All You Could Ask For A Novel

KATHERINE

“TELL ME, WHAT HAVE you heard about my marriage?”

The words hung in the air like the echo of a firecracker. Phil was beside me, our hands intertwined, his knee touching mine. It was the closest we had been in a long time. I wasn’t going to kiss him. That was out of the question, though it didn’t mean there wasn’t a part of me that wanted to. Despite myself, despite everything that happened, I had to admit that even now he was just my type. He is strong and smart, decisive and dynamic. Perhaps he is everything my father turned out not to be. I never really thought of it that way but suddenly now I did. Suddenly now, sitting on the couch, near enough to smell the cigarette smoke in his hair and see the tiny spot beneath his jaw he missed when he shaved, I figured it out. He’s everything I wish my father had been. Oh, the money I could have saved on therapy if I had seen that before.

Anyway, Phil didn’t look so good but he still looked good. He still has those huge, strong hands, muscled from a childhood spent helping his father carry milk crates in Brooklyn. You can file the nails and cut the cuticles, but the muscles in a man’s hands will always betray him.

And I’m still a woman. Maybe that’s the most important thing I figured out sitting here. It’s easy to forget sometimes when you’re sick, when you become so accustomed to undressing in front of nurses that you stop bothering to close the door, when the attractive male doctor wants only to know how many times you’ve moved your bowels this week, when you’re afraid to fuss with your hair because so much of it remains in the brush when you do, when you take to wearing men’s boxer shorts rather than your usual underwear because they are so much easier to manage and more comfortable. I hadn’t been in my closet in three months, I realized, but as Phil held my hand I knew I would again, perhaps the moment he left. I wanted to dress like myself. I wanted makeup. I would buy that long, blond wig Samantha has been trying to talk me into. All of a sudden, Marie’s black-tie wedding party, which I’d been dreading, sounded pretty good. And, frankly, so did the idea of having sex with Phil.

But then he asked that question about his marriage, and I felt everything inside of me that had begun feeling warm quickly go cold. Gently, I pulled my hand away from his and tugged the collar of my sweater closer to my ears, and I kept my hands to myself the rest of the time we were together.

“I heard that you and Holly separated,” I said flatly. “I’m sorry I didn’t send a note but I’ve been a little busy.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he said, shifting a bit uncomfortably. “What did you hear?”

I didn’t have any desire to hurt him, I really didn’t. Despite all the horrible things I had wished upon him over the years, here was the perfect opportunity to hurt him and I didn’t want to do it. Maybe because he looked so vulnerable. Maybe that was really all I needed, not to see him suffer, just to see him in a place where he might. I didn’t need to tell him what I’d heard just to humiliate him, but the truth is the truth and there didn’t seem much point in hiding from it.

“I heard that Holly was having an affair,” I said slowly and carefully. “That was the rumor that ran around the office. But I’m aware of how inaccurate the grapevine can be, so I assumed it probably wasn’t true.”

“It was.”

I couldn’t quite place the look in his eyes. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“Thank you,” he replied, and then paused and took a little breath. “But there’s more to the story than that.” He pulled another cigarette from the package and held it, unlit, between his fingers. “I don’t have any idea why I’m telling you this, but for some reason I want you to know. Maybe it’s because of everything that happened between us. Maybe it’s because I think it will make you happy. Or maybe it’s just because I need to tell somebody and for some reason I feel like, in spite of everything, I’m still closer to you than anybody else.”

I just stared at his face, and started to feel a little angry. After all these years, why the hell was he talking like this now?

“You’re about to become the only person besides my doctor who knows about this. There are confidentiality laws that dictate he has to keep it between us. No such laws govern this conversation, of course, but I trust that you understand I am telling you this in confidence and it will stay between us forever.”

“I won’t say a word,” I said.

“My marriage has been in major trouble for years,” he said. “And to tell you the truth the reason why is the same reason I chose her instead of you.”

I sat up a little taller. “Well, I can’t wait to hear this.”

“Holly didn’t challenge me so much,” he said. “When I took her to restaurants, she thought they were the most special evenings in the world. When I talked about going to Europe, she acted as though it would be like flying to the moon. You were different. You had more than I did coming in and just the same vision for the future as me. I felt like anything I could give you, you already expected. She appreciated it all so much more. Somehow that made her much easier for me.”

I’d heard those words before. I’d heard myself say them, but coming from him I found they left me feeling disappointed. Twenty years of my life boiled down to nothing more than this: Holly was more impressed to have whatever Phil chose to give her than I would have been.

“At first it was fine,” he continued, “because of the kids. When they were small I was always working and she was always with them, so the time we had together was usually reserved for sex. But when Daniel was ten or eleven, and Michael was away at boarding school, then it became just her and me, and there was nothing there. She didn’t push me. She didn’t challenge me. And where I once thought that made her the perfect wife, suddenly it was the opposite.”

I cut him off, sharply. “Phil, nothing about this story interests me so far, and I am having really serious doubts about it getting any better. I thank you for taking care of my money, that was a wonderful gesture on your part and even if you did it solely to assuage your own guilt over all the bullshit you put me through, I still appreciate it. And, frankly, I have come to realize in the last few months that it wasn’t you that put me through all of it anyway. It was me. All you did was dump me, and worse things than that happen to people every day. The fact I chose to let it define me for so long was my problem, not yours. And in the very same way, the fact that you chose to marry a vapid whore is your problem, not mine. So I hope you don’t mind if I don’t cry over the fact that she cheated on you. She probably saved you half of everything you own, which she would have gotten in the divorce if you had just told her to hit the road. So, it’s been great seeing you again, let’s do it again real soon. I think I’m done for the evening.”

I stood and started toward my bedroom. I was a step from escaping when he said, “Kat, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but the truth is it wasn’t her cheating on me, it was me cheating on her.”

I stopped. I didn’t turn back toward him but I listened.

