the better of her and she wound up back on her bathroom floor feeling like she was dying. He didn't hesitate to come in this time, and she was shocked to realize that he was holding her head and her shoulders while she vomited and she didn't even care. In fact, it was less frightening not to be alone and have him with her. She was ashamed for feeling that way, but when she lay against him afterwards, she looked up at him, wondering why he did it.

“You should have been a doctor.” She grinned foolishly at him. This was certainly one way to establish a friendship.

“I hate the sight of blood,” he confessed.

“But not the sight of vomit? What is it with you, you like women who throw up?”

“I love ‘em,” he laughed. “I ended a lot of dates like this in high school and college. I got pretty good at it. Things are supposed to be a little more sophisticated in New York, but maybe not, huh?”

“You're crazy,” she was still too weak to move, and they were sitting on her bathroom floor again, as she leaned against him. “But I'm beginning to like you.” It was kind of like being married. There was no embarrassment, just her need, and his willingness to fill it. For a moment, she wondered if God had sent her just the right friend at just the right moment.

And then Brock sounded more serious, when he spoke to her again. “My sister went through this.” He sounded very sad when he said it.

“Chemotherapy?” She sounded surprised, as though no one had ever been through it before her.

“Yeah. Breast cancer just like you. She almost gave up the treatment plenty of times. I was a junior in college, and I went home to take care of her. She was ten years older than I was.”

“Was?” Alex asked nervously, and he smiled.

“Is. She got through it. You'll get through it too. But you have to do the chemo, no matter how bad it gets, or how terrible it is, or how much you hate it. You've got to do it.”

“I know. It scares the hell out of me. Six months seems like forever.”

“It isn't,” he said, sounding older than he was. “Dead is forever.”

“I get it. Honest.”

“You can't screw around, Alex. You have to take the pills, no matter how sick they make you, and go for the treatments. I'll go with you if you want. I went with her. She hated them, and she was afraid of needles.”

“I can't say I loved it either, but it didn't seem so bad, until I started puking my brains out. But then again, it's one way to meet friends.” She smiled up at him and he grinned. He wasn't wearing his glasses and his tie was askew. He had a blond boyish look, but at the same time, his eyes said he was much wiser. At thirty-two, he had seen a lot more than she knew. He had an old soul, and a good heart, and he really liked her.

“Shall we go back to work?” she asked after a little while, and Liz was just putting some mail on her desk, and was surprised to see them both come out of the bathroom.

“Hi,” Alex said casually, “we were having a meeting.”

Liz laughed, and had no idea what they were doing in there, but it seemed funny to her as she went back to her desk.

“People are going to think we're shooting up or snorting cocaine if we keep this up,” Alex laughed, “or having sex in the bathroom.”

“I can think of worse rumors than that.” He laughed easily, and sat down across the desk from her. She was looking better.

“Yeah. Me too.” She hadn't made love with Sam in almost two months and they weren't likely to be doing it again soon, from the look of things between them. But sex didn't seem much of an issue. Survival was more to the point. That was the only issue at the moment. They worked together all afternoon, and at the end of the day, he got her a cab again, although she insisted she felt fine. And on Friday, she managed to take Annabelle to ballet. Remarkably, she was doing everything she needed to. And she wasn't feeling great, but she wasn't totally out of commission either. And she was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, she'd survive it. Whether or not her marriage would was another thing. She thought that a great deal less likely.

Chapter 13

Dr. Webber was very pleased with Alex's progress the following Monday. “You're doing fine,” she complimented her. Her blood count was good. And they were able to do the intravenous treatment, preceded by dextrose and water, which was a little less traumatic for Alex, now that she knew what to expect from the treatment.

This time she got just as sick, but it didn't come as big a surprise to her. And Brock continued to nurse her, and Liz to watch her like a guardian angel.

“I'm starting to feel guilty about this,” she said to Brock, as they sat on her bathroom floor again the day after her second treatment.

“Why?” He looked puzzled.

“Because you're not having chemotherapy, I am. Why should you have to go through all this? You're not married to me. This is my nightmare, not yours. You don't have to do this.” She couldn't understand why he was so kind to her. There was no reason for it, though it certainly helped her. He was the only person who was really there for her at the moment.

“Why not share it?” he said simply. “Why not let someone else help you? It could happen to any of us. Lightning can strike any one of us at any moment. No one's exempt. And if I'm here for you, maybe someone will be there for me one day, if it ever happens.”

“I will,” she said gently. “I'll be there for you, Brock. I'll never forget this.” And they both knew she meant it.

“I'm actually doing this for a raise,” he said laughingly, as he helped her up. They had been there for an hour. It had been a very rough morning.

“I figured you had to have an ulterior motive,” she grinned. She was a lot more tired this week after the treatment. And Thanksgiving was in two days. It exhausted her just thinking about doing the turkey. “Why not take my job?” she said jokingly as they sat down again. “You'd be great at it.”

“I'd rather work with you.” He looked at her as he said it, and for an odd moment she felt something different between them. She wasn't sure what it meant, or if she should acknowledge it. But she looked away, embarrassed for a moment. She was so open with him now, so free, and she wondered if maybe she shouldn't. Maybe they were getting too close. After all, she was a married woman. But he was also just a kid, as she reminded herself, he was ten years younger than she was.

“I like working with you too, Brock,” she said kindly, treating him like her junior again, and then she laughed at herself, which was one of the things he loved about her, “when I'm not throwing up all over you.”

“I'm very careful to stand behind you,” he said in the way that only people who had been through what they had together could get away with.

“You're disgusting.”

They talked about their Thanksgiving plans late that afternoon. He was going to friends in Connecticut, and she was staying home with Annabelle and Sam. She confessed to him then that she wasn't enthusiastic about doing the cooking.

“Why doesn't he do it then? Can he cook?”

“Well enough, but Thanksgiving is my specialty.” And then she admitted something she hadn't told anyone else. “I feel like I have to prove something to him. He's very angry about all this. Sometimes I think he hates me for it. I need to show him that I can still do everything I used to, that nothing's changed.” It sounded so pathetic when she said it, but he seemed to understand perfectly. Better than Sam did.

“It's only changed temporarily. Can't he understand that? Even if you can't do it now, you will later.”

“He's still too angry to see that.”

“That's rough on you.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“How's your little one holding up?”

“She's doing okay. She gets worried when I'm sick, and I try to keep it away from her as much as possible. None of this is easy.”

“You need good friends to help you through it,” he said warmly.

“I'm lucky to have you.” She smiled at him. And the night before Thanksgiving, she gave him a hug and told him that she was thankful for him this year. They went downstairs together, and for an odd instant, she felt sad when she left him. She could be so honest and outspoken with him. While she sat throwing up next to him, she had come to rely on him, and on being able to tell him her feelings. Suddenly a four-day holiday without talking to him seemed very lonely.

And when she got home, she saw the turkey in the refrigerator, and thought of all the work she had to do the next day, making stuffing and yams, and popovers, and vegetables and mashed potatoes. And Sam always liked both pumpkin and mince pie, and Annabelle liked apple. And she had promised to make pureed chestnuts this year, and homemade cranberry sauce. It made her feel ill just thinking about it, but she knew that this year, more than any year, she really had to. She felt as though her relationship with Sam was resting on it, and how much she could prove to him that she could still do it.

He had had his own tender partings at the office too. Daphne was going to Washington, D.C., that night to visit friends, and he felt an ache of loneliness when he took her to the train and watched her leave. He was getting more and more attached to her, and more and more unhappy whenever he didn't see her. It frightened him to know he would be alone with Alex for four days, but he acknowledged that maybe it would do them good. But as soon as he got home that night, he realized that it wasn't going to be easy to pretend that things were the way they always had been.

She was lying on their bed with an ice pack on her head, and she had just thrown up, Annabelle told him.

“Mommy's sick,” she said quietly, “will we still have turkey?”

“Of course we will,” he reassured her, and put her to bed, and then came back to look at his wife, stretched out miserably on their bed. “Do you want to go to a restaurant tomorrow and just forget it?” he asked, with a tone of accusation.

“Don't be silly,” Alex said, wishing they could forget the whole thing, but of course they couldn't. “I'll be fine.”

“You don't look fine.” He was always torn between thinking she was exaggerating, and it was really psychological, and feeling sorry for her. It was hard for him to know what to think. “Can I get you anything? Ginger ale? Coke? Something to settle your stomach?” She was guzzling whole bottles of Maalox these days, but nothing helped her.

She got up again after a little while, and went to do what she could in the kitchen. She set the table for the next day, and as she did, she realized that each step was an agony. She felt crushed by exhaustion. Her whole body ached, and she wondered if she was coming down with the flu, or just having more side effects from the chemo. Her bladder bothered her too that night, and by the time she got to bed, Sam was asleep and she felt like death and she looked it. He had promised to help her in the morning.

She set her alarm clock for six-fifteen, so she could put the turkey in the oven. It was a big bird, and it would take a long time to cook. They ate their Thanksgiving dinner at noon usually. But when she got up, she was too sick to move, and she lost an hour throwing up as quietly as she could in the bathroom.

But by the time Annabelle got up, she was putting the turkey in, and a little while later Sam joined them. Annabelle wanted to go to the Macy's Thanks giving Day parade, and Alex didn't have the heart to ask him not to and help her cook dinner.

They left around nine o'clock, and Alex was doing the best she could in the kitchen. She had made the stuffing, done the vegetables, and was about to start on the potatoes. They had bought the pies fortunately, but she still hadn't tackled the popovers or the chestnuts.

And the moment they left, Alex was seized with a bout of vomiting that left her choking and breathless. She was so frightened she almost called 911, and suddenly longed for Brock to be there to help her. She got an ice pack for herself, and finally stood in the shower, throwing up, thinking that might help. She was still in her nightgown, looking gray, when they came back at eleven-thirty.

“Didn't you get dressed?” He looked shocked when he looked at her. She hadn't even combed her hair, which told him she hadn't even bothered to make the effort. But the turkey smelled good, and everything was either in the oven or on the stove. “What time do we eat?” he asked, as Annabelle went to her room to play and he flipped on the television to watch football.

“Not till one. I started the turkey a little late.” It was a miracle, considering how sick she'd been that morning.

“Do you need help?” he asked casually, as he put his feet up. It was more than a little late, and she didn't say anything. She had managed to do all of it, which amazed no one more than it did her. Sam had no idea what she'd been battling to do it.

She went to get out of her nightgown then, and put on a white dress and comb her hair. But she didn't have time or feel well enough to put on makeup. She was almost the color of the dress when they finally sat down to eat. And Sam glanced at her, as he carved, irritated that she hadn't made the effort to put on makeup. Did she want to look sick? Did she want them to feel sorry for her? Using a little blush certainly wouldn't have killed her.

But Alex had no idea how bad she looked, although she certainly felt it. She felt as though her whole body were dipped in lead, and she could scarcely move as she served their dinner.

Sam said the same grace they always did, and Annabelle told her mother all about the parade. And five minutes after they'd started to eat, Alex had to make a wild dash from the table. The work, and the heat in the kitchen, and the smells had just been too much for her. She couldn't do it. She did everything she could to stop throwing up, but she couldn't.

“For God's sake,” Sam came to snarl at her, desperate to keep up the appearance of normalcy for Annabelle, and himself, “can't you at least make the effort to sit there?”

“I can't,” she said, between retching and tears, “I can't stop.”

“Force yourself, for chrissake. She deserves a better Thanksgiving than this. We all do.”

“Stop it!” she screamed at him, sobbing openly, shouting so loud they both knew Annabelle could hear them, “stop doing this to me, you bastard! I can't help it!”

“The hell you can't, dragging around all day in your nightgown, wearing that goddamn white face like a ghost so it scares everyone. You don't even try anymore, except to go to work. But for us, you let it all hang out and puke all over yourself whenever it suits you.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she moaned, and then threw up all over again. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was emotional. Maybe she just couldn't take any more shit from him. But whatever it was, she couldn't stop it. She didn't get back to the table until dessert, and poor little Annabelle looked quiet and sad when she saw her mother.

“Do you feel better, Mommy?” she asked in a small voice, with big, unhappy eyes. “I'm sorry you're sick.” Maybe he was right. Maybe they all felt responsible. Maybe she was making everyone miserable. Maybe it would be better if she died. She didn't know what to think anymore, or what had happened to him. He was a complete stranger, everything he had ever meant to her, all the gentleness and love he had shown her for years, had totally vanished.

“I'm okay, sweetheart. I feel better now,” she said to Annabelle, and ignored Sam. And after dinner, Annabelle lay on the couch with her, and Alex told her stories. She let Sam do all the cleaning up, and he looked furious when he was finished. Annabelle had just gone to her room to get a video, when he came out of the kitchen and saw Alex.

“Thanks for a great Thanksgiving,” he said sarcastically, “remind me to go somewhere else next year.”

“Be my guest.” He hadn't said a word to thank her for all the work she'd done, or all the effort.

“You had to ruin it for her, didn't you? You couldn't even sit there for an hour, just so she'd be sure to know how sick you are.”

“When did you turn into a complete prick, Sam?” Alex asked casually, as she looked up at him. “You know, I never realized what a miserable human being you were before. I guess I was too busy.”

“Maybe we both were,” he muttered, and stalked into the study to watch football. He'd had other Thanksgivings like this before. Years when his mother had been too sick even to come out of her room, or cook a turkey. His father usually got drunk. And once he was at school, he hadn't even bothered to come home for Thanksgiving. The holidays meant a lot to him, and it meant a lot to him to have Alex make the effort. She always had before. But now, she was just like his mother, and all it did was make him hate her.

After the football game, he went out alone that afternoon. He went for a long walk in the park, by himself, and when he came back, they ate leftovers, and Alex seemed to be in better spirits. Having ruined their Thanksgiving meal, she was free to perk up now, and feel better. Or at least that was his perception of it.

Annabelle still seemed subdued, and she had asked her mother why she and Daddy shouted all the time, and why they were angry at each other. Alex told her it didn't mean anything, grown-ups just did that sometimes. But Annabelle still looked worried.

Sam put Annabelle to bed himself that night, and made a point of saying to Alex that she was probably too sick to do it, and remembering what Annabelle had said about their arguing, Alex said nothing to him.

She went to their room, after kissing Annabelle good night, and lay on her bed, thinking of how miserable their life was. How bitter it all had become. It was hard to believe things would ever get any better.

And she surprised Sam with what she said when he came back from putting Annabelle to bed. Alex looked over at him with a look of resignation. Maybe she had to finally accept it, that things were never going to be the same again, and it was all over.

“You don't have to be here, you know. I'm not holding you hostage.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” He looked more than a little startled, and she suddenly wondered if he'd been waiting for this. Maybe he just didn't have the guts to tell her he wanted out, and he had been waiting for her to end it. He seemed to be looking for excuses lately to hate her.

“It means that you seem to be pretty unhappy these days, and you don't seem to want to be here. Anytime you want out, Sam, the door is open.” They were the hardest words she'd ever said, but she knew they needed saying. And after all she'd been through in the past two months, nothing was as hard as it had once been. She was fighting for her life. And her marriage.

“Are you telling me to get out?” he asked, almost hopefully, she thought.

“No, I'm not. I'm telling you that I love you, and I want to stay married to you, but if that's not reciprocal, if you don't want to be married to me anymore, you can leave anytime you want to.”

“Why are you saying that?” he asked suspiciously. What did she know? What had someone told her? Was she a mind reader? Or had she been listening to gossip about Daphne?

“I'm saying that because I'm beginning to feel like you hate me.”

“I don't hate you,” he said sadly, and then he looked at her cautiously, afraid to say too much, but he knew he had to be honest. “I just don't know what I feel anymore. I'm angry about what happened to us. It's like lightning struck us two months ago, and nothing's been the same since.” They were the same words Brock had used only that week about his sister. Lightning. “I'm angry, I'm scared, I'm sad. You don't seem the same to me anymore. Neither do I. And I can't stand all this constant talk of sickness and treatment.” They hardly ever talked about it, but just the reality of it was too much for him, and Alex knew that.

“I think I remind you of your mother now,” Alex said honestly, “and that's too much for you to deal with. Maybe you're afraid I'm going to die and abandon you the way she did.” She had tears in her eyes when she said it, but it didn't bring him any closer. “I'm afraid of that, too. But I'm doing everything I can to keep that from happening.”

“Maybe you're right. Maybe it's all a lot more complicated than it appears. But I think it's a lot simpler. I think we've both changed, something snapped between us.”

“And? Now what?”

“That's what I haven't figured out yet.”

“Let me know when you do. Do you want to see a therapist with me?” she asked. “Lots of people going through what I am see therapists, ours isn't the first marriage that's been on the line because of one partner or the other having cancer.”

“Christ, why do you have to blame it all on that?” Just her saying the word seemed to make him nervous. “What does that have to do with it?”

“That's when everything started, Sam. Everything was fine before that.”

“Maybe not. Maybe this just brought it to a head. Maybe three years of sex on schedule and hormones and trying to have another baby did us in.” It had never seemed to bother him before, but anything was possible.

“Do you want counseling?” she asked again, but he shook his head in answer.

“No, I don't.” All he wanted now was Daphne. That was his cure, his escape, his freedom. “I want to work this out myself.”

“I don't think you can, Sam. I don't think either of us can. Are you moving out?” she asked nervously, afraid he might, but seeing no other answer.

“I don't think we should do that to Annabelle, particularly before Christmas, and her birthday.” Alex wanted to scream “what about me?” But she didn't. “What I want is more freedom. I think we should go our own ways, without owing each other any explanations. Let's talk about it again in a couple of months, maybe after Annabelle's birthday.”

