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"No." Her fingers bit into his. "Oh G.o.d, no."
"I've been sick for weeks. Months really," he admitted on a sigh. "I
thought it was a cold, the flu, vitamin deficiency. I didn't want to
face going to the doctor. Then, well, I had to. I didn't accept the
first diagnosis, or the second, or the third." He laughed, letting his
eyes close again. "There are some things you can't run away from."
"There are treatments." Frantic, she pressed his hand to her cheek and
rocked. "I've read about treatments, drugs."
"I'm pumped full of drugs. Some days I feel pretty good."
"There are clinics."
"I'm not spending whatever time I've got in a clinic. I sold my house
so I've got some money. I'm going to rent a suite at the Plaza. See
plays, go to movies, museums, the ballet. All the things I haven't had
time to do in the last few years." He smiled again, touching a finger to
her cheek. "Sorry about the gla.s.s."
"Don't worry about it."
"It looked like Waterford," he murmured. "You've always had cla.s.s,
Emma. Don't cry." His voice tightened as he turned away from the tears
in her eyes.
"I'll clean up the gla.s.s."
"Don't." He took her hand again. He so badly needed someone to hold his
hand. "Just sit for a minute."
"All right. Luke, you can't give up. Every day they're, oh, I know it
sounds trite," she said desperately, "but every day they're coming
closer. There's so much research being done, and the media is making
the public more aware." She brought his hand back to her cheek. "They're
bound to find a cure. They have to."
He said nothing. She wanted a solace he couldn't give. How could he
explain how he had felt when the results had come in? Would she
understand, could she, that fear and anger were only two components?
There had been humiliation too, and despair. When pneumonia had set in
weeks before, the ambulance attendants wouldn't touch him. He'd been
isolated from human contact, from compa.s.sion, from hope.
She was the first one to touch him, to weep for him. And he couldn't
explain.
"When you see Johnno, don't tell him how I looked."
"won't."
That seemed to comfort him. His hand relaxed again. "Remember when I
tried to teach you to cook?"
"I remember that you said I was hopeless, but that Marianne took
inapt.i.tude to new heights."
"You finally caught on to the spaghetti."
"I still make it once a week whether I want it or not."
He was crying, slow, silent tears that slipped between his closed
lashes.
"Why don't you put off the Plaza awhile and stay here?" When he shook
his head, she went on. "Tonight then. Just for tonight. It's so
lonely without Marianne, and I'll show you the improvements I've made in
your spaghetti sauce."
She sat with him, holcing on, when he buried his face in his hands and