“I’ve been running around for years. Started probably the second year of our marriage, even though I was happy at the time. As crazy as it sounds, I just did it because I could. I kept it away from work, but that still left plenty of other options, on airplanes, in hotel bars, at health clubs. I could get any woman I wanted and I did, and I never gave it a second thought. I didn’t view it as a referendum on my marriage or my feelings for my wife or even on my own morality, it was just something I did because there didn’t seem to be a compelling reason not to.”

“Not if you’re a narcissistic sociopath, I can see that,” I said. “Go on.”

“In recent years, it changed. Not the frequency of it but the meaning. I was completely disillusioned in my marriage. I started looking for more from these other women. It wasn’t just a little flattery, a little jewelry, a lot of sex. I wanted to talk. I wanted to have dinner. I wanted it to matter, and that was when I knew it had to change.”

He paused. I turned to face him. He was still seated, looking smaller than I could ever remember. Phillip is a big man, in every way. But not on that couch. Not today.

He continued, “The question was, what to do? I wanted out, but getting out was going to cost me about a hundred million bucks. And then, before I could figure it out, I noticed this thing on my dick. Just a little thing, you know, like a pimple. It got bigger and bigger in just a couple of days and then—”

“Stop telling me this part,” I said.

“I finally went to the doctor and, of course, it was herpes. The doctor asked me how I thought I got it and I told him I had no idea. And he asked what I meant by that and I said it could have been five or six different women, and he asked if one of them was my wife and I said that was probably the least likely.”

“This is the worst story I’ve ever heard,” I said.

Phil ignored me and kept going. “I asked the doctor what I should do and he said I had better explain to my wife how it happened because she was about to find out anyway. And I told him she would probably leave me, and he said: ‘Phil, unless you can convince her that she was the one who gave you this, I’d say you’re completely f*cked.’ And it was like a lightbulb went on over my head. I went straight to the bar at the St. Regis and had three drinks, and then I went home and started screaming at her: ‘How could you do this to me? I trusted you and now I’m totally humiliated!’ I tried as hard as I could to convince her I had no idea how else I could have gotten this disease and I laid it on thick. And after about ten minutes of nonstop cursing, I’ll give you one guess what she did.”

That was when I got it. “She admitted it.”

He smiled. “That’s exactly right. She broke down and told me she’s been sleeping with her tennis pro for two years, and she’s apologizing like crazy and begging my forgiveness, and I’m drunk enough that I sort of forget how we got there in the first place, so I’m yelling, ‘You bitch! You betrayed me!’ And right there in the living room I told her I wanted out of the marriage, that I would make sure she and the boys were always taken care of but that if she went after any of my money I would let the whole world know what a whore she is.”

He was breathing heavily, that smoker’s wheeze. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. I was genuinely speechless. I just walked over and sat next to him again on the sofa.

“So that’s exactly how it happened,” he said.

“You sound as though you’re proud of it.”

“Not proud,” he said, “that isn’t the right word, but I’m happy that it’s over, and I’m happy it didn’t cost me half of everything I have worked my whole life for.”

I nodded.

“That doesn’t make sense to you?” he asked.

“I suppose it does.”

And there was nothing else to be said. I reached over and touched his cheek, left my hand there for a moment, and then I got up and walked away.

“Thanks again for the money, Phil,” I said over my shoulder. “I need to get some rest. You can see yourself out.”





SAMANTHA

I WANTED TO MEET him in Greenwich.

He offered to come into the city, couldn’t have been nicer about it, said all the right things about not wanting to inconvenience me and how he comes in all the time and how many more options there are, but I wanted to. It had been too long since I’d eaten dinner in Greenwich. And something about eating dinner in Greenwich with Andrew Marks sounded especially good. It sounded like going home again. Which they say you can’t do, only they’re wrong, you can go home again a little, and this night seemed like the right time.

I borrowed a car from my old boss. I realized, as I slid behind the wheel, that I hadn’t driven a car since I’d been back from Hawaii—you don’t drive much living in New York—then it dawned on me that I hadn’t driven a car while I was in Hawaii either. Nor in L.A., where Robert had a driver who delivered us everywhere we needed to be. So, as I eased into the light traffic on the West Side Highway, I figured I hadn’t driven a car since the last time I was on some shoot somewhere, a year ago at the very least, maybe more. How very strange.

It felt good to drive.

Greenwich has changed since I was a girl. There’s an Apple store where the Gap used to be, and there’s a new restaurant in the space that was occupied by that little Italian place I loved with the tables where you sat outside, the name of which I can’t remember anymore. The auto dealerships are still in the same place, though I think some of them have changed brands. The little movie theater is gone and there’s a multiplex at the other end of town. It’s all a little different, but it’s also the same. My favorite pizza shop is still where it used to be, with the statue in the window of the man in the white suit flipping the dough over his head. The florist at the beginning of Main Street is still open and, in fact, seems to have grown. And, of course, the hospital is still standing proudly at the end of town. I drove straight there and parked and just walked around for a little while. Of all the places that made my hometown feel like home, this was the most important.

The restaurant Andrew suggested was one I used to go to all the time on my birthday or my parents’ anniversary, a special-event sort of place. My mother loved it. I remember the chairs seemed so big I would sit with my feet curled beneath me like I was on a couch. My father took me a few times after Mother died, too, but mostly I remember how sad we were then, and how people would stop at our table and say hello and tell us how sorry they were and wish us well. I guess that was why we stopped coming. But I always liked it anyway. You can’t hold it against a restaurant that you spent a few sad nights there. It wasn’t the restaurant’s fault.

I gave my car to the valet and stood out in front for a moment, taking it all in. The awning outside was new but the place looked just as I remembered. The maître d’ was wearing a tuxedo and he looked familiar; I think he was the maître d’ the last time I was here. I’m not positive, but I think so. Either way, he greeted me graciously and escorted me to my table, where Andrew was waiting.