“What'll we say to her?” Alex felt devastated, but tried not to show it.

“That's up to you. As long as we're both living here, I doubt if she'll even notice.”

“Don't be so sure. She asked me today why we shout at each other all the time now. She knows, Sam. She's not stupid.”

“Then it's up to us to behave better in front of her,” he said in a voice filled with reproach that made her want to hit him. He was no longer the man she married and loved. But for Annabelle's sake she had to make the new arrangement work.

“I think this is going to be harder than you think,” Alex said honestly as she looked at him across their bedroom. After nearly seventeen years of marriage, it was going to be impossible to live together like roommates.

“It'll be as easy as we make it. Besides, I have a lot of traveling to do in the next few months.”

“Your business seems to be changing dramatically,” she commented, trying not to think of their shattered personal life, “what's that all about?”

“Simon has really opened things up for us.”

“I still think you should be leery of him, Sam. Maybe your instincts were correct right from the beginning.”

“I think you're paranoid, and I'm not going to discuss it with you.”

“I see. What do we do now? Just say good morning and good evening in the halls? Do we eat dinner with each other anymore?

“If it works out with our schedules. I don't see why things have to change that much from the way they are now, at least as far as Annabelle is concerned. But I'll move into the guest room.”

“How will you explain that to her?” Alex asked with interest. He seemed to have it all figured out, and she wondered if he'd already planned it, and she'd walked right into it for him. She didn't trust him anymore either, any more than she did his new partner, Simon. She had drawn up the partnership papers for him, and she just didn't like Simon, or any of the things he'd asked for.

“With you so sick,” Sam said sarcastically, as though she were faking it, “I'm sure she'll understand that I don't want to disturb you.”

“That's big of you,” Alex said coolly, concealing all the hurt and disappointment she felt, “this is certainly going to be interesting.”

“I think it's the only solution for right now. It's a good compromise.”

“Between what and what? Walking out on me because I lost a breast, and just ditching me because you're tired of me? What compromise are we making? What effort have you made since all of this happened?” She was angry at him, and hurt, and devastated by everything that had happened. He was right. It was like being hit by lightning, and she knew now that they would be scarred forever.

“I'm sorry you see it that way. But at least we're trying, for Annabelle's sake.”

“We're not trying,” she corrected him, “we're faking it. We're covering up for her. Who do you think you're kidding, Sam? This marriage is over.”

“I'm not ready to divorce you,” he announced patronizingly, and once again she wanted to get up off the bed and hit him.

“That's big of you. Why not? Do you think it would look bad? Poor Alex gets her boob lopped off and you can't just walk out and divorce her? It looks a lot better to wait a few months. Actually, technically, you could wait the full six months of the chemo, and then everyone would think you'd stuck by me. Christ, Sam, you stink. You're the biggest fraud in town, and I don't give a damn who you hide it from. I know it. And you know it. And that's enough. Go do whatever the hell you want. We're finished.”

“How can you be so sure? I wish I were,” he said honestly. He wanted to be free, but another part of him wasn't ready to leave her. He wanted all his options open with no responsibilities. He wanted it all. Daphne, and the possibility of coming back to Alex, maybe a year later. He didn't want to give up Alex forever.

“You've convinced me,” she said, in answer to his question. “You've been a complete shit to me ever since my mastectomy. The only excuse I've been able to make for you is that you couldn't handle it, but you know what? That's getting old, Sam. I'm getting tired of making excuses. He's tired …he's freaked out …this is hard for him …this reminds him of his mother … he doesn't get it …it's too threatening for him…. You're a miserable excuse for a human being.” There were tears in her eyes as she said it, and tears in his while he listened.

“I'm sorry, Alex.” He turned away from her then, and she started to cry softly. What a rotten time they had had ever since they'd discovered the shadow on the mammogram. It wasn't fair, but it still had to be dealt with. “I'm sorry,” he said again, this time looking at her, but he made no move to approach her, or console her, he just couldn't.

He walked out of the room, and she heard him in the study then, and half an hour later, she heard the front door close. He never said another word to her, he went out and walked for hours, to the river, and then slowly south, until he finally found himself on Fifty-third Street. He knew what he wanted, and he wondered if he had destroyed his marriage just so he could have it. But it was too late to think about that now. He had done what he had to, or what he wanted. It was too late to pick up the pieces, he was only very sorry he had had to hurt her. But she had hurt him too, even if it wasn't her fault. In an odd way, he felt as though she had betrayed him.

He stopped at a phone booth on Second Avenue, and he knew it didn't make sense. She had gone to Washington for Thanksgiving. But he wanted to call her anyway, just to hear her voice on her machine, and he wanted to leave her a message and tell her that he loved her.

She answered it on the second ring, and for an instant he was too surprised to answer.

“Daphne?”

“Yes.” Her voice was sensual and sleepy. It was after midnight, and she'd been in bed. “Who is this?”

“It's me. What are you doing here? I thought you were in Washington for Thanksgiving.”

She laughed, and he could almost see her stretch lazily as she did it. He was freezing in the phone booth.

“I was. We gorged ourselves on an enormous lunch, and went ice-skating, and I flew home tonight. They were all going their separate ways tomorrow. It wasn't really meant to be a weekend. Where are you?” He hadn't called her at night since Alex's chemotherapy had started and Daphne only called sparingly. He was married after all, and she was very cautious. She was too smart to do otherwise, and she respected his situation.

Suddenly he chuckled mischievously into the phone in answer to her question. “I'm freezing my ass off in a phone booth on Fifty-third and Second. I've been walking for hours, and I wanted to call you.”

“What on earth are you doing there? Why don't you come up, at least for a cup of tea. I promise I won't bite you.”

“I'll hold you to that, you know,” and then, feeling very vulnerable and battered, it had been a rough day since he'd last seen her, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she said very softly, sounding sexier than ever. “How was Thanksgiving?”

“Pretty grim. I don't really want to talk about it. She was sick. It was hard on everyone, Annabelle most of all … I don't know … we had a long talk tonight. I'll tell you all about it.” But just listening to him, she knew that something was different. He seemed freer suddenly, and much more open. He sounded tired, and sad, but he didn't sound as anxious or conflicted.

“Come on up, before you freeze.”

“I'll be there.”

He was less than a block away, and he ran all the way to her door. Suddenly, he knew that it was the only place he wanted to be. It was the only place he had wanted to be ever since he met her. She was so healthy and young, so beautiful, and so perfect.

He pressed the buzzer downstairs, and she buzzed him in, and he bounded up the steps like a teenager, and then stopped as he saw her standing in the doorway. Her luxurious black hair hung past her shoulders, concealing one breast, and leaving the other bare. She wore a delicate white cotton nightgown, with tiny embroideries on it, which you could see through completely. Her entire body was revealed to him as she stood there, and then without a word, he went to her, and pulled her inside, and closed the door behind them.

The apartment was cozy and warm, and he pulled the nightgown over her head, without waiting a moment, he brushed back her silky dark hair, and stood admiring her in all her splendor, the perfect breasts, the tiny waist, the long, graceful legs, and the exquisite place where they came together.

“Oh my God …” was all he said. There was only one small light on in the bedroom, and he laid her on the feather bed she had brought with her from England. She was beautiful beyond his dreams, sensual beyond all his expectations, experienced beyond anything he could realize and she brought him to the edge of ecstasy and back again, and felt him explode inside her half a dozen times before morning. It was the most extraordinary night of his life. He had made a fire in the fireplace, and made love to her on the floor in front of it, and then on the bed again, and then finally in the bathtub. They had made love before the dawn, and again after it, and when they awoke at noon, he couldn't believe that he wanted her again, and was still capable of doing anything about it. But she let her silky lips drift across his stomach down his thighs, and then back up between his legs until they found what they were looking for and he craved, and this time he came in her mouth with a shuddering furor.

“Oh God …Daphne …you're going to kill me …” he murmured happily, “…but what a way to die….” He took her in his arms and held her there, unable to believe his good fortune. They had waited months for this, and he hadn't wanted to come to her until he was free of Alex. But now he knew that he was, he had to be. There was no other woman he wanted in the world now, except Daphne.

“I love you,” he whispered as she drifted off to sleep in his arms again, with her back to him, and her perfectly round bottom pressed against him, but this time, he was truly sated.

“I love you too,” she whispered back, smiling. He had been well worth waiting for. She had always known he would be. He cupped her breasts with his hands then, and thought of how lucky he was, and he drifted off to sleep with her, trying not to let himself think of Alex.

Chapter 14

If nothing else, out of sheer politeness, Sam called Alex late Friday afternoon and told her he wouldn't be home for the rest of the weekend. He didn't say where he was and she didn't ask any questions. He said he'd call her and check in, and then he spoke to Annabelle and said he'd miss her. He wondered if Alex knew where he was, or why, but he didn't let himself think of it. After that, he and Daphne went to Bloomingdale's and he bought half a dozen shirts, some jeans, corduroy pants, a jacket, socks, some underwear, and a sweater. And then they went to the drugstore and bought a razor and all the toiletries he needed. He didn't want to go home just yet, he didn't want to see them. He wanted to be completely alone with Daphne.

He cooked dinner for Daphne that night, and she pretended to help him, but she insisted on wandering in and out of the kitchen stark naked. And in the end, he almost burned their dinner. They left it in the microwave and went to bed. And at midnight, she made him an omelet. But most of their time was spent exploring each other's bodies, and preferences. They talked long into the night and he made popcorn and they watched old movies, but they kept missing the essential parts of the plot when he made love to her again, and they kept coming back just as the film was ending.

They spent another extraordinary night in each other's arms, and by Saturday morning it was as though they had always been lovers. He knew he wanted to stay with her, and spend the rest of his life with her. All he had to do now was deal with Alex.

“What do you want to do today?” he asked as they stretched lazily, and the prospect of making love all day crossed his mind again, but he thought they should at least make an effort to do something.

“Can you ice skate?” Daphne asked, looking like a child as she sat up in bed next to him, but a very well-endowed one.

“I was on the hockey team at Harvard,” he said proudly.

“Shall we do that?”

It was like starting life all over again. She was so young and so alive. She had no responsibilities and no burdens. They went to Wollman Memorial in Central Park, and he found that she was a very good skater. They danced, and spun around, and did loops around each other. She did very pretty camel spins, and he was impressed. And then he took her to lunch at Tavern-on-the-Green, but by two o'clock they were back in bed again, feeling as though they had been separated forever.

“What are we going to do about work?” he asked as they lay side by side after making love for the second time at four-thirty. “I'm not sure I can stay away from you long enough to get up and go to the office.” Not to mention the fact that he had told Alex that he would live at home for the next two months and talk about their relationship again in January after Annabelle's birthday. That had been before he had made love to Daphne. Now everything had changed again. But he still thought he should live by his agreement.

He had already explained it to Daphne the day before, and she thought it a very reasonable solution.

“It would be awfully hard on your little girl if you suddenly disappeared, particularly right before Christmas,” Daphne said sympathetically. He was glad that she saw it that way. It made it a lot easier for him. But she had always been very patient with him, right from the beginning.

“I can't wait for you to meet her.”

“Slowly, my darling, slowly,” she said, describing the sexual tortures she designed for him a few moments later. All thoughts of their families disappeared in an instant. But later that night she told him that she was taking her son skiing in Switzerland for a week at Christmas. It would make die choice of who to be with over the holidays a little easier for him, and he suggested he meet her after her son went back to his father. They agreed on a week in Gstaad, followed by a few days in Paris.

It was a weekend of making plans and becoming friends, and falling in love as he told himself he never had before, but that was only because he was trying to forget Alex.

And she was trying to forget him too. She spent a quiet weekend with Annabelle, trying to marshal her forces. She was still sick, but she didn't throw up quite as often. Liz called to see how she was, and a couple of friends called her too, having heard the rumors. But she didn't feel like seeing anyone, and she couldn't help wondering where Sam had gone, if he was alone, or just hiding. Annabelle seemed willing to accept the story that he had gone away on a business trip, even on Thanksgiving weekend.

Sam never came home on Sunday night, although she thought he would, but she wasn't worried about it. She was sad, but not really concerned. He had called Annabelle a couple of times over the weekend, but Alex hadn't talked to him. She had just handed the phone to her daughter, and tried not to think about her husband.

It was actually a relief when Monday rolled around, and she could go back to work and try to forget her problems.

And after she dropped Annabelle off at school, she got to the office and felt better. Everyone looked rested and happier after the long weekend. Even Alex did, although it certainly hadn't been a good one.

“How was the holiday?” Brock asked, as they worked that afternoon. He had had a great time in Connecticut with his friends, although he'd gotten a lot of bruises, he said, playing touch football.

“Honestly?” She smiled cautiously in answer to his question about the weekend. “It stank. I think Sam and I have finally figured out that it's not going to work anymore. The party's over. I was sick as a dog on Thanksgiving, and he was mad as hell. I keep thinking it reminds him of when his mother was dying and she took them all down with her, but he won't admit it. He just gets crazy and behaves like an asshole.

“Anyway, we've agreed to go our separate ways, while living under one roof, which should be a challenge. I don't have the energy to argue about it. We're going to review the situation in seven weeks, after Annabelle's birthday.”

“That sounds very civilized.”

“I guess it is,” she said sadly. “Actually, I think it sounds pathetic. It's amazing what two people can do to each other when they really try. I never thought this would happen to us, but I guess life is full of surprises.” She felt tired and old, and unable to fight him. She just didn't feel up to it. Although for the next two weeks she felt a lot better than she had before that. She had stopped taking the pills, according to her treatment plan, and she wasn't due for another intravenous treatment until two weeks before Christmas.

But when she started them again, she was just as sick as she had been the first time. It overwhelmed her particularly, because with all the problems in her life, she hadn't done her Christmas shopping, and suddenly she realized she just couldn't. She had the F.A.O. Schwarz catalog on her desk, and she had circled several things, but she didn't have the energy to shop for clothes or little gifts for Annabelle and Sam, or anything for her friends or colleagues.

“I feel like shit,” she admitted to Brock, as she lay on the couch in her office. He was used to seeing her that way now, and sometimes she worked with him while she lay down, and evaluated the information he gave her.

“What can I do for you?” he asked sympathetically. “Do you want me to do some shopping?”

“Since when do you have time for that?” They were both buried in an avalanche of new cases. She had passed a couple on to Matt, but she and Brock were trying to cover the others.

“I could go at night. The stores are open late. Why don't you give me a shopping list?” But she didn't even have time to answer him. She fled to the bathroom, throwing up, and it was half an hour later before she left the bathroom and could talk again.

And the following week, she had another intravenous treatment, which left her even weaker. It was only a week before Christmas, and she still hadn't bought a single present. But by then, Liz and Brock took the matter out of her hands for her. She was so sick that she had to stay home for a day, and Liz came and picked up her list at the apartment. She was sad to see her so ill. And when she got there, she found Alex in tears. She had been standing in front of her bathroom mirror and crying. Her hair was coming out in clumps, and she had fistfuls of long red hair in her hands when she came to the door to let Liz in.

“Look what's happening to me,” she sobbed. She knew that it had been a strong possibility, but she hadn't even had time to buy the wig Dr. Webber had suggested. She had spent the morning throwing up, and then gone to the mirror to see that her hair was falling out in bunches. “I can't stand it,” she sobbed, as Liz held her in her arms, trying to console her. “Why did this happen to me? It's not fair.” She was crying like a child, and Liz was glad she had come instead of Brock. He idolized her and it would have broken his heart to see her.

Liz led her into the living room, after Alex threw the hair away, and she sat sobbing in her bathrobe. She looked terrible, her face was pale, her eyes were red, there was a new puffiness to her face that one couldn't quite put a finger on, but something about her was different. She was still beautiful but she looked sick, very sick, and desperately unhappy.

“You have to be strong,” Liz reminded her firmly, determined not to let her wallow in self-pity.

“I have been strong,” Alex almost shouted at her, still sobbing. “And what's it done for me? Sam is as good as gone, I never even see him anymore. He comes in at midnight, or he doesn't come in at all, he lives in the guest room like a stranger, and the only time I ever see him is with my daughter. I'm sick all the time, she's scared of me now, and wait till she sees me without hair. The poor kid isn't even four years old yet, and she has a monster for a mother.”

“Stop it!” Liz snapped at her, and surprised Alex. “You have a lot to be grateful for, and this isn't going to last forever. You have five more months of this to get through, and then, if you're lucky, it'll be all over. And if Sam is a casualty of real life, then to hell with him. You have to think of yourself now, and your daughter. No one else. Do you understand that?” Alex nodded and blew her nose, surprised by the older woman's sternness, but she knew exactly what she was talking about. She'd been through it. Her husband had been more supportive of her than Sam but it had been her fight, and no one else's, and she said as much to Alex.

“Chemotherapy is miserable, and losing a breast is a terrible thing, but you can't give up. Your hair will grow back, you won't be throwing up forever. You have to look beyond this. Think of what you want to be doing in five months. Keep your mind on that, and not this, hold something out to yourself as a goal,” she suggested wisely.

“Not throwing up anymore would be a great place to start.”

“You'll get used to it eventually. That's a terrible thing to say, but it's true. Even that you can handle.”

“I know. I find myself on the bathroom floor now, kind of expecting to be there. It doesn't surprise me anymore.” And then she looked stricken again. “But losing my hair does. I know I should have expected it, but I guess I didn't.”

“Have you bought a wig yet?”

“I didn't have time,” Alex said, feeling sad and stupid.

