“My friend is bringing dessert.”
“Ah. Sort of a potluck, huh? That isn’t how we did it in my day. ’Course in my day, us men never cooked a thing.” He winked. “Not on the stove, anyway. Have a nice night, Joe.” Humming a jaunty tune, he headed back to the workbench.
Joe shoved the oily rag in his back pocket and left the shop. On his way to his cabin, he stopped by Smitty’s house, talked to Helga for a few minutes, and left carrying a small hibachi. He set up the barbecue on the front porch, filling the black hole with briquettes that he’d bought that morning at Swain’s.
Inside the house, he looked around, making a mental list of things to be done.
Oil, wrap, and stab the potatoes.
Shuck the corn.
Season the steaks.
Arrange the flowers in the water pitcher.
Set the table.
He looked at the clock.
She’d be there in ninety minutes.
He showered and shaved, then dressed in his new clothes and headed for the kitchen.
For the next hour, he moved from one chore to the next, until the potatoes were in the oven, the corn was on the stove, the flowers were on the table, and the candles were lit.
Finally, everything was ready. He poured himself a glass of red wine and went into the living room to wait for her.
He sat down on the sofa and stretched out his legs.
From her place on the mantel, Diana smiled down at him.
He felt a flash of guilt, as if he’d done something wrong. That was stupid; he wasn’t being unfaithful.
Still …
He set his glass down on the coffee table and went to her. “Hey, Di,” he whispered, reaching for the photograph. This was one of his favorites, taken on New Year’s Eve at Whistler Mountain. She wore a white fur hat and a silvery parka. She looked impossibly young and beautiful.
For three years, he’d poured his heart out to her, told her everything; suddenly he couldn’t think of a thing to say. Behind him, candles flickered on the table set for two.
He touched the photo. The glass felt cold and slick. “I’ll always love you.”
It was true. Diana would always be his first—maybe his best—love.
But he had to try again.
He collected the photographs, one by one, leaving a single framed picture on the end table. Just one. All the rest, he took into the bedroom and carefully put away. Later, he’d return a few of them to his sister’s house.
When he went back into the living room and sat down, he smiled, thinking of Meghann. Anticipating the evening.
By 9:30, his smile had faded.
He sat alone on the couch, half drunk now with an empty bottle of wine beside him. The potatoes had long ago cooked down to nothing and the candles had burned themselves out. The front door stood open, welcoming, but the street in front was empty.
At midnight, he went to bed alone.
In the past nine days, Meghann and Claire had seen several specialists. It was amazing how fast doctors would see you if you had a brain tumor and plenty of money. Neurologists. Neurosurgeons. Neuro-oncologists. Radiologists. They went from Johns Hopkins to Sloan-Kettering to Scripps. When they weren’t on airplanes, they were in hospital waiting rooms or doctors’ offices. They learned dozens of frightening new words. Glioblastoma. Anaplastic astrocytoma. Craniotomy. Some of the doctors were caring and compassionate; more were cold and distant and too busy to talk for long. They outlined treatment models that were all depressingly alike and stacked them on statistics that offered little hope.
They each said the same thing: inoperable. It didn’t matter if Claire’s tumor was malignant or benign; either way it could be deadly. Most of the specialists believed Claire’s tumor to be a glioblastoma multiforme. A kind they called the terminator. Ha-ha.
Each time they left a city, Meghann pinned her hopes on the next destination.
Until a neurologist at Scripps took her aside. “Look,” the doctor said, “you’re using up valuable time. Radiation is your sister’s best hope right now. Twenty-five percent of brain tumors respond positively to the treatment. If it shrinks enough, perhaps it will be operable. Take her home. Stop fighting the diagnosis and start fighting the tumor.”
Claire had agreed, and so they’d gone home. The next day, Meghann had taken her sister to Swedish Hospital, where yet another neuro-oncologist had said the same thing, his opinion bolstered by yet another radiologist. They’d agreed to begin radiation treatment the next day.
Once a day for four weeks.
“I’ll need to stay here for the treatments,” Claire said as she sat on the cold stone fireplace in Meghann’s condo. “Hayden’s too far away.”
“Of course. I’ll call Julie and take some more time off of work.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can take the bus to the hospital.”