Much like the auto dealers and the shops and the town itself, Andrew looked the same but a little different. His hair was still wavy and chestnut brown, but thinner, and his shoulders were still broad but he didn’t stand as tall or stiffly as I remembered; he stooped a little, as though being so tall had become an inconvenience over the years. He still had that smile, relaxed and confident, and his teeth were terrific, and his eyes alert and energetic. He was a very handsome man, even if he wasn’t the high school basketball star anymore. It would have been silly to expect him to be that anyway; none of us are the high school basketball star anymore.

It would also have been silly to expect the sight of him to make me feel just as it did the night he asked me to dance, not because he wasn’t the same but because I wasn’t. Your heart doesn’t flutter like that of a fourteen-year-old girl’s when you aren’t fourteen anymore. It was as though I was expecting him to appear before me and suddenly we would be in high school again, and the Bee Gees would start playing and we would dance and it would be exactly as it was. That was an unreasonable expectation—that’s the part they mean when they say you can’t go home again. You can’t have the music and the dancing. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a perfectly lovely time.

“What made you choose pediatrics?” I asked. We were drinking a very crisp white wine, which he’d ordered in French.

“I always knew I’d be a doctor,” he said. “I spent so much time in the hospital as a kid, it felt like home. I’m sure it was the same for you.”

I nodded.

“As for the specialty, I originally considered surgery. I spent two years in the ER and I hated it. The hours are ridiculous and the drama is off the charts. The work is fulfilling but I was emotionally spent every day. I think I would have had a nervous breakdown before my thirtieth birthday. With pediatrics the hours are reasonable and the calamities are few and far between. Plus, I like the kids. Some of them I’ve treated since they were a day old. And you get to know the families. That is probably the best part, you really become a part of the community. I think I know half the moms in town.”

I laughed. “Like Brooke.”

“Yeah, she’s something else, isn’t she?”

I took a long sip of wine. “Yes, she is.”

Our entrées came and we ate quickly, and we laughed some more, it was relaxed and easy and fun. It was as though we had been the best of friends, which was strange, because in truth we had not. We hadn’t really known each other that well in high school, or afterward, but we were from the same place. That can go a long way sometimes.

Our plates had been cleared and Andrew was sloshing red wine in his glass when a different look came over his face, as though he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure about it. It was the same look he had that night, forever ago, when he stood before me and wanted to dance to a slow song but struggled to ask.

“So, Samantha, I thought I heard you got married.”

It wasn’t really a question, not technically. It was a statement, but there was a question connected to it even if he didn’t ask it.

“Did you hear that from Brooke?”

“No, just around. Not from Brooke.”

Life is funny sometimes. It throws you curveballs at the most unusual times. One minute you’re rekindling romantic feelings with a boy you adored in high school and the next you’re forced to explain why you were married for three days to a man who will very likely someday be the governor of California.

“I didn’t mean to bring up an uncomfortable subject,” Andrew said, looking concerned he had ruined the mood. “I just wondered if I had heard that wrong. You know how the grapevine can be. You don’t have to go there if you don’t want to. I’m sorry if it’s a bad subject.”

“It isn’t,” I said, “there’s no big secret or anything. I was married, briefly, to the wrong man. In retrospect, it was a good thing that it happened the way it did. I could have wasted years of my life with him; instead I only wasted a couple of days.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

I meant that. I wasn’t sorry and I didn’t want him to be either. He looked very concerned that he had spoiled the evening, while I was only concerned that there wasn’t anything I could say to ease his mind. And then I thought of something.

“I have a much bigger regret than that in my life,” I said. “Do you want to know what it is?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

I leaned closer to him. “I really regret that I never got to find out if you are as good a kisser as you seemed like you would be.”

BROOKE

THE FIRST WORDS OUT of Samantha’s mouth when I answered the phone in the morning, ahead of any greeting, with a whirring sound I could not immediately place in the background, brought a huge smile to my face.

“The answer,” she said, with great excitement, “is YES!”

“I love it,” I replied. “I don’t even care what the question was, I just love when the answer is yes.”

“The question was, is Andrew Marks as good a kisser as he looks like he’d be. You asked me that once and I couldn’t answer it. I can answer it now.”

“Oh my goodness, tell me everything.”

I dropped onto the sofa and curled up and she started talking. I love stories like these. She said they went from the table to the bar, then to another bar for a nightcap, and then, both too drunk to drive, called a taxi to take them to Samantha’s father’s house. At that point, a hint of an icy feeling went through me. I cut her off.

“Samantha, what is that noise I hear in the background?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “what noise?”

“Oh my lord, you’re in the car, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Yes, I am,” she said, very cheerily. Like she was throwing it in my face.

“You’re just driving home now,” I said, horrified. “You spent the night with him, didn’t you?”

I could hear the laughter in her voice. “Yes, I did.”

“You slut!”

She laughed and laughed, assuring me that her promise not to have sex with him on their first date had remained intact. I didn’t believe her at first, I’m still not sure I do, but I can’t very well call her a liar, there isn’t much point in that.

“In fact,” she went on, “one of the things we talked about was whether or not this could truly be called a first date, considering we had what was sort of a date one time before.”

“Yes, darling, but that was how long ago?” I asked.

“Almost fourteen years.”

“The statute of limitations on this sort of thing varies from situation to situation but in no case is it thirteen years,” I told her. “That means if you had sex with him last night he is within his rights to assume you are a slut.”

“Brooke, I did not have sex with him.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Brooke,” she said, sounding a bit annoyed, “I cannot have this conversation with you if you are going to have this attitude. I have no reason to lie to you about this. I didn’t sleep with him and that’s the end of it.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I listened to the wind whizzing by. It sounded like she was flying down the expressway.

“Are you in a convertible?” I asked her.

“No, but all the windows are down and the sun roof is open.”

“Do you feel as good as you sound?” I asked.

“Brooke, I’ve never felt this good in my entire life.”

“Tell me more,” I said. “What was the single best moment?”

She didn’t have to think about it for even a second. “He remembered the song.”