“I'll get you one. A nice red one like your own hair.” Liz patted her shoulder. “Now where's this Christmas list of yours? I'm going to do what I can today, and then Brock and I are going to divide the rest of it tonight, and see if we can't get it all taken care of. I can finish it for you this weekend.” And Carmen had already promised to stay late to wrap the gifts. They were incredible. Who would have thought three months before that the three most important people in her life would turn out to be her housekeeper, her secretary, and her associate at the law firm? But they were all godsends. And she couldn't have made it without them.

She also would never have expected Sam to fail her. He hardly ever came home, and he stayed away from her, as though he couldn't handle it at all anymore. But whenever she saw him, he looked like he was hurrying out, and he was well dressed and looked very handsome.

Brock and Liz both came by late that night, with a treasure trove of goodies. She had called Brock at work and asked him to pick out a really nice handbag for Liz at Saks. He had bought a beautiful black lizard one, and they both agreed she was going to love it. They had bought beautiful things, and after Liz left, Brock stayed for a while, and had a cup of tea with her in her kitchen.

“Thank you for doing all this. I feel like such a burden to everyone.” But she had no choice, and she knew it. She had to accept that.

“It's not such a big deal,” he said quietly. “Going Christmas shopping for a friend is not exactly like climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, though I might do that for you too. But you'd have to give me a little warning.”

She smiled gratefully at him, he had been such a good friend, and it meant a lot to her. Staying home for a day had done her good too, and she didn't feel quite as rocky. But she was still feeling sensitive about her hair. She was wearing an Hermes scarf when they dropped by, and Liz had warned him about what had happened. She had wanted to get a wig for her, but she hadn't seen any decent ones, and Alex had said that she was going to get one the next morning.

“Are you alone here now?” Brock asked, referring to Sam, but she understood and shrugged.

“Most of the time.” In the past three weeks, he had traveled a lot and not come home much of the time. She hardly ever saw him. “I'm getting used to it. I think it's harder on Annabelle, though she sees more of him than I do.”

Brock realized it was going to be a tough Christmas for her, with her marriage on the rocks, and her health so frail, and now losing her hair as well as a breast. He felt sorry for her, and wished he could have changed it for her. He had been planning to go skiing in Vermont between Christmas and New Year's, and wondered if he should have offered to stay in town and keep her company, but he didn't think she'd accept it. And then he had a better idea.

“This might sound a little strange, but would you like to come to Vermont with me between Christmas and New Year's?” Knowing her treatment schedule as well as he did, it was easy to figure out that she would be in the better phase, when she was taking neither pills nor IV treatments. “You could bring Annabelle too. I'm staying in a house I borrow from friends every year, at Sugarbush. It's very rustic, but it's comfortable. You could sit by the fire all day, and I could put Annabelle in ski school.”

“Actually I think Sam is taking her away with him before he goes to Europe. I think they're going to Disney World.” But she couldn't imagine going to Vermont with Brock, no matter how sympathetic he was or how well she knew him. And Brock could easily see her hesitation.

“Why don't you think about it? It'll be lonely for you here.”

“All right,” she promised, but didn't really mean it.

He stayed for a little while, and then he left, and she went to bed, thinking how lucky she was to have such good friends. And the next morning she felt surprisingly better. Until she looked in the mirror again, and saw that more hair had fallen out during the night. There were three huge locks of it in her scarf, and she had a crazy urge to save it. And when she looked in the mirror, she saw that parts of her scalp were already showing. It made her cry again. She was losing everything. She didn't even feel like a woman now, just a thing, a body that was falling apart slowly. She hastily put her scarf back on before Annabelle came in, and she was surprised to see Sam with her when she went to make her breakfast. He had already given her cornflakes.

“You look pretty, Mommy,” Annabelle said, admiring a dark green suit, and a matching scarf she had found in a drawer. She actually looked very chic and very European.

“What's that all about?” He smiled at her, amused. She looked very glamorous, which was an unusual look for her at the office. “Going somewhere today?” he asked, purely conversationally. He was trying to be pleasant, and Alex knew it. He had no idea why she was wearing the scarf, and he wasn't sensitive enough to guess, so she didn't tell him.

“I have an appointment this morning.” She had an appointment at a wig store on Sixtieth Street where Dr. Webber had sent her. She said they had great styles and varied shades, and were very helpful with her kind of problem. “Do we need to talk about Christmas again?” Alex asked him across his paper. “I know Annabelle is going to be here with me, and then you're taking her, was it on the twenty-sixth? For a week?”

“I'm taking her to Disney World until the first, and then I'm flying back here, and leaving for Switzerland.” He smiled at Annabelle. “And I'll be back on her birthday.”

“Sounds like a tight schedule,” Alex said tartly, wondering where he was going. “Are you going to be here on Christmas with us, or do you have other plans?” she asked coldly as Annabelle's face fell.

“You're not going to be here, Daddy?”

“Of course I am,” he reassured her, and looked daggers at Alex. “We'll all be together for Christmas.” She looked immediately relieved, and Alex sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, fighting a wave of nausea. It was so exhausting being with him, and even being with Annabelle sometimes. They took so much from her. It took so much energy just giving them what they needed, and fighting for her survival and dignity with Sam. It was an uphill battle she just didn't have the strength for.

Sam took Annabelle to school, and Alex went straight downtown to the wig store. She felt hesitant when she walked in, but she was amazed at the extent of their selection. Dr. Webber had been right and in a very short time, Alex had picked out two very expensive wigs that looked just like her own hair, and then a shorter pageboy she really liked, and a really short one that looked like Annabelle's curls, all in her coppery natural color. She paid for them by check, and cautiously put one on. If anything it was even more lush and a little longer than her own hair, and it was beautifully styled and very glamorous. It was a great look with her green suit, and she tied the scarf around her neck and felt human again. It was amazing the difference hair made. She realized she had been stupid not to buy them sooner.

“Wow! Look at you!” Brock whistled as she walked into her office, and Liz smiled from ear to ear. She knew where Alex had been and she was pleased to see her looking as well as she did. She was still very pale, but she looked a lot better than she had the day before. “Did you go to the hairdresser?” Brock asked, and then suddenly felt stupid when he remembered what Liz had told him. For a moment, he'd forgotten.

“You could say that.”

“I like it,” he said admiringly, and Alex felt embarrassed suddenly at the way he looked at her. They had gotten so close over the last two months, but they were just friends. Yet once in a while she thought she saw something different in Brock's eyes, as though he was looking at her like a woman, not just a buddy, and it surprised her.

They went right to work and she got a good morning in, and then she lay down on her couch and dozed at lunchtime. Other people were going to Christmas lunches and parties with friends, but all Alex had the energy for was work, and spending time with her daughter.

She worked alone at her desk for the rest of the afternoon, and she met with two of her partners before she went home. Brock was going Christmas shopping again, and when she got home, Carmen was wrapping her presents. It made her feel useless and helpless, but she was too exhausted even to offer to help her.

Sam came home with a Christmas tree that night, and he stuck around long enough to decorate it, and then he left. And she sat alone, feeling depressed, remembering the Christmas before Annabelle was born, only four years before, and countless others. It all seemed so long ago, and like part of another world. It was incredible how much had changed since then. She sat in her bed that night, reading her mail, and trying not to think of Sam, when she noticed an invitation he had left open on the table. It was a Christmas party given by friends, and she put it aside to regret it. She didn't have the energy to go anywhere, certainly not to parties.

It took everything she could muster to take Annabelle to see Santa Claus at Macy's on Saturday, and by the time she got home, she was vomiting again, she was so exhausted. Carmen wasn't there, and after a little while Annabelle wandered into the bathroom to find her. Alex was lying there, on the floor, with her wig off, and her eyes closed. Almost all of her hair was gone now. It had fallen out in a matter of days, and the day before she had cut most of it off, there were just little tufts now, but even those were coming out daily. There was almost nothing left now.

“Mommy! Your hair fell off!” Annabelle screamed, seeing the wig on the floor next to her, and Alex jumped up with a start, she hadn't wanted her to see it. And Annabelle was crying as she looked at her, clutching her own head in terror, as Alex tried to console her.

“It's just a wig, sweetheart, it's okay. It's okay.” And then she saw Annabelle looking at her in horror. It wasn't a pretty sight, there was something sick about it, as the little sparse tufts stuck out here and there, and you could see her scalp all around them. Alex had almost wondered if she should shave it. “Remember, I told you Mommy's hair might fall out. It's okay, it'll grow back.” She was on her knees, holding her, but the little girl only sobbed harder. “I love you, please don't cry …” She hated the wig, and the reason for it. Everything was so wrong in her life suddenly. She wanted to blame it all on Sam but she knew she couldn't.

It took a long time to settle Annabelle down again, and when Carmen came in in the afternoon to babysit, she was still upset and Alex told her what had happened.

“It's all right, she'll get used to it.” Carmen patted Alex's arm. Alex had already put the wig on. She put on the shorter one that afternoon, and while Annabelle took a nap, Alex decided to get some air and go for a walk. Christmas was two days away, and she felt as though she had barely acknowledged it. Liz and Brock had done all her shopping for her, except for a beautiful dresser set she had Tiffany's send her for Sam, and an art book she'd been saving for him for ages. She hadn't been to any parties, or seen any friends. Other than their visit to Santa Claus, and the tree Sam and Annabelle had decorated, she hadn't paid any attention at all to Christmas.

“Will you be all right, going out, Mrs. Parker?” Carmen asked her with a look of concern.

“I'll be fine. I just want to walk up Madison for five minutes.”

“It's very cold, wear a hat!” she called out, and Alex smiled. She was wearing one of her wigs.

“I don't need one!”

She took the elevator downstairs, and thought about Christmas Eve. Sam had said he would be with them, but she'd hardly seen him all week, and she assumed he was going to the usual parties. He hadn't asked her to join him. He knew she wasn't up to it anyway, and they weren't going anywhere together. She had even declined an invitation from their closest friends to go caroling in Greenwich Village.

She stopped and looked at the shop windows on Madison, and the windows were especially pretty at Ralph Lauren. She was standing there looking at them, when a particularly striking girl came out the door and down the steps, laughing and talking in an English accent. She was wearing a short black coat, and she had fabulous legs in tall black suede boots. And she was wearing a huge sable hat that made her look very romantic. And then she turned to someone and Alex smiled as she saw him stoop to kiss her. It reminded her of years before, and her and Sam. He even looked a little like him. He was wearing a well-cut navy blue coat, and their arms were full of packages wrapped in bright red paper with gold bows. There was something achingly bittersweet about the pair, they looked so young and so in love. They kissed again, and then Alex saw the man looking down at the girl in the hat, and as she looked, she realized who the man was. It was Sam. Her mouth opened and she stared at him, realizing suddenly what had happened. He was in love with someone else, and she couldn't help wondering how long it had gone on, and if it had happened even before she got sick. What if it was all a setup? What if he'd used her sickness as an excuse to leave her?

She wanted to tear her eyes away from them, but she couldn't bring herself to, as he tucked a hand into the woman's arm and they crossed the street to another store as Alex watched them. They had no idea she was there, and Sam had no clue that she had seen him.

They walked into another shop, and Alex felt tears rolling down her cheeks as she realized that it really was all over between them. She couldn't compete with that. The girl looked twenty-five, and even Sam looked suddenly younger. At first, looking at him, she had thought he was thirty, not fifty. She hurried back up Madison then, not hearing the carolers, or the Santa Clauses ringing bells, or seeing the people or the Christmas trees or the windows. She saw nothing except her own life, lying in shards around her.

She was back at the apartment half an hour after she'd left it, looking worse instead of better. She was deathly pale, and her hands shook violently as she hung up her coat, and walked somberly into her bedroom. She closed the door and lay down on the bed, wondering how she would ever face him again. That was why he had wanted his freedom. It had all been a sham, a game, saying that he needed time. What he had needed was a new woman. And he had one.

She walked into the bathroom then, and stood looking at herself in the mirror. To her own eyes, she looked a hundred years old, and as she slowly pulled the wig off, she saw what she had become. She was disfigured and bald. She had cancer, she had lost a breast, and her hair. She thought of the girl she had seen with him, and knew the ugliest of truths. She was no longer a woman.

Chapter 15

Sam came home to them early on Christmas Eve, after he put Daphne on a plane to London. She was going to visit her parents, and her little boy, and Sam was going to join her in Gstaad after he took Annabelle to Disney World and then brought her back to her mother.

He had given Daphne a spectacular diamond bracelet before she left, and a ruby heart pin that he had bought for her at Fred Leighton. Sam had always been generous and he had bought something pretty for Alex too, though nothing quite as important. He had bought her a very handsome Bulgari watch that he knew she'd wanted for a while, but none of the thoughtful little things that expressed his interest and affection. He didn't want to mislead her.

There was no avoiding the fact that Christmas was different this year. No matter what efforts they made, even Annabelle seemed to feel it, and she cried after they put out the cookies for Santa, and the salt and carrots for his reindeer.

“What if he doesn't bring me what I asked for?” she cried, and both Sam and Alex tried to console her. But she was inconsolable and she finally admitted that she was afraid he'd be angry at her because this year she had asked him for something a little “harder.” “I asked him to make my Mommy better right away so she can stop taking her medicine, and bring her hair back.” Hearing her words made Alex cry so hard she had to turn away, and even Sam had a hard time with that one.

“What did he say to you?” Sam asked hoarsely. She had asked him that when Alex had taken her to see Santa at Macy's.

“He said that was up to God, not Santa.”

“He's right, Princess,” Sam explained while Alex blew her nose and adjusted her wig. She was wearing the long one. “But Mommy will get better anyway, and she'll get her hair back.” Sam was surprised to hear about her hair, he hadn't realized she'd lost it. Alex had never told him. It made him realize how out of touch he was. He had been so wrapped up in Daphne and their love affair for the last month, that he hadn't focused on anything else. He hadn't wanted to know what was going on at home, and he hadn't even paid serious attention to what was happening at the office.

Larry and Tom had heckled him a couple of times, and Simon seemed pleased for him. But Larry had said something to him about how sorry he and Frances were about Alex. He seemed to imply that he was sorry about “them” too. It was obvious, because of Daphne, that they had problems in their marriage. But Sam was anything but sorry. And he figured that his partners were just jealous of him. It never occurred to him that they thought it was rotten of him to leave Alex now, when she was battling chemotherapy and cancer.

Eventually, Annabelle calmed down again, and they put her to bed together. She seemed so happy to see them that way that it tore at Alex's heart. Later when they went out to the kitchen, Sam looked embarrassed.

“I didn't realize you'd lost your hair,” Sam said, as he helped himself to one of Santa's cookies. They had less of everything this year. Fewer cookies, fewer Christmas cakes, fewer presents, less cheer. Even their Christmas tree seemed smaller. With Alex sick, no one else had put in the same effort. And they hadn't sent Christmas cards either. She didn't have the energy, and she wouldn't have known how to sign them. From Alex …and maybe Sam …sort of.

“I didn't think you'd want me to announce it, about my hair,” Alex said, trying not to think of the woman she'd seen him with the day before. The hardest thing was that it was obvious that it wasn't a casual affair. When she'd seen them together, they looked married.

“It'll grow back,” he said, feeling helpless again. He always felt inadequate and uncomfortable around her.

“My hair will. Our marriage won't,” she said sadly. She knew they had agreed not to discuss it for another month, but it was difficult not to.

“Are you sure of that?” He looked her in the eye, and waited for her answer.

“Aren't you? I get the impression you've already made your mind up.” She had certainly gotten that impression watching him with the English girl outside Ralph Lauren.

“You can never be sure. It's hard not to remember the good times.”

“They don't seem that long ago to me,” she said honestly. “Maybe you were unhappy for longer than I was.”

“I don't think unhappy's the right word. Confused. I've been confused ever since you got sick. It changed you.” It wasn't even an accusation. It was a statement. And for him, it justified his behavior and was a ticket to freedom.

“I think it changed both of us. I don't suppose things like this ever leave you where they found you. It's a long, hard road to survival.”

“It must be terrible,” he said, sympathetic for the first time. He was gentler these days, she realized now. Falling in love had mellowed him. But she didn't find that as touching as she might have. “You've been through an awful lot.”

“With more to come,” she smiled. “Four and a half months exactly.”

“And then what?”

“Then I wait to see if I get a recurrence. Five years seems to be the magic number. Supposedly I had the right kind of tumor for the good odds, and the chemo is supposed to give me extra insurance. I guess you just go on with your life, and try not to think about it. The women I know who've survived for a long time claim that they don't think about it anymore except when they go in once a year for routine checkups. I'd like to be there now. This is still pretty scary.” It was the first real conversation they'd had in three months, and she was amazed he was willing to talk about it. Whoever the girl was, she had almost made him human. But Alex didn't feel grateful to her, only envious and sad, and angry.

“If you get a recurrence,” he tried to sound encouraging, “you just fight it again, I guess.”

“Not likely,” she said matter-of-factly, wishing she could take her wig off. It was very itchy. But she wouldn't have dared to let him see how she looked now. “Except for very rare cases, you don't survive recurrences. You die. That's why they're so aggressive the first time, about treatment.” He understood it better now, but he was shocked by what she had told him. He didn't think he'd heard it quite so bluntly before, or maybe he just hadn't listened. Seeing her now, after being with Daphne, tore at his heartstrings, but nothing else. For him, the rest was over. All he felt for her now was pity, and tenderness for the memories of better times.

“What are you doing while Annabelle's away?” he asked, trying to change the subject. It was getting a little heavy for him.

“Nothing. Sleep, rest, work. My social life is not exactly overactive these days. I only have so much energy. I use it on Annabelle and my cases.”

“Why don't you go away? It might do you good. Or can you do that?”