I knew what she meant, but I asked anyway, mostly because I knew she’d love telling it even more than I’d love hearing it.

“We were talking about that night when we danced, and I told him it was the first time I had ever danced with a boy, and he made a joke about hoping he had been gentle, and it was all very comfortable, and then he started talking about the things from the night that he remembered, and when he got to the part about the music slowing down, I thought to myself there was no chance he would remember the song. But he did. He said: ‘When “How Deep Is Your Love” came on . . .’ and honestly I have no idea what he said after that, I just leaned in close to him and said: ‘I wanted so badly for you to kiss me that night.’ And we stood up and he held me just the same way, and we made out standing there in my father’s living room.”

“Could you hear the song in your head?” I asked.

“I think I could.”

“Samantha,” I told her, “I’ve heard a lot of stories, but that is the most romantic first kiss of all time.”

I could only barely hear over the wind whipping past. “I know,” she said.

SAMANTHA

IN THE RIGHT LIGHT, everything is fabulous.

I forget who said that, but I read it somewhere, and it’s true. This morning, the light is just right everywhere, and everything is fabulous. The sunshine reflecting off the Hudson River as I passed the George Washington Bridge, in particular, was gleaming with endless possibilities.

On these sorts of days, even a chemotherapy center seems brighter, cheerier, and it helps when the patient is in good spirits, which Katherine clearly was. I could tell the moment I arrived. There was a twinkle in her eye, almost as bright as the sun on the river. Something had happened, and she was excited to tell me, but first she wanted to know about Andrew.

As I recounted, in intricate detail, every second of my evening and long night, I found myself looking around the room more than I ever have before. I’ve been in this center with Katherine more times than I can count, but I suppose I have usually been so focused on her that I’ve blocked out everything around us. I haven’t paid much attention to the large, open room with the lounging chairs and intravenous drips positioned behind each one. Or the nurses’ station in the center of the room, and the rotation of friendly, supportive nurses, one cheerier than the next. Or the table with food and drink, pastries and finger sandwiches, juices and coffee. The food is for the visitors, but I’ve never eaten anything. Neither has Katherine; usually her treatments leave her nauseated and sleepy, and cold. She always has a large cashmere blanket draped around her shoulders and a quilt over her legs. Today I helped myself to coffee and glanced around at the other patients. Some were dozing, others reading, some were listening to music; not many of them looked sick. They looked alive, and Katherine did, too.

After I finished the story of my date with Andrew, Katherine lowered her reading glasses to the tip of her nose, like a teacher about to ask a tough question.

“Why on earth didn’t you f*ck him?” she said, too loudly.

I shushed her and looked around. But no one was staring at us. If any of the patients had heard her, it wasn’t obvious.

“Please, Katherine,” I said, “have a little class.”

“Please, Samantha,” she said, mimicking my tone, “I have more important things to worry about right now than maintaining the proper decorum.”

“To answer your question,” I said, “it wasn’t the right time and it wasn’t the right place.”

“Listen to me,” she said. “After all the history, I think doing it in your father’s house would have been the perfect place, and if he’s as good-looking as you say he is then I’m not sure there could ever be a bad time.”

“Well, aren’t we all riled up this morning?” I said. “What’s gotten into you?”

So she told me about her visit from Phillip, and the money and the herpes and his clumsy, pathetic advances, and when she was finished there was only one conclusion to be reached.

“My goodness, Katherine,” I said, “we need to celebrate, and you need a little action.”

“You bet your ass,” she said, and we both laughed.

Then it hit me. “Saturday night!” I said, slapping my forehead. “Marie’s wedding! Black tie, fancy-schmancy, perfect occasion for a little flirting. We have to shop for your outfit tomorrow.”

“It would be perfect, you’re right,” she said. I saw the arrival of the wistful look that occasionally came over her and heard it in her tone. It was the “but” in everything. That’s what living with cancer means, more than anything. There’s always a “but.”

“Well,” I said, moving it along, “I hope you’re ready to shop tomorrow, because you are going to be the hottest thing at that party.”

It looked to me like Katherine was holding back tears. “Thanks, Samantha,” she said.

That’s another way I knew she was sad. Katherine is one of those people who doesn’t use your name much when she talks to you. When she does, it usually means she’s sad.

So I changed the subject. “Kat,” I said cheerily, “I would like to ask you the single most inappropriate question in the world.”

That seemed to snap her out of it. She raised her eyebrows and waited.

“All the money that Phil made sure you got . . .”

She leaned forward. “Yes?”

“How much is it?”

Katherine tilted her head a little to the side, the way a dog might if it hears a sound it cannot identify. Then she leaned back in her chair and laughed out loud.

“You’re right,” she said, “highly inappropriate.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m asking anyway.”

She smiled. “You’ll find out when you need to.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll understand pretty soon,” she said.

“Katherine, don’t get that way on me.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said reassuringly. “You’ll find out what I mean, and how much money Phil gave me, very soon. Long before anything happens to me.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t,” she said cryptically. “But you will.”

KATHERINE

I DIDN’T WANT TO tell Samantha about my plans yet. There would be time for that soon. If there is one thing I have learned in two decades in the corporate world it is that the best time to announce plans is when they are complete. Anything earlier than that leaves too much room for error. So it wasn’t time to announce it yet, or even to tell Samantha. But that wasn’t far off.

First, I had to get ready for this wedding party. It was honestly sweet of Marie to make me her maid of honor, and to make such a fuss over my presence, including planning the event for the very weekend when I would be finished with my first round of treatment. Today is my last chemo for the time being—certainly not forever. I don’t know that I will ever see a day when I have no more treatments ahead, perhaps until the time when there are no more options and hopefully that won’t be any time soon. But for now I have a break, and Dr. Z told me to expect to feel great three or four days after my last round. He told Marie the same thing, and she planned her own wedding around that, and I can’t think of a kinder gesture.