“I could. I get a two-week break from treatment every month, but I'd rather stay here.” She didn't want to go away with Brock, though he had invited her. In spite of their close working relationship, she hardly knew him. And she didn't want to go alone. There was no point. She was better off in her own apartment, her own bed, with her own things, close to her doctor, if she had a problem. She was very introverted these days, and very dependent on the familiar. There were too many frightening elements in her life now to make her open to new ones.

“I hate to think of you here alone,” he said guiltily. It was odd, now that Daphne was gone, he suddenly felt more responsible for Alex. It was like an illness, pulling him this way and that, and he didn't really like it. He was happy that he was taking Annabelle away the day after Christmas.

“I'll be fine. I really don't want to go anywhere. And I've got plenty at the office to keep me busy.”

“There's more to life than work,” he said with a smile, and she looked right at him in answer.

“Is there, Sam?”

He walked out of the kitchen then without giving her an answer. But he wondered if she had a sixth sense about Daphne, or if someone had told her. He doubted it. She was too involved with herself right now to even think there was someone else. She couldn't possibly suspect it.

All of Annabelle's presents were wrapped and hidden in a locked closet. They set them out under the tree shortly after nine, and then they retired to their own rooms, like strangers. She read for a little while, and she heard the phone ring at midnight. But she let him answer. She knew it wouldn't be for her. And she was right. It was Daphne, freshly arrived in London, and missing him already. It made him feel wonderful talking to her, and when he did, he realized again how much it depressed him to be around Alex. She wasn't exactly fun these days. She seemed to have given up on life, and everything about her seemed to be falling away and dying, her spirits, her hair, their marriage. He knew he should be more supportive, but he just couldn't.

“I miss you terribly, darling,” Daphne reassured him. “I'm not going to be able to bear it without you. You'll have to hurry over. My God, it's cold here.” She had forgotten the miseries of the bitter London winter, and the heat in her flat wasn't working. All she had was the fireplace, she complained, and no Sam to keep her warm.

“Stop,” he said, almost wincing with the pain of missing her, “or I'm going to get on the next Concorde.”

“I wish you would.” But they both knew he couldn't. They both had to fulfill their parental duties. “I can't bear it.”

They hung up finally, and his whole body keened for her, as he lay in bed and thought of the remarkable young woman who had changed his whole life since Thanksgiving. He had never known anyone quite like her. Even Alex, at her best, had never had that much passion.

Annabelle woke at six a.m. on Christmas Day, and it was a long, happy day for her, and a nice one for Sam and Alex. Annabelle loved all her gifts and Sam was touched by the lavishness of Alex's gift to him, and he said he loved it. She liked the watch, although she understood the message he had been giving her, that this was no longer a time for personal gifts between them, and the clarity of it hurt her feelings. But other than that, they had a very nice time together.

She managed to cook a roast beef and popovers for all of them, and to conceal how sick she felt through most of it. But it wasn't nearly as disastrous as Thanksgiving. She lay down afterwards to rest, and just for the fun of it, since they were at home, she wore her short wig, and she and Annabelle looked like twins. Sam even said he liked it.

She wore a red sweater and black suede pants, and she looked surprisingly pretty. Her face had filled out a little bit, and she had gained some weight, but not enough to object to. It was odd, given how sick she had been, but that was what Dr. Webber had predicted.

They went out for a brief walk that afternoon, and Sam hailed a cab and took them to Rockefeller Center to watch the skaters. But looking at them only reminded him again of Daphne.

Alex was exhausted then, and they had to take a taxi home. It was obvious that she couldn't go a step further, and he even had to help her to her bedroom. Her joints were aching, and she was too exhausted to go another step without assistance.

“Is Mommy all right?” Annabelle asked worriedly, and he nodded, torn between sympathy for his wife, and anger over the anxiety she caused their daughter with her illness.

“She's fine,” he said firmly.

“Will she be all right when we're in Florida?”

“She'll be perfect. Carmen will be here to take care of her.” She found his answers very reassuring, and later Alex got up to pack Annabelle's suitcase. It was fun packing all her little things, but suddenly, as she did, Alex felt a wave of panic come over her. What if a day came when she could no longer take care of her, and Annabelle had to go to live with Sam? What if she lost her, too? Just thinking of it made her feel ill again, and as she sat down, her whole body was shaking. She forced herself to get up again after that, and finish packing the suitcase. She was not going to let anything like that happen, she was not going to lose her to Sam, or that woman. Fearing that made her stay up for dinner with them that night, although she was truly exhausted after all the efforts of Christmas. But she had dinner with them, and then went to bed, and slept until her alarm went off in the morning.

She helped Annabelle dress, and reminded her to have a good time, and call when she felt like it, and swim, and have a great time with Daddy. And then she pulled her close to her, and held her as though she were afraid she might never see her again. Sensing her mother's panic, Annabelle started to cry when she left her, and they clung to each other for a long time. Annabelle knew how much her mother loved her, and instinctively felt how alone she was.

“I love you,” Alex called, with tears in her eyes, as they got in the elevator, and Sam looked at her with the familiar annoyance, as Annabelle cried softly.

“She'll be fine,” he reminded Annabelle again as they went down in the elevator with their bags, angry that he even had to reassure her. Alex had no business clinging to her and scaring her the way she did. It brought back all the same feelings of resentment he'd had since October, and ever since his own mother had died years before. For Sam it was a relief to get away from her. Just being around her was depressing, no matter how hard she tried.

They got in a cab for La Guardia, and by die time they were gone, Alex was standing alone in her bedroom, feeling lost without them. She had seen more of Sam in the last two days than she'd seen of him in the past month, and in some ways it had been pleasant, but in others it was very painful. It was like forcing herself to look at something she could no longer have, and reminding herself of all the reasons why she had loved it. Even after he had hurt her so much and failed her so badly, she still had to remind herself to stop loving him now. Caring about him was destructive and having seen him with the English girl, she knew there was no point hanging on. It was a relief now that he was gone.

After a little while, she washed the breakfast dishes and made Annabelle's bed. Carmen was not coming in. Without Annabelle, Alex had said she didn't need any help, and she had given her the day off. Alex wandered aimlessly around the apartment, and finally went to her bathroom to take a shower. She was trying to talk herself into getting dressed, and going out for a walk, so she wouldn't feel so lonely. But even thinking of it reminded her of seeing Sam with the English girl only three days before. And suddenly she didn't want to. She wanted to go back to bed, and sleep all day. She had nothing to do anyway, since she wasn't going in to the office. But a certain Spartan spirit told her to at least take a shower and get dressed. And to that end, she pulled off her wig, and happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The last of her hair had just come out, and she was suddenly completely bald, without a single hair on her head. The last of it lay in the wig she dropped on her sink, and as she took off her dressing gown, and slipped her nightgown off, she suddenly stood staring at herself, and realized how she must look to Sam. She was bald, she was scarred. The missing breast was a slab of white flesh now, with a narrow pink scar and no nipple. She didn't even look like a man. She was even less than that. She looked like a nothing, like a mannequin, with no hair and one breast, the kind that you find lying disassembled on the floor in department stores on the day that they change the windows.

She started to cry as she saw herself, and realized that not only Sam was gone but Annabelle. She had already lost her husband, and eventually she might lose her daughter. It was as though she were being stripped of everything she had ever been or loved or wanted. The only thing left to her was her work, and she couldn't even do that the way she had once done it. She was like a broken bird, limping to earth, stripped, and dying. She felt ugly, useless, and sick. She almost wondered if it wouldn't be easier to die, to just give up now, before she lost even more than she already had. Why wait until the rest was taken from her? Until Sam told her he wanted a divorce so he could marry that girl, and Annabelle fell in love with her. Why wait for them to kill her? Or leave her all alone.

She just stood crying, staring at herself, and in the distance, she heard the phone, but she didn't bother to answer. Her stomach revolted finally from all the anguish of her illness and her realizations, and naked, she knelt on the floor and began vomiting, and eventually there was only retching. It was all too familiar now. It was what she had become, a broken machine that could only spew bile. There was nothing left of her. And when it was over, she lay on the floor and cried until finally, she went back to bed, just as she was, and lay curled under the covers. She ate nothing all day, and Sam and Annabelle never called. They were too busy having fun at Disney World. They had moved on, toward life, in a world of sunshine, while she lay alone in the dark shadows of her own winter. She lay crying in the dark, until the emptiness in her stomach made her sick again, and she went back to the bathroom. It was an endless day of vomiting and tears, and always the bald ghost she saw in the mirror. She didn't even bother to turn the lights on, but still she saw her.

And then the phone rang again late that afternoon, but she still didn't bother to answer. She was too sick, too tired, too crazy, too willing to die, even to reach out to anyone who would call her. Annabelle didn't need her now. She had Sam. No one needed her. She was nothing. No one. Not even a woman.

The phone rang incessantly, as she lay in her bed, in tears wishing it would stop ringing, but it just wouldn't. She reached out finally, and picked it up, without speaking.

“Hello?”

She knew the voice, but she wasn't thinking clearly.

“Hello, Alex?” the voice repeated.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded vague and disjointed. “Who is this?”

“It's Brock Stevens.” It didn't sound like her, and he wondered if she had gotten a lot sicker, or gone back for additional treatment.

“Hi, Brock.” Her voice sounded dead, and he was worried. “Where are you?” She sounded as though she didn't care, but she knew she had to say something.

“I'm in Connecticut, with friends. I wanted to ask you about Vermont again. I'm going up tomorrow.” She smiled. He was sweet. But he was also very stupid. She was dying. Why did he need a dying friend? It was a waste of time to help her.

“I can't make it. I have work to do.”

“No one's going to work this week, and we caught up on everything.”

“Okay,” she smiled weakly, overpowered by nausea again. Not eating earlier had made her sicker and she knew it. “I'm a liar. But I can't go anyway.”

“Is your little girl there?” he asked, unwilling to let her off the hook without a fight. He wanted her to go with him. He thought it would do her good, and Liz had agreed with him when he asked her. Alex needed to get away, and the fresh air would be healthy for her as long as she didn't overdo it.

“Annabelle's in Florida,” she answered his question. “And Sam's probably with his girlfriend,” she threw in for good measure. She was a little giddy from lack of food and water.

“Did he tell you that?” He sounded annoyed when he asked her. He thought her husband was a complete jerk, and he didn't deserve her. But even as a friend, he felt he couldn't say that.

“I saw them together, the day before Christmas Eve. She's very young, and very pretty.” She sounded almost drunk, and Brock got suddenly even more worried about her. “And I'm sure she has two of everything. Sam hates anything that isn't perfect.”

“Alex, are you okay?” he asked, glancing at his watch, and wondering how long it would take him to get into the city to see her. Or he could call Liz, and she could go over. He was contemplating doing one or the other. He didn't like the way she sounded, especially since she was alone. There was always the possibility that in light of her present state of mind, she might do something crazy.

“I'm fine,” she said, lying very still with her eyes closed, so she wouldn't vomit. “The rest of my hair fell out today. It looks a lot neater.”

“Why don't you just rest for a while. I'll give you a call in about an hour. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said sleepily. She hung up and forgot about him. She wanted to forget everything. Maybe if she just starved herself for six days until Annabelle came home, she'd be dead when they found her. It was a lot easier than dying by chemo. She drifted off to sleep, and a little while later, she heard an alarm, or a bell, or a sound. She tried to ignore it for a long time, and then she realized it was her doorbell. She couldn't imagine who it was, and she tried to ignore it some more, but it wouldn't stop. And then someone started pounding on the door, so she put her dressing gown on, and went to the door and looked through the peephole. It was Brock Stevens. She was so surprised, she opened it and they stood staring at each other, she in her beige cashmere robe and he in a heavy sweater and parka, corduroy pants, and heavy boots. There was a smell of fresh air about him, and he looked very worried when he saw her.

“I was worried sick about you,” he said as she stood there.

“Why?” She looked a little vague and she was weaving, but he knew her well enough to know she hadn't been drinking. She was just very sick and probably hadn't eaten. She stepped aside to let him in and he followed her into the living room, and then she saw herself in the mirror and realized she hadn't put on her wig. “Shit,” she said, and looked up at him like a little kid, “there goes that.”

“You look like Sinead O'Connor, only better.”

“I can't sing.”

“Neither can I,” he said, still looking at her, thinking that she really looked like Audrey Hepburn. She was even beautiful without her hair, it was so simple and so unadorned. All the beauty of her face stood out like some exquisite being from another world. There was a luminousness to her that never failed to touch him. “What happened?” he asked her. It was obvious that something had. It was as though she were trying to let go and die. And she was. But even over the phone, he had sensed it.

“I don't know. I saw myself in the mirror this morning, and Annabelle was gone, and I was sick again …it's just too much to fight anymore …Sam and his other woman …it's all such a mess. It's just too much trouble,” she said honestly, and he looked angry.

“So you gave up. Is that it?” He was shouting at her, and she looked startled.

“I have a right to make my own choices,” she said sadly.

“Do you? You have a little girl, and even if you didn't have her, you have an obligation to yourself, not to mention the people who love you. You need to fight this, Alex. It won't go away for a while. It's not going to be easy. But you can't just lie here and die, because it's ‘too much trouble.' ”

“Why not?” she said, sounding strangely disassociated from everything. Even him.

“Because I say so. Have you eaten today?” he asked, sounding savage. And not surprisingly, she shook her head in answer. “Go put some clothes on. I'll make something to eat.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“I don't care. I'm not going to listen to this bullshit.” He grabbed her shoulders then, and shook her gently. “I don't give a damn what anyone has done to you, or what you think about your life right now. Stripped down to bare bones, with one breast or two, and bald as an eagle, you have an obligation to fight for your life, Alex Parker. For you. For yourself. For no one else. It's a precious commodity. And the rest of us need you. But when you look in the mirror, and you don't like what you see, you remember that that woman is you. All the trappings mean nothing. You are exactly who you were before all this happened. If anything, you're more, not less. Don't forget that.” She was in awe of him as he stood there, lecturing her, and without a sound, she walked to her bathroom. She took off her dressing gown and turned on the shower, and then she stood there for a long time, looking into the mirror, and she saw the same woman she had seen there that morning, the same broken bird, the woman with the scar where her breast had been, the woman with no hair, but as she looked at her, she knew that he was right. Not for Annabelle, not for Sam, not for him, or anyone, she had to fight. For herself, for what she had been, and could be, and always would be. She could lose a breast and her hair, but she couldn't lose herself. Sam couldn't take that away from her. She cried softly then, thinking of what Brock had just taught her, and she turned on the shower, and let it run across her head and down her shoulders, and in warm sheets across her body.

She put jeans and a sweater on, and the short wig she had left on the sink that morning, after she shook her own hair out of it. And then she walked into the kitchen barefoot.

“You don't have to wear a wig for me,” he smiled, “unless it makes you feel better.”

“I feel weird without it,” she admitted.

He had made scrambled eggs and toast and fried potatoes. The potatoes were too much for her, but she struggled with the toast and the scrambled eggs, and managed to eat a little. But she didn't want to push her luck and spend the rest of the night sick in the bathroom. Her stomach was a disaster but she suspected that for once Sam was right, and it was due to emotions.

They sat quietly together in the kitchen for a while, and then Alex told him that Annabelle had loved all her presents.

“It was fun buying them,” he said, “I like kids.” He smiled at her, relieved to see her eating.

“Then why aren't you married?” she asked, toying with her eggs.

“Bartlett and Paskin never gives me time,” he grinned, looking boyish and very handsome.

“We'll have to start lightening your caseload,” she teased him.

They talked for a while, about what the holidays had been like, and how difficult things had been with Sam, and then he cleared the dishes.

“You don't have to do that, Brock. I can do it later.”

“Sure, why not? Able to leap buildings in a single bound, right? So what about Vermont? I didn't come here for my health, you know. I came here for yours.” He looked her straight in the eye, and as always she was grateful to him.

“I don't think so.”

“I'm not giving up. Liz thinks it would be good for you too,” he said firmly.

“What is this? A committee?” She laughed, amused suddenly but touched too. “Doesn't anyone care what I think?”

“Frankly, no.” He discounted her veto completely.

“Don't you have anyone real to spend this week with?”

“You look pretty real to me,” he said, with a determined look, and she shook her head and pointed at her wig.

“Don't let this piece of fluff fool you. I'm too tired to ski, I'm too old to woo, I'm too sick to be fun, and besides, I'm married.”

“Not from the sound of it, or not for long anyway.” He was being very blunt with her and she was still laughing.

“That's a nice thing to say. Well, let's say, I'm used goods.” And then she looked at him in amusement. “Are you telling me you're asking me as your date?” It was obvious she didn't believe that, and he laughed too.

“No. But if it makes you feel better to think that, be my guest. I'm asking you as a buddy, a buddy who would like to see you get that pale face in some sunshine, and sit in front of a fire and keep warm and drink hot chocolate, and go to sleep at night, knowing she's with friends, and not alone in a lonely apartment in the city.”

“You make it sound pretty good, for a kid your age.”

“It is. And I have a lot of experience in the care and feeding of old bags like you. My sister was, is, ten years older than I am.”

“Give her my condolences,” she grinned. “You sure make it difficult to refuse.”

“That's why I came to see you,” he said, looking down at her with a gentle smile, and she was reminded again of how much she liked him.

“I thought you came for a free meal,” she said, still laughing at him.

“I did, but I came to talk to you too.”

“It must have been pretty boring in Connecticut.” She was relentless with him and he was loving it. They knew each other well, and had fun together.

“It was boring in Connecticut. So are you coming, or what?”

“You mean I have a choice? I was beginning to think you were going to throw me over your shoulder and take me.”

“I might, if you don't act right.”

“You're really crazy, you know. The last thing you need, is me puking on you all the way to Vermont, and then sick as a dog when we get there.”

“I'm used to it by now,” he smiled, “I wouldn't know what to do without it.”

“You're nuts.”

“You're cute, and this is what friends are for.”

“Is it?” she said, touched by him again. “I thought they were only to Christmas shop, and do all your cases for you, and peel you off the bathroom floor when you're sick.” It was what husbands were supposed to be for, but hers wasn't.

“Just shut up and pack your suitcase. You're embarrassing me.”

“That's impossible.”

“I'll pick you up at eight, or is that too early?” He looked suddenly worried about her.

“It's fine. Are you sure?” she asked him again. “What if you want to pick up girls?”

“It's a big house. I'll lock you in your room. I promise.” They were both smiling as she walked him to the door. She couldn't believe she had let him talk her into it, but she was looking forward to it suddenly. She knew she had four and a half months of sickness ahead of her, but something had happened to her. He had saved her spirit. She wanted to go with him, wanted to cling to life. But more than anything now, she wanted to make it. She knew she had to.

Chapter 16

The days in Vermont were the happiest Alex had had in ages, ever since before her sickness. She had called Sam and Annabelle to let them know she was there, and Sam sounded surprised to hear it.

“I didn't know you could still travel,” he said, sounding concerned. “Are you sure it's all right for you to be there? Who's with you?”

“A friend from work. I'm fine. I'll see you in New York on New Year's Day.” She gave him the number, but they never called her.

The house Brock had borrowed was simple, but very cozy. There were four bedrooms, and a kind of dormitory. He gave her the biggest room upstairs, and he took a small one downstairs so he wouldn't disturb her. And they sat around together like old friends, reading and doing crossword puzzles, and having snowball fights like two children.

She went for long walks in the snow with Brock, and she even tried skiing one day, but it was too much for her. After the chemo, she just didn't have the strength. But she felt healthier than she had in weeks. She only had one really bad day. But she stayed in bed, and by evening she was better.

He found an old sled in the garage the day after they arrived and he pulled her around, so she wouldn't get too tired.

He cooked dinner for her at night, and when she told him to go out with friends, he only laughed at her and told her he was too tired. He liked staying home with her. But one night they even went to Chez Henri for dinner, where they had a lovely time, and by the end of the week, Alex was feeling a lot better again. She was at the better end of her chemo, which meant it would be time for another treatment soon, but fortunately not yet. She had never had a nicer vacation, and they became fast friends and spent a lot of their time laughing.

Another day, they met for lunch at the lodge after he skied. She kept pointing out pretty girls to him, and then she discreetly showed him a handful of attractive young skiers, whom she felt he should be with instead of her.

“They're fourteen years old for chrissake. Are you trying to get me arrested?” They were both laughing again.

“They are not! They're twenty-five if they're a day,” she said, pretending to look outraged.

“Same thing.” But even the thirty-year-olds didn't appeal to him. He was happy with Alex. But he never put the make on her, or made her feel uncomfortable. And they talked about Sam a lot. She admitted to him how much it had hurt her when she saw him with the girl at Ralph Lauren.

“I think I'd probably have killed him. Or her,” Brock said, but Alex only shook her head.

“There's no point. It's over. It's not her fault. It just happened. And I guess when I look at myself in the mirror now, I understand it.”

“That's bullshit.” He got angry when she said things like that. “What if it had happened to him? If he'd lost an arm, or a leg, or a testicle? Would you have cashed him in?”

“No. But we're different. And I guess this … is a symbol of femininity. I'm not sure a lot of men weather this well. Not all husbands are like Liz's.” But she had admitted they had had their rough spots too.

“I don't think you fuck up your marriage because your wife loses a breast, or her hair, or a shoe for chrissake. How can you accept that?” Brock was outraged.

But Alex looked over at him with a wise smile. She was ten years older than he was. “I don't have a choice at the moment. The guy's not buying, Brock. It's as simple as that. The store's closed. He's taken his business elsewhere.”

“And that's it? You give up?” He was shocked at her lack of spirit.

“What do you suggest I do? Shoot her?”

“Shoot him,” he said matter-of-factly. “He deserves it.”

“You're a romantic,” she accused him.

“So are you,” he accused her right back.

“So what? It won't pay my rent, or keep my husband. The guy hates deformities. He hates disease. He can't even look at me. He saw me once after the surgery and almost fainted. I make him sick. This is not a great foundation for a happy marriage.”

“Face it. The guy's a coward.”

“Maybe so. But he has great taste in women. She's an awfully pretty girl, Brock. Actually, she's the right age for you. Maybe you should go sweep her off her feet, and provide some stiff competition. He didn't tell her that he'd rather have swept her off her feet. It didn't seem the right moment. And she was so at ease with him, he didn't want to spoil that.

They spent New Year's Eve at the house, watching TV, and eating popcorn, talking about their life's dreams, their careers, what they hoped to find in the years to come. She wished him a wife who would take care of him, and he wished her health and happiness in whatever form she wished it. And at midnight, they sang “Auld Lang Syne” in perfect unison. And then she went up to bed, and thought about their friendship, and the precious rarity of good friends.

They were both sad to leave the next day, but she looked infinitely better than she had when they arrived. Something had changed subtly about her. There was more energy, more fight than there had been for a long time. She was suddenly determined to survive her cancer.

She was quiet on the drive home, thinking of seeing Sam again, even if only for one night. She knew he was leaving for Europe the next day, and she assumed she knew why. To meet his little friend there. Brock asked her from time to time if she was all right, and she said she was, but she was very pensive. He held hands with her for a while, driving on the freeway, to comfort her. He was her friend, and her colleague. They were pals.

They got home late in the afternoon, and he looked genuinely sad when he dropped her off at her apartment. She sat in the car for a minute, looking at him, and she didn't know how to even begin to thank him.

“You gave me my life back, you know. I had a great time.”

“So did I.” And then he touched her cheek gently with his fingers. “Don't let anyone make you feel like less than you. You're the greatest woman I know.” He had tears in his eyes when he said it, and she was touched by him again. He had a way of getting to her heart with very little effort.

“I love you, you know. And you're very silly. The great one around here is you. You're going to make some lucky girl a terrific husband.”

“I'm waiting for Annabelle,” he said with a grin she loved. The one that made him look fourteen again.

“She's a lucky girl. Thanks again, Brock.” She kissed him on the cheek and the doorman took her bag.

And when Sam and Annabelle came home that night, they found Alex looking infinitely better.

Annabelle was full of tales of Disney World. She was yawning and laughing and half asleep all at the same time. And she barely made it to her pillow, as she kissed Alex.

“It sounds like she had a great time,” Alex said, smiling at Sam. He could see something different about her too. Nothing had changed but it was as though she had made peace with herself and what was happening.

“I had a great time too,” Sam said. “She's good company. I hated to bring her back.”

“I really missed her,” Alex admitted to him, but neither of them claimed to have missed the other. That was gone now too. The pretense that they still had a marriage. They both knew they didn't.

He packed his bags that night, and left for London the next morning while Annabelle and Alex had breakfast. He promised to call once he got to Switzerland, and Annabelle reminded him to be back for her birthday. And then she looked at Alex in surprise after he left and pointed out that Sam had forgotten to kiss her mother. But she didn't ask why this time. She knew. Even Annabelle could tell the difference.

The rest of the week flew by, Alex managed to take her to ballet, and to spend a quiet weekend with her, and the following Monday the nightmare began again. It was time for another intravenous treatment. And this time she was even sicker than usual. The first one of the month always hit her hard, especially combined with the Cytoxan pills. By the time she got back to the office, she felt as though she were dying. She had had to go home early in the afternoon, and when Annabelle saw her she cried, watching her mother throw up mercilessly, and she was shocked to see her with her wig off.

Alex went to work the next day, but it was an endless day for her, and by five o'clock she crawled home. This time it was Carmen who was in tears, and all Alex could get out of her at the door was a flood of hysterical Spanish. But the moment she saw Annabelle she understood it. She had cut her beautiful red curls to the scalp, trying to look more like her mother.

“Oh baby, why did you do it?” Alex cried, sick and exhausted, wondering how she would explain it to her father.

“I want to look like you,” Annabelle cried, feeling guilty over what she'd done, and frightened over her mother's illness. And her father had been gone for a week by then, and that made her nervous too.

Alex tried to explain her illness to Annabelle again, and they read Mommy's Getting Better, but none of it seemed to help. Alex was too sick to put much conviction or energy into her explanations and Annabelle was just too upset to be reasonable. Even her school had just called Alex to say she was having a very hard time, and talked a lot about her mother's treatments and illness. She didn't express it, but her teacher felt that Annabelle was terrified her mother was going to die. And Alex was almost too sick and frightened to help her, and neither of them got any real support on the subject from Sam.

And worse yet, it seemed as though each month the chemotherapy made Alex more sick instead of less. And by the end of the week, she couldn't even make it to the office, but she still had to organize Annabelle's birthday party. And she knew how important that was. Annabelle needed normalcy and the reassurance of familiar goings-on. And she had looked forward to her birthday for a long time.

Once again, Liz bought most of the presents for her, and the paper goods. But when the day came, the bakery sent the wrong cake, and Alex had forgotten to call the clown. Annabelle's best friend got the flu, and so did three more of her friends, and her party slowly fell apart. The entire day was a disaster, even with Carmen's help, and Alex cried when she saw the disappointment in Annabelle's eyes.

Sam had flown in late the night before, and he was jet-lagged and cranky, and obviously not pleased to be back, and when he saw Annabelle's chopped-off hair, he went absolutely crazy.

”How could you let her do something like that? How could you? Why did you ever let her see you without the wig?” he raged.

“I was throwing up and it was on the floor, for God's sake, Sam. I can't worry about how I look every minute. I'm sick.” She didn't realize it but Annabelle was listening to them argue with frightened eyes.

“Then she shouldn't be with you,” he accused, and with a look of absolute terror, Alex hauled off and slapped him, as Annabelle began to cry out loud, but still her parents battled on.

“Don't you ever say that to me! She's not going anywhere! And don't you forget that!” Alex yelled at him and he shouted back.

“You're in no condition to take care of her,” he roared as Annabelle flew into her mother's arms.

“Oh yes, I am,” Alex snarled at him, “and if you lay a hand on her, you sonofabitch, I'm going to hit you with the biggest fucking discrimination suit you've ever dreamed of. She's staying with me. Is that clear?” She clung to her child, shaking, as Sam glared at her in fury.

“Then keep your wig on.” He backed down only slightly in the face of Alex's threats, and his daughter's sobs. She didn't want to be taken away from her Mommy, but she also hated it whenever they fought. She knew it was probably her fault, but she was never quite sure why.

It was a rough night for all of them, and Sam left as soon as Annabelle went to bed. But the next day, he and Alex sat down and talked in earnest. This wasn't working out. It was time for him to move out, and they both knew it. Their battle in front of Annabelle the day before had shaken them both. But he absolutely amazed her by saying he didn't think he should go until she finished her treatments. As far as he was concerned, the business of Annabelle's hair seemed to prove that. He felt he needed to be there to help watch her, and keep her from getting distraught while her mother was still sick and in treatment.

“I don't need you here as a nursemaid, Sam. You can leave if you want to.”

“I'll move out in May when you're finished with your chemo,” he said firmly.

“I can't believe you're saying this to me. You're staying because of my chemo?”

“I'm staying for Annabelle's sake, in case you're too ill to take care of her. And when you're finished, I'll go.“

“I'm impressed. And then what, Sam?” She was pressing him. She wanted to know if he was going to marry his girlfriend. And who she was. But he wasn't ready to let her in on his secrets.

“I haven't figured that out yet.” But she could guess. It was pretty obvious. He was looking young and lean and very handsome. It was easy to see that he was happy and in love, and she was amazed that he was willing to hang around, even some of the time, until she finished her chemo. The end was still four months away, and nobody wanted it to be over more than Alex herself.

“Do you think you can stand it till then?” Alex asked him, pressing him again.

“I can if you can. I'm not going to be here all the time, but I'll be around and available if Annabelle needs me.”

“I appreciate it,” Alex said grudgingly, half wanting him to go, and half wanting him to stay, and not sure which was worse. It just delayed the inevitable, and she had stopped fooling herself about that. She knew that eventually, now, or in four months, he was going to leave her. And in most ways, he already had.

And when she told him the next day, Brock couldn't believe the arrangement they had come to. It made sense, for Annabelle's sake, but it was hard on everyone else, and just seemed to drag things out forever. No one was more aware of that than Daphne. She looked like a disappointed child when Sam told her what he had agreed to with Alex, to stay at the apartment with her until May.

“I so hoped you would move in with me now.” They had had such a good time in Europe. They had made love constantly and had a great time in Gstaad and then he had taken her to Paris and bought her everything they could lay their hands on. They had gone to Carrier and Van Cleef, Hermes and Dior, Chanel and Givenchy, and every little boutique she fell in love with. But what she really wanted was Sam, even though she understood his reason for postponing moving into her apartment. It was too small for both of them anyway. And he was talking about buying a co-op for them in May, after Alex finished her treatment.

“It won't be long,” he promised her, and he certainly didn't have to sleep at their apartment every night. He was going to continue doing just what he had been, and spend most of his nights with Daphne. He wanted to introduce her to Annabelle too, but he was still afraid it would be too confusing for her, and she might tell her mother. But Daphne wasn't pressing him to meet her anyway. As she had admitted to him from the first, she was not overly sentimental about children. She was not overly sentimental about many things. But she was sexual about everything, every moment, every opportunity. They had made love absolutely everywhere in Europe, including a fitting room at Dior, and another at Givenchy. She was wild and passionate, and she made him feel young again, and totally free of his problems.

Alex caught a glimpse of them again one Saturday afternoon in February. They had just come from previewing the jewelry items at Christie's, where he'd left a bid on an emerald ring for Daphne. Sam bought her a lot of things, and seemed to be happy to spoil her. And as Alex stood watching them, she saw them stroll up Park Avenue, oblivious to anything but each other. It made her sad seeing them again. A lot of things made her sad these days. The way Annabelle looked when her father left, or when she asked about him, and Alex had to find excuses about why he didn't sleep there very often. It still made her sad to see what her body looked like, or that her hair didn't grow back. And it didn't cheer her particularly when Dr. Webber suggested reconstructive surgery to her. It had been long enough since the surgery to begin thinking about it now, but she found she didn't care. She didn't like what she saw, but she was used to what she looked like. And oddly enough, it was Brock she discussed it with, and she was surprised when he thought she should have it. There was nothing she couldn't talk about with him. There was not a single sacred subject. He was the closest thing to a brother she'd ever had.

“What difference does it make, if I have one boob or two? Who gives a damn?” she said belligerently, over lunch at Le Relais during one of her better weeks without chemo.

“You give a damn, or you should. You can't live like a nun for the rest of your life.”

“Why not? I look cute in black, and I don't even have to shave my head.” She pointed to die longer, more glamorous wig she was wearing, and he made a face at her.

“You are truly disgusting. I'm serious. It'll make a difference to you one day.”

“No, it won't. I like being a freak. So what? So what, if somebody loved me, would they really care if I went to all that trouble and got an implant? I mean, hell, we're not talking about Sam. For him, I'd have to get two new ones to compete with his British bimbo.”

“Never mind.” Brock looked at her, thinking about it. “I still think you should do it. It'll make you feel good. You won't be mad at yourself every time you look in the mirror.”

“Would you care?” she asked him bluntly. “If you met a girl with one breast, I mean?”

“It could save a lot of time,” he said, making fun of her now, “save you all those difficult decisions. No, I wouldn't care,” he said honestly. “But I'm unusual, and I'm younger. Guys your age are more hung up about appearances, and perfection.”

“Yeah, like Sam. We know all about that kind, thank you very much.” She still remembered all too clearly his face when he saw her. “Okay, so what you're telling me is that I either need reconstructive surgery, or a younger man in my life. Those are my choices.”

“That's basically it,” he responded, playing with her again. She was in good spirits. And there were things he had always wanted to say to her, and never had. He never seemed to find the right moment.

“I still think it's too much trouble. Even the doctor said it hurts like hell. And the procedure sounds disgusting. They take a little skin from here, a little from there, they make tunnels and flaps and loops and bumps, and attach implants and tattoo on nipples.

Christ, why don't I just paint one on if I meet someone I like. I can do it any shape, any size, any color. You know, I could really be on to something, here,” she went on, and he laughed at her and threw his napkin at her to stop her.

“You're obsessed.”

“Can you blame me? I lost a husband with my boob, and the guy ran off and found a girl with a pair, now doesn't that tell you something? If nothing else, he was greedy.”

“I think you should do it.”

“I think I'll have a face-lift instead. Or maybe a nose job.”

“Let's go back to work before you decide to get your ears done.” He loved being with her, and working with her, and he liked Annabelle too. He had met her several times when he came by from the office with papers for Alex. Annabelle thought he was funny and she liked playing with him. He had even taken her skating one day when Alex was really sick and Carmen had the flu, and Sam had disappeared with Daphne.

They talked about their latest cases on the way back to work. Alex hadn't been to trial in four months, but there was one coming up, and she was trying to decide if she was up to doing it, if Brock helped her. She was tempted to, but she didn't want to give the client less than they deserved. It was a lot to think about while she was in the midst of chemo. And in the end, she decided to give the case to Matthew Billings.