But it puts a lot of pressure on me. I am assuming practically everyone I know will be at this event, all the people I worked with all these years, and almost none of them has seen me since I became ill. In that way, there is no getting around the fact that this party will be as much about me as it will about Marie. I told her as much, and I told her no bride should ever sacrifice her night that way, but Marie just smiled. And, while she won’t admit it, I think she wants it that way. She wants this night for me, and she knows if she or anyone else tried to throw this party for me I would never allow it, so in my heart I believe she has staged this, for the most part, to force me to attend. And while that is the most beautiful thing, it is also a great deal of stress for me.

I confronted her with it only one time. “Marie, I feel like you’re inviting me to my own funeral,” I said.

She was very calm. “Boss, this is my wedding night. I’m not thinking of it any other way. So you can see it however you want, but I’m asking you to do this for me.”

There was no way to say no to that, so I never tried again.

So now Samantha and I would spend a day at Bergdorf Goodman, putting together the most sensational outfit anyone would see all year. Hell, if this is the last time a lot of these people are going to see me, you’d better believe they are going to remember me looking fabulous.

Before we could shop, however, we had today to get through, one last afternoon of chemo, and I had been preparing for it.

“Let’s change the subject,” I said. “I came up with a few new Absolute Deal-breakers.”

“Perfect,” Samantha said, sliding her chair closer to mine. “We can apply them to some of the men you are going to meet at the party Saturday night.”

“Okay,” I said. “Is it an Absolute Deal-breaker if he named his dog after Jeffrey Dahmer?”

She burst out laughing. “Yes,” she said. “Out, out, out!”

“I agree,” I said. “Next, is it an Absolute Deal-breaker if you are seated next to an attractive stranger on an airplane and he makes very pleasant small talk, then pulls out an iPad and watches porn?”

Samantha smiled. She looked awfully pretty today. “How much effort does he make to conceal the porn from you?”

“What difference does that make?”

“I feel like if he wants you to see it then he is a pervert and trying to gauge if you’re interested in something quick in the bathroom. But if he’s hiding it . . .” She thought about it for a moment. “No, you’re right, he’s out, porn on an airplane is an Absolute Deal-breaker.”

“Does it make any difference what kind of porn it is?” I asked her.

“I don’t think so.”

“So, soft-core stuff is just as bad as bestiality?”

“It’s not as bad,” she said, “but he’s out just the same.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Okay, I’ve got one more great one for you. I was up all night thinking about this one. How about if you’re dating a guy and you’re having a discussion about the parameters of the relationship and he asks if you would consider it cheating if he got jerked off by a male massage therapist.”

I treasured the look of horror on Samantha’s face. “OUT!” she screamed.

“Why is he out?” I asked.

“Because why is he even thinking about that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s just trying to be prepared for any situation that may arise.”

“He’s out,” Samantha said definitively. “That is an Absolute Deal-breaker.”

“I figured you’d say that,” I told her, “because you’re a pretty tough judge.”

I looked at my watch. One hour remaining. The hours pass awfully slowly in this room. The days can sometimes fly by, and every now and again the minutes move quickly, but the hours are eternal. I was trying to think of another deal-breaker when Samantha mentioned a name I hadn’t heard in a long time.

“I met someone who knows you,” she said. “Brooke Biltmore.”

You don’t forget Brooke, neither the name nor the girl. Brooke was the most social girl in Greenwich, legendarily so. We didn’t have girls like Paris Hilton in my school, but Brooke was the closest thing. She was a year behind me, and she was iconic, fashionable and friendly, and beautiful and sweet. The boys adored her, the faculty worshipped her, the younger girls idolized her, and even the girls who envied her had to grudgingly admit she had it together.

I am ashamed to admit it, but the very idea that after all these years Brooke Biltmore remembered me was a little exciting. I guess we never really do leave high school.

“Where did you meet her?” I asked, nonchalant as I could.

“In Greenwich.”

“Details?”

“Her kids are patients of Andrew’s. It’s a long story, but I met her and she seemed around your age so I dropped your name and she totally remembered you,” Samantha said.

I had to work to keep the pride from showing on my face. “How does she look?”

“She’s gorgeous,” Samantha said, with no hesitation.

“She always was.”

“You can tell.”

“And obviously she’s married with kids and still lives in Greenwich?”

“That’s right,” Samantha said. “She’s married, don’t know much about her husband, but she has twins, I’m not sure how old.”

I nodded. “Sounds right.”

“What was she like in high school?” Samantha asked.

“Exactly the same,” I said. “Gorgeous, with a successful husband and perfect-looking twins.”

“You strike me as the sort of person who wouldn’t care for a girl like that.”

“You are correct,” I said thoughtfully, “but to be fair, she was all right. There was something decent about Brooke that made it impossible to hate her. She was a good person. She was much more real than the average debutante. I’m glad to hear things have turned out well for her.”

Samantha got a strange look when I said that, one that suggested maybe things weren’t as good for Brooke as they sounded, but I didn’t ask. If she wanted to tell me she would.

“What did she remember about me?” I asked instead.

“She said you were really smart.”

That’s what I mean. That’s what I liked about Brooke. Do you think Paris Hilton could tell you which girls in school were really smart? Even if Brooke had more admirers than anyone else, she still knew I was the smart one.

“That’s nice,” I said. “Anything else?”

Now the look on Samantha’s face was even more uncomfortable, and I couldn’t read it at all. Maybe it was connected to Brooke not doing so well. I had to ask.

“What?”

“She said that your father was in jail.”

And there it was.

That feeling. The nervous gnawing in the pit of my stomach, the slap in the face, the redness in the cheeks that followed. It had been a really long time but now it was back. Because, like I said, you really never do get out of high school.

“Well,” I said, “I guess she really does remember me.”

“You never told me about that,” Samantha said. She sounded hurt, and I understood. Not because she had the right to know anything she wanted, but because she felt, as I did, that we shared everything. Only I hadn’t shared this.

“It just didn’t seem relevant anymore,” I said. But that wasn’t true, not at all. When your father goes to jail it is always relevant, even if you live to be a hundred. “Do you want to know the story?”