In March, Brock invited her to Vermont again, on a weekend that Sam was taking Annabelle away. She went, and they had a lovely time. She tried skiing, and she was a little better. She was stronger, and she only had eight weeks left of chemo. She was looking forward to it desperately, but to her that meant several things. It meant Sam would move out, and move on with his life. And even though she called his friend a bimbo, she suspected that they would probably get married. He was obviously very involved with her, and he was very protective whenever Alex tried to ask him questions. He had never actually acknowledged that there was someone else, but it had become obvious that Alex knew. But he was always a gentleman, and refused to discuss her with Alex.

It also meant that Alex had to get on with her life too. She had to face the fact that Sam was gone, even if he still lived in the same apartment for the moment. When the chemotherapy was over, she could go back to trial work again. But she wasn't sure what else she wanted to do. It was suddenly more than a little frightening to be on her own again, although Brock kept telling her that the worst was already over.

They were walking back from the chairlifts in Sugarbush when he said it to her again, and she looked up at him pensively, and realized that he was right. Going through chemotherapy without a husband was pretty bad, but then again she had had Brock, and he had been there for her every moment.

He had even gone to the doctor with her once so he could understand it better and see what it was like. He had held her hand through the entire procedure. There was very little he hadn't done for her in the past six months. He had become like a brother to her, and there was nothing she was afraid to tell or show him.

They started talking about reconstructive surgery again that night, after she cooked dinner for him this time, and he told her she was a pretty good cook, though not as good as he was.

“The hell I'm not. Can you make a souffle?” she bragged. They were always like two kids together, pushing and shoving and laughing and making fun of each other, when they weren't deeply engrossed in more serious subjects.

“Yes, I can,” he lied, and she grinned at him.

“Well, neither can I,” she laughed, and they went back to discussing the surgery Dr. Webber had suggested. Sometimes they played because the things they talked about were too sad. “I don't care,” she insisted, serious at last. She really didn't want to discuss it, but Brock had brought it up.

“You should.” It was a familiar argument by now, and suddenly, she turned around and looked at him. She was completely unashamed with him. He had watched her throw up for months, and seen her bald head. She didn't see anything wrong with showing him what they were discussing. She looked at him oddly then, wondering what he would think of it. She genuinely trusted his opinion, and his kind heart.

“Do you want to see it?” she asked casually, like a kid offering to drop his pants to one of his playmates. She felt a little strange for a minute, and she laughed nervously, but he looked at her seriously and nodded.

“Yes, I would. I've always wondered what it looked like,” he said honestly. “Somehow I could never imagine it being as bad as you described.”

“It's pretty bad,” she warned. “It's not pretty, and there's a scar.” But even she knew that it looked better than it had in October. And then, without further ado, she pulled off her sweater and unbuttoned her blouse slowly and neatly. She took it off then, and hesitating for only a moment, she pulled off the thermal undershirt she wore with no bra. It was like a slow and very respectable striptease. She stood before him, in all her nakedness, with one breast bare, and the other missing.

He looked at her eyes first, before he looked anywhere else, and the way she looked at him gave him permission. It was a clean, simple look that passed between them. And as he looked at her, his heart went out to her. She looked so sweet and so young, and so vulnerable, the one breast was still high and firm, the other looked as though it had been slashed from her body with a saber. And without thinking, he reached his arms out to her, and pulled her slowly toward him. He couldn't show her anything different than what he felt. He had loved her for too long to hide it now, with her simple, courageous gesture.

“You're so beautiful,” he said softly, into her hair. “You're so perfect and so brave …and so decent, Alex.” He pulled away so he could look at her again. “I think you're terrific.”

“With one boob or two?” she said with a small shy smile, remembering why she had shown him, but she hadn't expected his reaction. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but this sudden tenderness of his surprised her, and touched her to her very soul.

“I love you just the way you are. You were right.” He held her close to him again, feeling her warmth next to him. “I love you just like this,” he said, bowled over by her, even more than he had been. The trust between them was immeasurable and something very special.

“You weren't supposed to say that,” she said softly. “You were supposed to be giving me an objective opinion.” She was feeling suddenly taken with him too, and she hadn't expected that. Their relationship had been chaste for so long that she wasn't prepared for this sudden rush of sensuality and love and emotion.

“I am giving you an objective opinion,” he whispered , nuzzling her face with his lips. “You're very, very beautiful, and I can't keep my hands off you.” And then very slowly, with a tenderness she'd never experienced before, he kissed her. And as he did, one hand gently caressed the breast she had, and the other hand tenderly touched the scar, and then her stomach and her back. And when he pulled her close to him, he held her in his strong hands, and she could almost feel the air go out of her in a rush, and then he kissed her harder.

“Brock …what are we doing …” she asked, barely able to think, and in another minute, she knew she wouldn't. “What are we …what …ohhh …” she moaned softly, as he unzipped her pants, and slid a hand into them, and then pulled them down slowly. Without thinking, she stepped out of them, and his hands began to explore her legs, her hips, her thighs, and further. And as he did, she took off his clothes, and in a few minutes they stood naked in the cozy house he had brought her to for the second time, and he laid her on the couch in front of the blazing fire, and touched every inch of her with his lips. He kissed her breast, and then her scar, and then let his tongue travel slowly south as she arched beneath his touch, and he pressed himself against her. “Oh Brock … oh Brock …” She couldn't believe what was happening. How could they be doing this? He was her friend. But suddenly he was so much more. He was a part of her world, her life, her body, as he entered her, and they each let out a long, soft moan of endless desire and anticipation. They moved together for a long time, as the fire blazed, and the sparks flew from time to time, and then suddenly he gave an astounding shout, and she gave an astonishing shudder as they came together. And then they lay silent and stunned in each other's arms. He had wanted her for so long, and she had never realized any of what he'd been feeling. They had grown slowly together like two trees, their leaves entwined, their roots slowly becoming one, until they were separate no longer.

“Oh, my God, what happened?” She smiled lazily at him, as he kissed her again, and then pulled her closer to him, as he lay still inside her.

“Would you like me to explain?” he asked. “You don't know, you will never know, how I have longed for this. You will never know how much I have loved you, and prayed for this moment to come, if you'll pardon the pun.” He was beaming.

“Where was I when all this was going on?” she said, looking amazed, and blissfully happy. She had never been happier than at that moment. He was sensitive and kind and incredibly sexy. And they had been friends for so long that it was easy to love him now. The transition had been gentle and strong, and now she felt bound to him forever. “How did I miss what you were feeling?” she asked again, feeling very stupid.

“You were too busy throwing up.”

“Apparently.” She smiled at him again. “I'm glad I did something as subtle as take my clothes off.” She laughed suddenly at how naive she'd been. She'd never thought for a moment that it would come to this, but she was glad it had. She couldn't believe that she had made love to him, with her “deformity” and her scar, without even trying to hide it from him. And now he gently slipped off her wig and tossed it aside too. They needed no artifice between them. “I guess this means I don't get reconstructive surgery. I got the younger guy instead. Wasn't that the choice?” she smiled, and then she began to worry. “Do you realize how old I am, you young fool? I'm ten years older than you. I'm practically old enough to be your mother.”

“Bullshit. You act like you're twelve. You'd be a mess without me,” he said honestly, without arrogance or pretension.

“That happens to be true. But I'm still older than you are.”

“I'm not impressed.”

“You should be. When you're ninety, I'll be a hundred.”

“I'll close my eyes when we make love,” he assured her.

“I'll lend you my wig.”

“Good.” He grabbed it then and put it on, and she laughed as he kissed her again, and she felt him rise again. And suddenly there was an urgency to his kisses, an insistence that nothing would satisfy except her body. They made love again, lying by the fire, and afterwards, afraid of exhausting her, he went and got a blanket from his bed and covered her, and they lay together as she slept in his arms. He was a happy man. And he knew he would never let her go now. He had waited too long for her to come to him, and she had drifted into his arms naked and without guile, and now he would do anything he had to, to keep her. At last, she was his now, and no longer Sam's. And Brock had every intention of holding on to her forever.

Chapter 17

Brock went to chemotherapy with her the week after they'd been to Vermont, and he sat quietly with her during the examination, followed by the intravenous treatment. All of her X rays and scans had been coming up clear, and she only had seven more weeks now. Dr. Webber was very pleased with her, and included Brock in their discussions about the treatment. She treated them very much as a couple.

“This is weird.” Alex smiled shyly at him as they took a cab back to the office. She was leaning against him and feeling the first waves of nausea begin, but she was very relaxed with him. There was no embarrassment between them.

“What's weird?” he asked, watching her to make sure she was as all right as she could be.

“We are.” Alex smiled, adjusting her wig, which had gotten crooked. “People treat us like we're married. Did you ever notice that? Yesterday in Sugarbush, the guy in the grocery store thought you were my husband. And Dr. Webber acts like You've been coming in all along. Doesn't anyone realize I'm almost old enough to be your mother?” She was surprised at how easy it all was. They had only been physically involved for three days, and it already seemed completely natural, not only to them, but to those around them.

“I guess they don't notice,” he said, kissing her nose. “That blows that, doesn't it, Ma?”

“You should be out playing with fourteen-year-olds. Healthy fourteen-year-olds.”

“Mind your own business, Counselor.” The only thing they both knew they had to do was keep it a secret at work. Partners and associates were not allowed to “fraternize,” or get married, or involved, or one of them would have to leave the firm. It was a pretty standard rule in law firms, and as the junior person to her, Brock would have lost his job, if anyone knew they were dating.

They chatted as they drove, and eventually, they got stuck in traffic. It took too long for them to get back, and the effects of the chemotherapy overcame her three blocks from their destination. They had to pull over and Brock held her gently as she vomited into the gutter on Park Avenue in front of dozens of people standing on the curb. It was terrible, and she was mortified, but she couldn't stop. Even the cab-driver felt sorry for her. It was obvious she wasn't drunk, but really sick. Brock told him to wait, and leave the meter running. It was half an hour before she could drive on again. Brock wanted to take her home, but she insisted on going back to the office with him.

“Stop being stupid, for heaven's sake. You need to go home and rest.”

“I have work to do.” And then she smiled through her misery. “Don't think you can push me around now because I'm in love with you.”

“That would be too easy.”

He paid the cab, and took her upstairs. He had to support her as she walked, but no one who saw her thought of anything except that he was helping her. All the partners who knew them knew that Brock was her associate, and that she had been sick for months. People still felt very sorry for her.

Liz went to get her a cup of tea, and she spent another hour on the bathroom floor, with Brock alternately holding her and keeping her company. And when she felt a little better, she would talk to him about one of her cases.

“This is sick,” she said finally. “We do more business in this bathroom than we do at my desk.”

“Not for much longer,” he reminded her, and it had been worth it. According to Dr. Webber, the cancer was gone, hopefully forever.

He took her home at five o'clock, and then went back to work and stayed till nine. And before he left the office that night he called her. Sam was away again, and Brock asked if he could drop by for a few minutes to see her.

“Are you up to it?” he asked gently.

“Sure. I'd love to see you.” She was still amazed at what had happened between them over the weekend, but the brutal effects of her chemotherapy didn't allow them the time to enjoy it. But she still remembered the delicious hours they had spent in Vermont. They were like a dream, until he appeared at her apartment half an hour later. He had flowers for her, and he kissed her gently the minute he saw her. She was in a nightgown and dressing gown, and the dressing gown fell open as he kissed her and caressed her. She had put on one of her wigs before he came, and he teased her about it and reminded her that she didn't have to wear it for him.

“I think I like you better without it. It's sexier.”

“You're crazy.”

“About you,” he whispered, as he tucked her back into bed and kissed her again. Then he went to the kitchen, and put the flowers in a vase for her. She was looking a lot better than she had that afternoon, and he sat on the edge of the bed and talked to her for a long time, running a lazy finger down her body to all the places that intrigued him. “I'm a lucky man,” he said, watching her. He had wanted her for so long, wanted to be there for her, and to help her. He had wanted to save her from Sam, and now she had come to him, all on her own. It was Kismet.

“You're a silly boy,” she smiled at him, but it was obvious to her that he was not a boy but a man. She had to remind herself that he was actually younger than she was. He made her feel so safe, and protected, and well cared for.

“Where's Sam this time?” he asked casually, as he sat next to her on the bed at her invitation.

“London again. We hardly see him. He says he's just staying till I finish chemo. And then he's moving out. I guess he's looking for apartments. A real estate agent called him last week about a penthouse co-op on Fifth. I guess he's planning to set up housekeeping with his sweetheart.” She tried not to sound affected by it, but she was. It still hurt to think of his betrayal.

“Are you going to file?”

“Not yet. There's no rush. It doesn't make much difference. We go our separate·ways now.” But it mattered to Brock. And he knew it was too soon to push her. But he wanted her to himself, he wanted a life with her. He wanted Sam out of the picture.

Brock stayed with her until eleven o'clock. And then he put her to bed, turned off the lights, and let himself out of her apartment.

The following night he cooked dinner for her and Annabelle. Afterwards he and Alex worked, and this time when he put her to bed, he had to fight to control himself. She looked so beautiful and he was aching to make love to her again, but she still wasn't feeling well, and neither of them wanted to risk waking her daughter. Annabelle had had fun playing with him, and she had no idea of what was happening. She accepted him as a friend, and there was no resistance.

By the weekend, Alex felt better again, and Carmen came in on Saturday morning, so Alex could spend the day with Brock at his apartment. They never got out of bed all day, and she had never known that making love could be like that with anyone. He was amazing. They were completely at ease in each other's arms and with each other's bodies. There was nothing to hide, or fear, or hold back. They made love for hours with total abandon.

And on Sunday, he came to spend the day with her and Annabelle. Alex told her they had to work, but they never did. They went to the zoo, and had lunch, and then they took Annabelle to the playground and watched her with the other kids, as the two of them sat like all the other Sunday parents.

“You should be with someone your age,” Alex said, but less convincingly than before, when she thought of the previous day they had spent together. It would be hard to give him up now. Everything about him, his mind, his heart, his gentleness with her, his body, were addictive. “You should have kids.”

“Can you have more?” he asked casually. It wasn't something he worried about. He liked Annabelle, and he wouldn't have been bothered by adoption.

“I don't think so. I'd been trying to get pregnant again ever since Annabelle, with no success, though no one ever figured out why I didn't. And Dr. Webber says about half the women my age become sterile after chemo. I don't know where I fall in all that, but in any case I'm not supposed to get pregnant for five years, even if I could and by then I would be too old. You deserve better, Brock.”

“I've been saying that to myself a lot,” he said, teasing her, and she shoved him.

“I mean it.”

“It doesn't bother me. I'm not sure I'd be upset if I never had kids of my own. I think adoption's a great thing. Or would you object to that?” he asked, curious. There were still things he wanted to know about her.

“I've never thought about it. But that might be nice. Don't you think though that one day you'd resent not having a child of your own blood? It's a wonderful thing,” she said, looking at Annabelle, and then at him. “I never knew that till I had her, and realized what I'd been missing. I wish now I'd started sooner.”

“You didn't have time. Not with a career like yours. I still don't know how you do it.”

“It's a juggling act. You have to keep your priorities straight all the time, and sometimes you louse it all up. But it seems to work most of the time. She's a great kid, and I try and do as much with her as I can. Sam is pretty good with her too, when he's here.” But so far, nothing Brock had heard about Sam had impressed him.

They had dinner out with Brock that night, at a deli on Eighty-fourth Street. He told Annabelle funny stories, and did silly imitations. They were all good friends by the end of the day. And the next day he took Alex back to Dr. Webber. He wouldn't let her go alone anymore, she was his now. And then it all began again, the vomiting, the fatigue, and then finally the two or three good weeks until the next time. But the time seemed to fly now.

They stole what time they could, at her apartment late at night, when Sam wasn't there, which was most of the time, or at his place whenever Carmen stayed. They got hungrier for each other by the day. And once they even got carried away in her office bathroom. He had gone back out with his shirt buttoned wrong and his tie askew and Alex had laughed so hard she could hardly control herself. They were like two kids, but they were having fun, and they deserved it. Alex had paid a high price for all this. And Brock had waited a long time for her. Neither of them had ever been happier, and even Annabelle really liked him, as did Carmen. She was still furious with Sam for all he hadn't done for Alex in the past six months, and it was nice to see her happy now. Even Liz had figured it out and was pleased, although, for their sakes, she still pretended not to notice.

They worked together all the time now, even more than before, and consulted each other on everything they worked on. Alex shared all her cases with him, and no one found it unusual, since she had been so sick since the fall, and relied on him so much to help her carry her workload. Everyone seemed very impressed by their system, and their results. It was the perfect relationship, and they were together constantly. There was hardly an hour of the day when they weren't, and neither of them seemed to chafe at the other's constant companionship. On the contrary, they loved it.

Even Sam noticed that she was different these days. She seemed happier and more lighthearted, and the rare times they met at breakfast, she joked with him a little bit, and didn't seem quite as angry.

It was April when she finally asked him when he was moving out, one morning when Carmen had taken Annabelle to school, and they were both finishing their breakfast and reading the papers.

“Are you in a hurry for me to leave?” he asked, looking a little startled.

“No,” she smiled sadly, “but the real estate agents keep calling with co-ops for you. I just figured you'd have found something by now. There can't be that many co-ops in New York.” They were calling night and day now. And Daphne was nagging him about it. She had been patient for long enough, and she wanted him to herself now. He always felt a little torn between coming home at night, not that he wanted to, but he felt guilty about Annabelle, and as though he should be there in the morning.

“I haven't found anything yet. I'll let you know,” he said coolly. “You're not finished with your treatments yet anyway,” he reminded her. And for a minute, she got the feeling that he was dragging his feet. But she knew he didn't want to leave their daughter.