“Only if you want to tell me,” Samantha said.

“I don’t want to tell you at all,” I said, “but I will.”

Samantha frowned.

“That came out wrong,” I said. “I mean it isn’t a lot of fun talking about it, so I never do, but it’s important to me that you know I’m not keeping anything a secret.”

“Katherine, you don’t—”

I cut her off. “Sit back and relax,” I said. “It’s not a quick story.”

The story is about my mother’s brother—Uncle Edward—who was an enormously rich man and a total cretin. He made his money in real estate, buying decrepit buildings, throwing out the poor people who lived in them, tearing down the buildings, and putting up town houses. It’s perfectly legal, and I suppose you could argue he was improving neighborhoods, but I always wondered where all the poor people went. I asked him about it one time, and only one time.

“Who gives a shit?” was his reply.

That’s why I never asked again.

My father worked for him, in a management role that left him a lot of free time, so my dad was always around when I was a girl, which was terrific. But it was pretty obvious he didn’t love his job, and the summer I turned eleven I found out why. We were at my uncle’s house in Southampton. We visited once per summer, not more and not less, and it was clear my parents never enjoyed themselves, but I certainly did. The house was sensational. It had a pool and a trampoline and my cousins had a playroom bigger than our house. I used to love it there, until the day I discovered the air vent.

It wasn’t actually me who discovered it. My eldest cousin showed it to me. His name was Richard, and I thought he was cool because he looked a little like John Travolta and because he smoked. Richard showed me an air vent in the downstairs playroom where he could sneak a cigarette, blowing the smoke into the air duct. It was genius, and utterly cool.

That year when I turned eleven, I decided I wanted to try it. I knew where to find cigarettes, my uncle kept his on the kitchen counter, and I knew where to go to smoke them. I can still remember my heart beating as I snuck two cigarettes out of the pack and tucked them into the waistband of my sweatpants, then tiptoed down the stairs. There was no one in the playroom. My father and my uncle were the only ones in the house and they’d locked themselves in my uncle’s office, telling me they needed to talk in private and were not to be disturbed.

I slid open the vent that covered the air duct and stuck my head inside, but before I could strike a match I heard voices. They sounded tinny, with a hint of echo, but I recognized them immediately and was easily able to make out what they were saying.

“You’ve never treated me with respect.”

That was my father.

“Don’t make a fool of yourself.”

That was my uncle.

“After the way you’ve treated me all these years,” my father said, “if you think I’m going to get you off the hook you must be out of your mind.”

“Let me tell you something,” my uncle said. “You’ve been riding this gravy train for years. This is the first time I’ve ever asked you to do anything and you will do exactly as I tell you.”

“Or else what? Are you threatening to cut your own sister and her family out of the business?”

“No,” my uncle replied. “That is not what I’m threatening.”

“Then what?” my father asked.

There was a long silence after that. I never heard them say anything else.

A few months later my father went to prison upstate, sentenced to four years for tax evasion. I never told anyone that I knew what happened, and I never read what was in the newspapers. But I did learn two valuable lessons that day. The first is that money without power is worthless. And the other is that there isn’t really anything so cool about smoking. I left the two cigarettes right there in the air duct and shut the vent behind me. For all I know they’re still there. And I never did try a cigarette, not in my entire life.

When I finished the story, Samantha was stone-faced. I could tell she didn’t know what to say.

“What happened after he went to prison?” she finally asked.

“We visited him.”

“And how was that?”

“The jail wasn’t so terrible. Visiting him was like going to a mediocre restaurant for lunch, except that you wouldn’t normally drive upstate to eat at a mediocre restaurant, nor would you leave your father there after you paid the check. That was the worst part. It wasn’t seeing him in there that was so bad, it was getting back into the car without him when we left.”

“What did you talk about when you were with him?” she asked.

“I hardly remember. It feels like a different lifetime, like it happened in a dream.”

“And how about when he came home?”

That was the hard part. “He never came home. He died of a heart attack less than two years after he went in.”

“Oh my god,” Samantha said.

“My mother has never been the same, not even close. She’ll never get over it. I suppose I won’t either. And she and I have always had trouble talking about it, because she says he did it all for me, which seems to make it okay in her mind but always makes it much worse to me.”

We sat quietly in the room, listening to the humming of the machines. Every now and again someone would laugh, or a phone would ring. There was soft music in the distance that I couldn’t recall hearing before. It was almost time to go.

“Let me tell you something, Samantha,” I said. “The lesson in all of it is that money without power is meaningless. So the lesson for you should be to stop apologizing all the time for the way you were raised and all the advantages you had. What you’re doing now is wonderful and there isn’t any way to put a price tag on it.”

Samantha was very still. She didn’t say anything.

“Besides,” I added, “money isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be. What makes life worth living is all the wonderful things that could happen to you. Remember that.”

“Are you talking about Andrew?” she asked.

“I am if you want me to be.”

She was thinking of him now, I could tell.

“Samantha,” I said. “Earlier, when I told you Brooke seemed like the sort who’d have the perfect life, I could tell from your face she does not. Right now, I could really use a story about her life that isn’t so perfect. Would you tell me?”

She seemed to think very hard. “Her life isn’t perfect, Katherine, believe me.”

“In what way?”

Samantha put her hand up near her mouth. “I’ll just tell you this, because I don’t want to betray her trust. Brooke is one of those women who judges herself and every other woman based on the men in their lives.”

I nodded. I wasn’t particularly surprised to hear that. “Women like that have always treated me like I’m pathetic,” I said.

“Maybe they treat you that way because they are intimidated by you.”

“Baloney,” I said. “They act as though they consider everything I have a substitute for what they have.”

“Maybe you’re intimidated by them.”

That slowed me down. “I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t make any difference anyway.”

Samantha came closer and fluffed the pillow at the base of my achy back. “I think there’s a lesson in that for all of us,” she said. “Something about just needing to give each other a break now and then.”

That stopped me, completely.

“Well,” I sniffed, “when you put it that way it sounds so simple.”

Then she sat back down in the chair opposite mine and we waited quietly for the rest of the poison to finish dripping into my veins. It would only be a few more minutes.

BROOKE

SO, I’LL MAKE THESE my final words on the subject.

There isn’t any need to continue talking about it all, because that only serves to defeat the purpose, which is to live. Not just to stay alive, to live. As I, and only I, define living. I don’t tell anyone else how they should define it, and I don’t ask for advice, either.

For me, happiness is the only goal I can imagine. I don’t really have any others. Some people pursue happiness in boardrooms or on mountaintops, they spend their lives negotiating and climbing, and it seems to me what they are doing is looking for happiness in the profits and the pretty views. But I don’t need to look so far away for happiness. I have it here, all around me, every day, nearly every minute. I don’t need to accomplish anything in order to feel happy. Happiness is not something I hope to discover along the way to vague, distant goals; happiness is a means to its own end. It is the destination, the only one worth striving for, at least that’s the way I see it and I tell my kids that all the time. The only thing I wish for you is happiness. I don’t care if they are ambitious, athletic, or academic. I don’t care if they want to be doctors or schoolteachers or garbage collectors; I only want them to be happy. Living happily ever after is always the best ending. Any story that ends differently isn’t worth telling, as far as I’m concerned.

So, sometimes I think to myself: How dare she try to tell me how to live my life?

Cancer, I mean.

Not Samantha. I love her for trying to tell me how to live my life. She’s young enough not to have learned that there are different ways of thinking, and she’s sweet enough to care. I appreciate her for both of those. I don’t get angry with her when she pesters me about my decisions, which she does less and less frequently anyway. That’s nice. Now we can just be friends. Perhaps someday she’ll meet Scott and my kids. I think she’d like that, and I would too. Perhaps we could double-date, if things progress with Dr. Marks, which I have a funny feeling they are going to.

Actually, it’s more than a funny feeling, more like a premonition. Or a matter of faith. Something good has to come from what I’ve been through. Perhaps this is what it is meant to be. Perhaps Dr. Marks and Samantha will marry and they’ll have a son or a daughter who becomes a brilliant scientist who discovers the cure for cancer, and it would never have happened if I hadn’t become sick and met Samantha and fixed her up with Andrew.

So, it’s not Samantha who infuriates me. It is cancer. How dare this disease, this creeping, crawling creature I can neither see nor feel, show up unannounced and uninvited and start dictating all this change. Cancer has a whole list of ways in which my life is going to be different, a list of things I need to do, a list of things I will never do again. Even now, when it is no longer inside me, it wants to tell me how to behave so it will never return.

Well, guess what: I’m not listening. I have my own plans and my own schedule and I will deal with cancer on my own terms, no one else’s. If I choose to drive car pools and chaperone class trips and get my hair blown out every Saturday night and talk dirty to my husband on the phone when he is away, then that is exactly what I’m going to do, with apologies to no one and absolutely no second thoughts.

And to anyone who judges me, I simply say: Mind your own business.

And to cancer, I simply say: F*ck YOU.

KATHERINE

I LOOK BEAUTIFUL.

There really aren’t three better words in the English language than those, are there?

Even I love you isn’t always better. Hell, I’ve probably had more pain and suffering as a result of I love you than I have any three other words, with the exception of You have cancer, and even that may be a toss-up.

Right now, I’ll take I look beautiful, because it’s been so long since I’ve said them, or thought them, or even thought about them.

It starts with the wig, which is fabulous. I can’t decide now why I resisted it. It is long and blond and wavy—it’s like having Charlize Theron’s hair in the blink of an eye. And I love it.

But it isn’t only the wig that looks fabulous tonight.

As I stand before the full-length mirror in my dressing area, I am thrilled beyond words at what I see. For the first time I am not looking for the flaws. Usually when I observe myself in the mirror I am trying to find the faults, the blemishes, the crow’s-feet, the faint stain on the blazer where the salad dressing never fully came out. Tonight is the opposite. I am looking for the places where I look fabulous, and there are many. Not just the hair, or the wig, but plenty more. My eyes are alive and glowing. My coloring has come back—most of it, anyway—so I don’t look pale or gaunt. I am still thin, and there is a pride in my posture I have never seen before, something in the arch of my back, the rise of my chin, the heat of my stare. It says I am here. It says if I was ever gone I am back, and wherever I am going can wait. Tonight I am here, and I am wonderful to behold. And if it took cancer to make me feel this way, to allow me to see myself like this, then so be it. At least something good came of it.

When the intercom sounds, I am ready. I give myself a final glance in the mirror, and a wink, and as I smooth a tiny piece of hair above my eyes I think to myself that I really am filled with loving-kindness, and I am peaceful and at ease, and I am happy. Maybe for the first time since I was a little girl, I am truly happy.

It is Marie who is downstairs. Maurice picked her up and now they are here for me. She is stunningly beautiful in her gown, long and flowing, white in all the right places. By her standards, the dress is conservative; you can hardly see her breasts, which I have become so accustomed to seeing on full display that now I miss them.

“Well, well,” I say proudly, as I step off the elevator. “Here comes the bride.”

Marie is shivering with excitement. “You look so beautiful, Katherine, I could honestly cry.”

“Remember,” I tell her, “it is your night. This is not Katherine’s Going Away Party, this is your wedding and if you aren’t going to act like it I’m going back upstairs.”

Marie smiles. I can see tears in her eyes. “I’m perfect, boss,” she says. “You told me in Aspen that I needed to figure out what makes life worth living. Well, I figured it out, and that’s what tonight is about.”

She reaches out her hand and I take it in mine and squeeze it. She is such a sweet girl, and sometimes so much more insightful than I ever gave her credit for. I love her tonight, with all of my heart.