“I'll be finished in four weeks,” she said with relief in her voice. It had already been five months, the longest five months in her life, but they were almost over. She and Brock could talk of nothing else, and all the things they were going to do when she finally felt better. They were already going to movies, and had been to the opening of a play. She wanted to go to the opera with him, but she hadn't had the energy. They were talking about taking subscription seats for the following season, but that was a big commitment. “What about you?” Alex asked Sam, trying to sound casual. “What are you doing this summer, or haven't you figured that out yet?”

“I … uh … I don't know yet. I might go to Europe for a month or two.” He was as vague as possible, but he knew that Daphne wanted to spend time in the South of France, and Simon had told him about a fabulous yacht to charter. It was all a little racier than their usual summer on Long Island and vacations in Maine, but on the other hand, he certainly could afford it, and it sounded like fun. He felt he owed some special time to Daphne after all her patience during the winter.

“Europe for a month or two?” Alex looked at him in surprise. “Business must be very good.”

“It is. Thanks to Simon.”

“What about Annabelle? Will you be taking her with you?”

“For part of it. I think it will be fun for her.” And Daphne would have her son for a couple of weeks too, although she wasn't very excited about it. But as Alex listened, she suddenly wondered just who his girlfriend was, and how well she would care for her daughter. It was an issue that would have to be resolved before the summer.

“Annabelle doesn't know you're moving out, you know,” Alex reminded him. They had to face that, but it was still too early, and he hadn't found a place yet. “It's going to be hard for her.” It was going to be hard for all of them, and they knew that. You didn't end seventeen years of marriage easily, even after all this preparation.

“She's going to be furious with me,” Sam said unhappily, hoping she would like Daphne and make things a little easier for him. Daphne was so young and fun and beautiful, he reminded himself practically, how could anyone not like her?

“She'll get through it.” They had gotten through a lot of tough things that year. But Annabelle seemed a little less worried about her mother lately.

“You seem to be doing fine,” he commented, watching her, sensing something different and more womanly about her. She had seemed so dead in those early months, and now she seemed to be coming slowly alive again. It made him feel better about leaving her, and worse at the same time. And much to his own surprise, it also made him miss her.

“I'm fine,” she reassured him. But talking to him still made her sad, and angry sometimes. It was difficult for it not to. And it was harder still not to think of the girl he was leaving her for. Alex had seen him with her again, in a restaurant, but he still didn't know it. But it had thrown her to see them.

He was still thinking about Alex when he left for work that day, and remembering how happy they had been, and some of the funny things they'd done together. She had been so wild and zany when he first met her. She was smart, and beautiful, he had always loved her directness and her honesty, her integrity, and her sense of honor. And now she was so much quieter and different. He knew it was all still there, but she felt like a stranger. He couldn't help wondering how much of it was his fault.

“You're in a sober mood today,” Daphne chided him when she saw him in his office a little while later.

“No, just working things out at home. We really have to find an apartment.” He wanted to start his new life, so he could start forget the old one completely. Except for Annabelle of coarse. He knew it was time to introduce them. There wasn't much Alex could say now, even if Annabelle told her and he had sensed for a long time that Alex knew there was another woman, although he had never confessed it, and he had no idea she'd seen them. “Have you seen anything you like this week?” he asked hopefully. But it was exasperating. They had looked at every small coop in New York, and there was always something wrong with them. Most of them needed extensive decorating and reconstruction.

“It's so stupid really,” Daphne complained, “there's always too many bedrooms, or not enough view, or it's too low a floor and too noisy.'” They wanted fireplaces as well, and hopefully a view of the park or the river. They preferred a view of Central Park, and were looking on Fifth Avenue, and he was willing to pay over a million. He could get a mortgage on it, and with the profits from their latest deals, it was not going to be a problem.

Alex had already said she wanted nothing from him, except support for Annabelle. She was being very fair, and she had her law practice. She didn't want money from Sam. What she had wanted from him he didn't have to give her.

“Don't be such a gloomy puss,” Daphne cajoled him, as she locked the door to his office and came to sit on his lap, grinding herself slowly against him. It made him smile sheepishly, he knew he was foolish to have regrets about the past. It was over and gone. It had been good then, but this was better now. And as usual, when he slid his hand under her skirt, he found no barriers to his fingers. She wore no underwear, no pantyhose, and he loved that. Once in a while she wore a garter belt and stockings, and she had a fabulous collection of sexy bras, but underpants were something Daphne had long since dispensed with.

“Do I have any meetings on my calendar this morning, Miss Belrose?” he asked, kissing her, as she unzipped his fly for him and reached into it with nimble fingers.

“I believe not, Mr. Parker,” she said in proper British tones, “oh wait a minute …yes …” she pretended to jog her memory … “I just remembered one … ah, here it is …” She pulled him out of his trousers and put her lips to him, as he fell back in his chair with a groan of pleasure. Their “meeting” didn't last long, but was extremely pleasurable, and when she left his office shortly afterwards, she wore a smile, and her skirt was slightly crooked.

Chapter 18

The needle went into Alex's vein for the last time, and then out again, on an afternoon in May, as Brock sat with her, and she cried with powerful emotions when it was over. She still had six Cytoxan tablets to take, but after that she was free. She had a final chest X ray, a blood count, and a mammogram. She was clean. She had survived six wretched months of chemotherapy, and he had helped her do it.

She said good-bye to Dr. Webber and made an appointment for a follow-up visit in six months, and even sick as she felt, she felt liberated as she left the doctor's office.

“What'll we do to celebrate?” Brock asked her as they stood on Fifty-seventh Street, looking at each other in relieved disbelief.

“I have an idea,” she said mischievously, looking at him, but they both knew that within an hour, she'd be vomiting again. But also for the last time. This would never happen to her again. She felt sure of it. She wouldn't let it.

They went back to the office, and spent a quiet afternoon. She was sick, but even that didn't seem as bad as usual. Even her body seemed to know that it had suffered the last assault, the last vicious attack on her system.

And that night, she lay in his arms, with her door locked, in case Annabelle woke up. They had finally given up their chastity in her home. And they knew that if Sam wasn't home by nine or ten, he wasn't coming, and tonight was no different.

“What'll we do now, Alex?” Brock asked her. They had been talking about Long Island again. She wanted to rent a place with him for the summer, and one of the partners had offered her his home in East Hampton, and it sounded very appealing. She just didn't want him to find out about Brock because of the fraternization rule at the law firm, but she didn't think he would. And they had such a good cover, that no one thought anything of seeing them together. “I'd love to take a trip with you,” he said.

“Where?” She loved to dream with him. Their whole life together had been a dream so far, a promise for the future.

“Paris …Venice …Rome …San Francisco,” he said more realistically.

“Let's do that,” she said suddenly. She hadn't taken vacation time in a year, and although she had a lot of time coming to her, she had been out so much she felt she could go away only briefly. “We don't have any court appearances next month, that I know of yet. Why don't we just go for a few days? It would be fun.”

“You've got a deal,” he beamed at her, and they lay there and talked about it. “Are you going to take the house in East Hampton?”

“I think so,” she decided as they lay there. Suddenly they could make plans, they could lead a life. They could go away. She was a real person again, with hopes, and dreams, and, with luck, a future.

The next few weeks were frantic for her. She was still catching up on work, and she was taking on more responsibilities again, for future trials. She took back her full workload, and the last day of Cytoxan came and went, almost without notice. And by the first of June, she already felt stronger and more like herself again. They were going to San Francisco at the end of the month, but before that she and Sam had to deal with Annabelle, and tell her that her father was leaving.

He had finally found a penthouse that he liked. It was close to where they currently lived, and had a living room with spectacular views, a handsome dining room, three bedrooms and servants' quarters, and a kitchen that had been in House and Garden. It cost an arm and a leg, but Daphne absolutely adored it.

“Can we?” she begged him, like a little girl with a new doll, and he didn't have the heart to say anything but yes to her. In spite of the price, it was a beautiful apartment. They had a large master suite, a room for Annabelle, and a guest room, where Sam pointed out Daphne's son could stay when he came to visit. But she said she preferred to visit him in England. She said this was too far to drag a five-year-old alone, and his nannies were such bores she wouldn't think of bringing them with him. She always had good reasons for not bringing him over, and Sam wondered sometimes if he was a dreadful brat, or she just wasn't much of a mother. Maybe both, but he didn't worry about it. He had to focus now on Annabelle, and right before the Memorial Day weekend, Sam and Alex both came home early and told her.

“Daddy's leaving?” she asked, her eyes brimming with tears, and her face full of panic.

“I'm only going to be three blocks away,” he said, holding her in his arms, but she fought against him in total anguish.

“Why? Why are you going?” What had she done? What had they done? Why was this happening to her? She didn't understand it. And both her parents had to fight back tears as they consoled her.

“Mommy and I just think it's better, sweetheart,” he said, trying to calm her down and explain it simply. “I'm not here much anymore anyway. I travel a lot. And Mommy and I think …” How could you explain it to a four-year-old? They weren't sure they understood it themselves, how could they explain it to her now? “Mommy and I think we'll all be happier if she has her apartment, and I have mine. You can come and visit me anytime you want, and lots on weekends. We can do lots of fun things. We can even go to Disney World again if you like.” But she was smarter than that, and her mother's girl. Bribery didn't fix it.

“I don't want to go to Disney World. I don't want to go anywhere.” And then, the killer, “Don't you love us anymore, Daddy?”

He almost choked as he heard the words, and was quick to reassure her. “Of course I love you.”

“Don't you love Mommy anymore? Are you still mad at her for getting sick?” The correct answer would have been yes, but he wasn't that honest.

“Of course not. Of course I'm not mad at her. And yes, I love her. But we …” he had to fight back tears again, as Alex held her, “we don't want to be married anymore. Not like we used to be. We want to live in separate places.”

“Are you getting divorced?” She looked genuinely shocked. She had heard about that in school, from Libby Weinstein. Her parents were divorced, and her mommy had remarried and had twins, and Libby didn't like that.

“No, we're not getting divorced,” Sam said firmly, though Alex wasn't even sure why they weren't. What was the point of dying by inches? But neither of them seemed ready to take the final step yet, and there was no rush. So they could reassure Annabelle at least for the moment. “We're just going to live in separate houses.”

“I don't want you to.” Annabelle glowered at him, and then with a sudden jerk she spun around in Alex's arms and glared at her mother. “It's all your fault, for getting sick. You made him mad at us, and now he's moving out. That was mean of you! You made him hate us!” She spoke with such vehemence that neither of her parents was prepared for it, as she broke from Alex's arms and ran to her room and slammed the door, and inside, she lay sobbing on her bed, beyond consolation. They both tried talking to her, to no avail, and finally Alex decided to leave her alone for a while, and walked silently into the kitchen. Sam was already standing there, staring at her, mute with grief and guilt. He had never felt worse in his life than now as he looked at Alex.

“As usual, it's all my fault,” Alex said unhappily, and he shook his head, feeling no better than she did.

“She'll get around to hating me eventually, don't worry about it. It's neither of our faults, it's just the way it is. It's what happened.”

“She'll get over it,” Alex said, sounding unconvinced. They all would. “She'll see that you're not that far away, and if she sees enough of you, she'll be all right about it. You're going to have to make that effort.”

“Obviously,” he said, annoyed at the lecture. “I want her with me as often as you'll let me have her.”

“You can have her whenever you like,” Alex said generously, but uncomfortable with the feeling, as if they were dividing up candlesticks, and not their daughter. And then she looked at him, remembering their plans. “What about this weekend?” He had wanted to take Annabelle to the Hamptons with him for the Memorial Day weekend. He had rented a house for four days, and he thought it would be fun for her, and Alex had agreed.

“I'd still like to take her, if she'll come.”

“She's mad at me, not you. Remember?” She and Brock were going to Fire Island for the long weekend. “She'll be okay,” she reassured him, and then went to check on her again. Annabelle had stopped crying, and she was lying on her bed, looking like her heart was broken.

“I'm sorry, baby,” Alex said softly to her. “I know it's hard. But Daddy still loves you, and he's going to see you all the time.”

“Will you still take me to ballet?” she asked, confused about who was going where. It was a lot for a four-year-old to absorb. At forty-three, it was a lot for Alex too. And Sam had just turned fifty.

“Of course I'll take you to ballet. Every Friday. I'm not going to be sick anymore. I finished taking my medicine.”

“All of it?”vshe asked suspiciously.

“All of it,” she confirmed.

“Will your hair come back now?”

“I think so.”

“When?”

“Soon. We can be twins again.”

“And you're not going to die?” That was the crux of it for all of them, and a hard one to promise.

“No.” It was more important to reassure her now than to be completely truthful. There were no guarantees, but there was no sign of a recurrence either. “I'm not going to die. I'm all better.”

“Good.” She smiled at her, almost ready to forgive her for losing her father. “Why does Daddy have to go now?” she asked plaintively. It was so hard to explain it to her.

“Because he'll be happier. And that's important for him.”

“Isn't he happy here with us?”

“Not right now. He's happy with you. But not with me.

“I told you he was mad at you,” she chided, “you should have listened.” Alex laughed then. They were going to be all right. They had all survived. They had made it. Bad things had happened to them, but they had managed to live through it.

She went back out to see Sam again, before he left, and she found him packing a suitcase in the guest bedroom. Most of his things were still there, but he had told her that he'd be moving in the next two weeks. He was going to stay at the Carlyle for a month until the apartment was ready. He hadn't wanted to move into Daphne's apartment, and the Carlyle seemed like a good middle ground, and a nice place for Annabelle to visit.

“She's all right. She's shaken, but she'll adjust,” Alex said sadly.

“I'll pick her up at school on Friday, and take her out to Southampton with me then. I'll bring her back on Monday night.”

“Fine,” Alex nodded, realizing that they had just slipped into” a whole new phase. Despite his comings and goings for the past six months, it had just become official. They had told Annabelle. They were getting separated, not divorced, but separated. It was a whole new world now.

“Poor little thing,” Brock said sympathetically, when Alex told him about it that night. “It must be hard for her to understand. It's hard enough for grown-ups.”

“She blames me for it. She said that if I hadn't gotten sick, he wouldn't have gotten mad at us. There's a certain truth to that, but I guess it was all there, lurking beneath the surface. I guess I didn't have the perfect marriage I thought I did, or it wouldn't have fallen apart so quickly.”

“I think what you went through would strain a lot of relationships,” he said fairly.

She nodded, and then remembered something. “One of these days, I want to meet your sister.” He nodded, but said nothing. And then Alex got distracted when they talked about their plans for Fire Island. It sounded like it was going to be a fun weekend. They were going to stay at a small funky old hotel in The Pines, and she knew from experience, that once you got on the ferryboat and felt the salt air on your face, you left your problems behind you. It was just what she needed.

Sam could have used a little of that kind of weekend too. He picked Annabelle up at school, with her suitcase, and took her for a quick lunch, before they picked up Daphne and headed for Southampton. He had wanted to have lunch alone with Annabelle first, so he could prepare her, but she seemed more confused than ever. The idea that there was another woman in his life seemed more than she could even vaguely imagine.

“She's coming with us for the weekend?” She looked at him blankly. “Why?”

“Oh …” He groped for answers, feeling suddenly very stupid. “To help me with you, so we have more fun.” It was a dumb answer, and he knew it.

“You mean like Carmen?” She looked confused again, and he laughed nervously.

“No, silly. Like a friend.”

“You mean like Brock?” That at least was a frame of reference she understood, and one he immediately clung to.

“Exactly. Daphne works with me at the office, just like Brock works with Mommy.” There were more similarities than he knew, but he had no suspicion of them whatsoever. “And she's my friend, and she's coming with us for the weekend.”

“Are you going to work with her, like Mommy works with Brock?”

“Well maybe …but actually …no, we just thought we'd have fun and play with you all weekend.”

“Okay.” It seemed silly to her, but she was at least willing to meet her.

But Sam's perceptions of their weekend plans were completely different from Daphne's.

“Why on earth didn't you bring a nanny with you?” Daphne stared at him in disbelief when he picked her up at her apartment. Annabelle was downstairs in the car, he had the keys, and he was keeping an eye on her from the window. “Or at least a maid. We won't be able to go anywhere with a child that age. We'll be bloody well stuck all weekend.” It was a side of her he'd never seen, but she was anything but amused as he picked up her suitcase.

“I'm sorry, darling,” he apologized, “I never even thought of it.” He and Alex had always taken care of her when they went away, and it had never been a problem. But then again, she was their child, and they'd been married. “I'll bring Carmen next time. I promise.” He kissed her and she softened a little bit. She was wearing a blue cotton sundress and he could see her breasts through it, and he already knew from experience how little was beneath it. “You're going to love her,” he promised as they went downstairs, “she's adorable.” But as it turned out, she was not particularly adorable to Daphne, and she was extremely suspicious.

The ride to Long Island was fraught with questions and awkward answers and minor lies, and by the time they got there, Sam was perspiring and looking very nervous. He set Daphne's things down in the room next to his, and Annabelle's in a room across the hallway. But Daphne laughed aloud as soon as she saw the arrangement.

“You're not serious, are you, Sam? She's only four years old, she can't possibly know what's going on.” And Daphne really didn't care what she told her mother. But Sam did.

“I thought you could just leave your things in there, she doesn't have to know where we're sleeping.

“And if she has a nightmare?” He'd never even thought of it. But Daphne knew that much about children.

“We'll go in to her.” He solved the problem, and Daphne laughed at him again.

“You'll be sure and tell her not to set foot out of bed, on penalty of death, won't you, darling?”

“All right, all right.” He felt stupid and uncomfortable, and even he had to admit that Annabelle was a perfect brat all afternoon and then she ate too much candy, and spent too much time in the sun without a hat, and threw up her entire dinner all over Daphne.

“Charming,” she said, looking vastly unamused, as Sam attempted to clean it. “My little man does that constantly too. I've tried explaining to him that it's extremely unattractive.”

“My Mommy throws up all the time,” Annabelle said defensively, glaring at her. She knew they weren't friends, and weren't going to be, no matter what her Daddy said. She wasn't like Brock at all. She was mean and nasty. And she kept touching Annabelle's Daddy and kissing him. Annabelle had seen it. “My Mommy's very brave,” Annabelle went on, as Sam took off her dress and threw it in the sink. He felt her head for a fever, but she didn't have one. “She got very sick, and Daddy got mad at her, and now he's moving to a new apartment.”

“I know, darling, so am I,” Daphne announced before Sam could stop her. “I know all about it. I'm going to live there with him.”

“You are?” Annabelle looked horrified and ran to the room they had assigned her. And as soon as she was gone, Daphne unbuttoned the two straps at her shoulders and stepped out of her sundress, and stood in front of Sam completely naked. “She got sick on my dress,” she explained, but he already knew.

“I'm sorry. I think this is a lot for her to stomach all at once,” he said, unaware of the pun, and Daphne smiled.

“Apparently. Don't worry about it.” She kissed him, and he couldn't keep his hands off her, but he knew he had to.

“You'd better put some clothes on. I'll go up to Annabelle.”

“Why don't you let her stew in it for a while, she's going to have to get used to it. It's really not a good idea to mollycoddle children.” Was that how she thought of it? Mollycoddling? Was that why she'd left her son with her ex-husband in England?

“I'll be down in a minute,” he said, and went upstairs, wondering how long the war would go on. But Annabelle was crying when he got there, and she continued to cry until she fell asleep in his arms, and he felt terrible about everything that had happened. He wanted Annabelle and Daphne to love each other. They were both important to him, they were both important relationships in his life, he needed both of them, and he wanted them at least to like each other.

But when Annabelle woke the next day at six a.m., they were still in bed, and Daphne was lying naked in his arms. He had never thought of what might happen in the morning, and he had forgotten to ask her to wear a nightgown. Annabelle wandered into their room without a sound and stood staring at them, her mouth open in horror. Sam was wearing nothing either, and he suggested that Annabelle go downstairs and wait for them, but Daphne was not amused to be woken at that hour, and it put her in a bad mood all morning.

The two “girls” went at each other tooth and nail, and Sam finally took Annabelle to the beach to get away from it, but when he came back to take Daphne to lunch, she was furious that Annabelle had to come with them.

“What do you suggest I do with her for heaven's sake? Leave her home alone?”

“It wouldn't kill her, you know. She's not an infant. I must say, you treat children in America in quite extraordinary ways. They're dreadfully spoiled and the center of everything. It's not even healthy for them. I promise you, she needs to be treated like a child, Sam. She'd be much happier at home, with a nanny or a maid, than dragging around everywhere with you. If her mother wants to do that with her because she has a pathetic little life, then that's fine, but I'm telling you right now, I don't intend to do it. I won't inflict my son on you for more than five days a year, and don't expect me to play nursemaid to yours. I won't have it,” she said petulantly, and for the first time in six months, he was both hurt and disappointed in her, and he wondered if something in her youth had made her so disagreeable about children. It was inconceivable to him that anyone would just dislike them. But when he thought about it, he realized that she had more or less warned him right from the beginning. He only hoped that she'd be willing to change now.

The three of them went out to lunch anyway, but it was a strain. Annabelle never took her eyes off her plate, and didn't eat anything. She had heard everything that Daphne had said, and for the moment she hated her and wanted to go back to her Mommy, and after lunch she said as much to her father. But he explained unhappily that her Mommy was away for the weekend.

He managed to find a sixteen-year-old baby-sitter for that night, by asking the neighbors. And he and Daphne went to the country club at Conscience Point for an evening of dinner and dancing, and she was in better spirits when they got home, and that night he asked her to wear a nightgown. And she laughed at him, and said she didn't have one.

The next day was more of the same, and all of them were relieved when they finally drove back to the city.

Alex was already at home waiting for them, alone, when they arrived. And Daphne waited in the car downstairs while Sam took Annabelle upstairs to her mother.

“Did you have fun?” she asked, beaming, in a pair of blue jeans and a starched white shirt and red espadrilles. And Sam couldn't help noticing how pretty she looked after all these months, with a suntan.

But Annabelle's face was its own story. She raised her eyes to her mother's and they were full of tears, as Sam gently touched his daughter's shoulder.

“We had a few problems of adjustment. I guess I didn't use the best judgment. I brought a friend along, and it wasn't easy for Annabelle.” Or for Daphne. “I'm sorry,” he apologized to both of them, and Alex looked from one to the other in dismay, wondering what had happened.

But Annabelle glanced at Sam and then at Alex and said bluntly, “I hate her.”

“You don't hate anyone,” Alex corrected, glancing at Sam. It must have been a great weekend. She wondered what the English girl had done to get Annabelle's back up. Probably nothing except be there with Sam, Alex suspected fairly. “You have to be nice to Daddy's friends, Annabelle. It's rude to him to be rude to his friends,” she said gently, but Annabelle wasn't so easily silenced.

“She walked around naked all the time. It was disgusting. And she slept with Daddy.” She scowled at both of them and stormed off to her bedroom without saying good-bye to her father, as Alex looked at him, a little surprised at their lack of discretion.

“Maybe you should say something to your friend. If that's true, I don't think it's suitable for her to see that.” And it worried Alex. This was no way to conduct their visits. And she was surprised that Sam had done that.

“I know,” he said miserably. “I'm sorry. The whole thing was a nightmare. It was very awkward.” And then he looked at her ruefully. “They were both impossible, to tell you the truth.” She should have felt sorry for him, but she didn't. It would have been funny, if she hadn't been worried about Daphne parading around naked.

“You're going to have to work something out when she visits you, if you're going to be living with her.” It was the first time Alex had acknowledged it, but Annabelle had opened up the subject. “She's too young for that stuff.”

“I know. And I'm too old. I'll handle it. She didn't see anything she shouldn't have,” he said, looking frazzled. “Oh, and she threw up Friday, by the way.”

“You did have fun, didn't you?” Alex laughed at him, and it reminded him of the old days for a minute. She was laughing at him, and even he had to admit there was a funny side to it. He went to kiss Annabelle then, but she was still angry at him, and refused to say good-bye to him. She was angry at the world these days, and confused about all of it. And then, after a quick kiss in the air, and a wave to his wife, Sam ran back downstairs to Daphne.

“Happy again, my love?” she asked him, moving closer to him in the car, but he was disappointed in the weekend with his daughter, and it still troubled him at times when he saw Alex. They were both haunted by the ghosts of their past life, and trying to forget them.

“I'm sorry things didn't work out a little more smoothly,” Sam said quietly, acknowledging the fiasco.

“She'll be fine,” Daphne said confidently, and started talking to him about the apartment.

But once he moved into the Carlyle in June, things were even harder. Daphne was there all the time with him, and Annabelle suddenly understood that she was a permanent intruder.

“I hate her!” she said adamantly every time she came home to her mother.

“No, you don't,” Alex said firmly.

“Yes, I do.”

They took her to the new apartment and she said she hated that too. The only thing she said she liked was the lemonade and chocolate cookies at the Carlyle. Sam was trying to organize their summer too, he had gotten the yacht, and a house in Cap d'Antibes, and Alex had agreed to let her go with them.

But it was Daphne who objected vehemently to Annabelle's being included. She was not having Annabelle with them in Europe, she said, not even with a nanny.

“She's my daughter, for heaven's sake.” He was horrified by her attitude and very hurt by it. This was not what he had expected from the woman he lived with. And they were going to be gone for six weeks, a long time not to see his daughter.

“Fine. Then bring her along when she's eighteen. She doesn't belong with us on a yacht, and in a house in the South of France. What if she falls overboard? I'm not going to spend my time worrying about her.

I'm not bringing my son along either.” In fact, she was only seeing him for a week in London. She made it sound like the ultimate sacrifice, but Sam was beginning to know better.

They argued about it constantly, and he was not about to give in, but it was Annabelle herself who finally decided. She didn't want to go away with them, didn't want to go to Europe, and leave her Mommy. They were going to spend a week in London, two in Cap d'Antibes, and three on the yacht, cruising around France and Italy and Greece. It sounded heavenly to Alex, but not to her daughter.

“Maybe she's just too young,” Alex suggested gently to Sam. “Maybe next year.” She assumed he'd be married to the girl by then, and Annabelle would have to get along with her. It was odd, because he hadn't asked Alex for the divorce yet, but she knew it was coming, probably at the end of the summer. He probably just didn't want to look like he was pushing. She had resigned herself to it by then. Their marriage was history, it had never been as glamorous as his life with Daphne anyway. He would never have thought of going to the South of France or renting a yacht while he was married to Alex.

“What are you going to do with her?” Sam asked, worried about Annabelle, and unhappy not to have her with him for the summer.

“I've rented a house in East Hampton. I'd love having her with me. I'll ask Carmen to stay out there during the week, and I'll work a short week so I can be with her.” It sounded fine to him, and Annabelle was thrilled when they told her.

“I don't have to go with Daddy and Daphne?” she said incredulously. “Yippee!” But her reaction really hurt him, and he was annoyed with Daphne that night when he went back to the Carlyle.

“Oh for heaven's sake, don't pout,” Daphne teased, pouring a glass of Cristal for him. “She's only a child, she'd have hated it. And we'd have been miserable, watching her, worried all the time. It wouldn't have been a vacation.” She smiled at him, enormously relieved to have the issue disposed of. “What do you want to do tonight? Go out or stay home?” Life was a constant party to her and if not a party, an orgy.

“Maybe I ought to do some work for a change,” he said glumly. He had been letting his partners handle everything. He and Simon were bringing in all the new deals, and Simon took care of an amazing amount of the details. Sam had been so busy traveling, and changing his life around, he felt a little guilty for not paying more attention to business.

“Oh don't work,” Daphne complained. “Let's do something fun.” But before he could suggest anything, she had straddled him and pulled up her skirt, and there was only one thing that appealed to him. He laid her on the couch in the hotel, and took her with more force than usual. He was half angry at her and half in love with her, disappointed and hurt and so overwhelmed with passion for her that sometimes it just drove him crazy.

Chapter 19

Alex and Brock moved into their summer house at the end of June, and they both loved it. It was simple and comfortable, with blue-and-white-checked curtains and sisal on the floor. There was a big homey kitchen with Portuguese tiles, and a sweet little garden for Annabelle to play in. She thought the house was pretty too, when they took her there for the first time on the Fourth of July weekend.

She didn't seem surprised that Brock was there, and Alex was a lot more careful than Sam had been with Daphne. Brock “officially” slept in the guest room downstairs, and he was careful to go back down again every morning before Annabelle got up, and one morning when they forgot and almost got caught, Brock slipped on his jeans and pretended to be fixing something in Alex's bathroom.

Annabelle was completely happy and at ease with him, and the three of them went everywhere together. Alex was getting her full strength back rapidly, and she was full of energy and good spirits. And in mid-July she surprised both of them by coming downstairs without her wig. Her hair was soft and short and curly.

“You look pretty, Mommy! Just like me!” Annabelle giggled and went outside to play as Brock smiled at Alex and almost knocked her out of her seat with his next question.

“So when are we getting married, Mrs. Parker?” She smiled hesitantly at him. She was very much in love with him, but she had never allowed herself to think about the future, for a variety of reasons.

“Sam hasn't even asked me for a divorce yet.”

“Why wait for him to ask? Why don't you ask him when he gets back from Europe?” It was everything Brock had hoped for.

But she looked at him seriously then, hesitating, and looking very cautious. “It wouldn't be fair to you, Brock. I'm fine now, but what if something happens again later?” He had already proven his ability to cope with it, but that wasn't the issue. “I don't want to do that to you. You have a right to a sure future.”

“That's bullshit,” he said, looking angry at her. “You can't sit around for the next five years, waiting to see what happens. You have to go on with your life, and deal with whatever comes. I want to marry you, and Annabelle,” he said, taking her hand in his and kissing her from across the table. “I don't want to wait. I want our life now. I want to live with both of you, and take care of you. I don't want this to end after the summer.”

“Neither do I,” she said honestly, but she was ten years older than he was, and she'd had cancer. “What would your sister say to all this?” She still hadn't met her or talked to her, but she knew how much she meant to Brock. She could tell from some of the things he'd said, but generally, he spoke of her very little. “Wouldn't she be unhappy? You should marry some nice young girl who'll give you lots of kids and no problems.”

“She would tell me to do what I think is best. And best is you. Alex … I mean it. I want you to ask Sam for a divorce when he comes back from Europe. And then we'll get married when it's final.”

“I love you.” She smiled softly at him from across the table, as they watched Annabelle through the picture window. She was deeply moved by his willingness to accept her under any conditions.

“I want to marry you. And I'm not going to stop bugging you till you say you will,” he said stubbornly, and she laughed at him.

“It's not as though I don't want to. What about your job?” she asked seriously. He couldn't be married to her and keep it.

“I've had two other offers this year. They were pretty good. I'd probably do better if I went elsewhere. But before I go anywhere, I'd like to talk to the senior partners. I was wondering if, since you've been sick, they might not let us make an exception and keep working together.”

“They might. We're a good team,” she smiled gratefully at him. “And you'll be up for partner next year.”

“We'll talk to them,” he said calmly, “but first Sam.”

“I haven't agreed yet,” she said, looking mischievous but loving.

“You will,” he said confidently, and he was right. By the end of the week, she had agreed. She was going to ask Sam for a divorce, and marry Brock as soon as it was final.

“I must be crazy,” she said distractedly, “I'm twice your age.”

“You're ten years older, that doesn't even count, and you look younger than I do.” She did actually, she had dropped years since they had moved to Long Island. The effects of the chemo were falling away, her hair was thicker than it ever had been, and she had lost the bloat from the chemo. She looked the same as she had before the cancer, maybe better. And they were like kids as they played on the beach on the weekends. She was very relaxed when she and Brock drove in on Monday mornings. Carmen came out late on Sunday nights, so they could go back to the city on Monday in time to get to work. And they left work as early as they could on Thursdays and drove out to Long Island. Most of the lawyers took Fridays off in the summer, and the firm closed at noon, like many New York corporations.

And when they got back to their house at the beach, Annabelle was always waiting for them, happy and excited. During the week, Alex and Brock stayed at his place, or hers, whichever seemed the most convenient. It was the perfect summer.

Annabelle had heard from her father several times. He was in Cap d'Antibes by then. He had called her, and sent her a dozen postcards. But Alex hadn't talked to him, he never called when she was there. She didn't want to ask him for the divorce over the phone anyway. She had no doubts anymore. Brock had convinced her. He had done more than any man ever could to prove himself to her. And as long as he knew what he was doing, and what he wanted, she had no reason to question him any further. She knew that she loved him. She felt very lucky to be with him.

And she was surprised when they were lying on the beach in mid-July, and she saw him looking at her bathing suit, and then he leaned over and kissed her.

“You're beautiful,” he said warmly, and she smiled at him. Annabelle was nearby, but the prospect of a little “nap” after lunch was very appealing.

“You're blind,” she responded, squinting at him in the sun, and then he gently touched her breast with one hand, and she could feel her whole body tingle.

“I think we should see a plastic surgeon sometime soon.”

“Why?” She tried to sound casual, but she didn't like talking about it. In spite of his gentleness with her, she was still self-conscious about the way she looked. And most of the time she wore a prosthesis.

“I just think you should,” he said kindly.

“Want me to get a new nose, or a face-lift?”

“Don't be such a twit. You're too young to spend the rest of your life hiding. You should be parading around naked all the time.” He was actually fairly circumspect, but she knew he was trying to make her feel better about her missing breast.

“You mean you want me to run around naked like Sam's little English girl? I don't think so.” The thought of Daphne still annoyed her.

“Never mind that. You know what I mean. At least talk to a doctor, find out what's involved. You could do it this summer and get it over with, and then you'd have two boobs forever.”

“It sounds awful, and it hurts a lot.”

“How do you know?”

“I've talked to other women in my support group, and Dr. Webber told me. It sounded disgusting.”

“Don't be such a wimp.” They both knew she was anything but a wimp. But he also wanted her to feel self-confident, and whole again. He nagged her about it, and even gave her the name of a well-known reconstructive plastic surgeon he'd found through a surgeon friend. Brock was always very resourceful.

“I made an appointment for you,” he said bluntly, one afternoon at work, and she stared up at him in amazement.

“That's a pushy thing to do.” She didn't want to go, and she argued with him about it for half an hour. “I'm not going.”

“Yes you are, I'm taking you. Just talk to the guy. It can't hurt you.”

She was still fuming about it when the day of the appointment came, but in the end, she went with him, and she was surprised how different this doctor was from her other surgeon. Where the other one was cold and methodical and dealing with hard facts and undeniable dangers, this one was dealing with improving things, and making people feel better about themselves. He was round and short, and gentle, and he had a good sense of humor. He had her laughing after a few minutes, and gently worked the conversation around to the procedure that had brought them to see him. He examined Alex's breast, or where it had been, and looked at the other one too, and told her he thought they could do a good job for her. They could either put an implant in or do a tissue expansion, which would require two months of weekly injections of saline solution to obtain the desired form. If anything, Alex preferred the immediacy of the implant. But in any case, she wasn't convinced yet. He explained that the surgery would be costly, of course, and not without pain, but they could take care of most of that for her, and at her age, he told her he thought it was well worth it.