“It makes me very proud . . .” I start to say, but to my own surprise the words stick in my throat. If I finish the sentence I will start to cry, and I don’t want to cry, not in the lobby, not on Marie’s night.

“I love you, boss,” she says, and I squeeze her hand again, and we go out through the revolving door.

Maurice is standing by the car with the door open, smiling broadly, his hat tucked beneath his arm. It is a beautiful, crisp night, the first of the season that has truly felt like fall. That first night when you feel as though it has been a year since last you were cold. I’ve been cold plenty this year, but not like this. The air is invigorating, and I pause a long moment before I get into the car, just taking it in, looking about at all the twinkling lights of an early New York evening.

“Maurice,” I say, “there is so much beauty in this world, so much in this life that is so beautiful. I don’t know why I haven’t seen it before.”

“You’ve always seen it, boss,” he says. “You’ve just been too busy to pay attention.” If I’m not mistaken, it sounds as though there is a lump in his throat as well. “It’s wonderful to see you looking like this,” he continues. “I’ve never seen you look better than you do right now.”

I smile wickedly. “Well, maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.”

And with one final glance around, I duck my head and slide into the car beside Marie.

We sit in silence for most of the drive, which doesn’t take very long. It’s only a few blocks, and traffic is light. As we cross through Central Park, a taxi pulls alongside at a red light, just outside Marie’s window, an old-fashioned checker cab, the sort I haven’t seen in years. I remember that when I was a girl my parents took me into the city to see the Christmas show once at Radio City Music Hall. We took the train from Connecticut and we had lunch near Grand Central station, egg salad sandwiches and chocolate malts, and then my father hailed a taxi and I was so excited to pull up the reclining bench seat from the floor. That was our last Christmas together, I think.

Then the light changes to green and the taxi pulls away behind Marie’s head and I lean over and put my face to her ear. “How do you feel?” I ask.

She doesn’t even blink. “I just can’t wait to get there.”

I smile. That seems right. I think if I were her I wouldn’t be able to wait either.

We emerge from the park just as the last natural light of the afternoon fades away, and the street lamps begin to flicker, coming to life for the evening. Before I know it, we pull into a circular driveway and over toward the expansive entrance of an elegant Central Park West skyscraper.

“There’s a private elevator for us,” Marie says to Maurice, pointing to a secondary entrance near the corner. “Pull up, please.”

Then we park and Maurice gets out of the car, holding open the door. The air has turned slightly colder, and I can see his breath wafting from beneath his hat, drifting into the darkening sky as he waits.

“The elevator is directly inside,” Marie says to me. “Take it to the penthouse.”

“You’re not coming in?”

“I’d just like a minute to myself,” she says, “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

I put my hand on her leg and squeeze it, then slide outside and smooth my dress as I stretch my legs. I pat Maurice on the shoulder and motion into the car toward Marie. “If she needs anything please run and get it.”

“Of course I will,” Maurice says. “Now you go ahead up, it’s chilly out here.”

We still have an hour before the ceremony is to begin. There isn’t any rush.

The electric doors part before me and I feel a rush of warm air, a stark contrast to the crispness of the night. When the elevator arrives I select the top floor and lean back against the handrail in the rear wall. There is a tiny, circular mirror in the upper corner of the elevator, above the buttons and the glass cases displaying the certificates of inspection. I try to see myself in it but it is too far away and distorted, as those mirrors always are, like a funhouse. I hold the rail behind me, tapping my foot, listening to the speedy hum of the floors whooshing past. Then I feel a gentle slowing and a melodious ding, and the letters PH illuminate in red.

The music begins just as the doors open directly into the apartment, as they do in mine. There is a band on a stage facing the door, seven or eight pieces, in formal dress, and as I step out of the elevator, they begin to play the song “Isn’t It Romantic.” I love that song.

The room is glowing, awash in pink and green, with a chandelier sparkling like cut diamonds, casting jagged streaks of silver and gold. The music is rich and loud and fills my ears completely, fills my head, makes me dizzy, enough that I do not notice anything unusual at first. It does not register that there is merely a dance floor and a single table where there should be rows of chairs separated by an aisle for the bridal march. But none of that enters my mind as I walk slowly toward the table, where a man sits facing away, his tuxedo-clad back broad and distantly familiar. And the band continues to play and the lights continue to sparkle and the room continues to glow and my heels make just the faintest tapping sounds on the dance floor as I approach. And I take a moment to look around, and I see there is no one else there. It is just the band and the man at the table and me.

And then, in case there is any question, I hear a clattering off to my right and a door pushes open and out of the darkness appears the golden retriever. She bounds toward me and then veers away, making an acrobatic leap, then stopping and stretching and curling at the foot of the table, just steps away. And the band continues to play, and my heart beats so fast I can feel it in my temples and hear it in my ears. And I open my mouth but no sound comes out, so I simply place my hand on his shoulder, and he looks up and smiles at me, and I realize I have seen his face a thousand times in the past three months. I have seen it every time I closed my eyes to transport myself from where I was to where I wished I could be, and now here it is and it is even better than it had been in my head. And he takes my hand and he stands, and kisses me gently on the cheek, and then he wraps his arms around my waist and we begin to dance as the band plays on and the golden retriever nods approvingly at our feet.

BROOKE

I FINALLY DID IT.

I have been meaning for the longest time to begin memorizing quotes and who said them. I love to read, and I have promised myself I will begin to do what I know other people do, underlining meaningful passages, phrases, posting them as notes on my refrigerator or bathroom mirror, or as reminders on my iPad.

Well, I’ve begun.

The idea came to me last night, during dinner with my husband and the twins and a dear friend of the family, a darling young girl named Ashley, who grew up on our street and used to babysit for my kids before she went off to college. She is twenty-one now, and home to see her parents, and she always stops for a visit with us, and last night she sat down to a heaping plate of macaroni and cheese with steamed broccoli on the side and laughed about wonderful memories we all share.

She first babysat for us when the twins were just a year old, and she always tells them stories of how cute they were, which we all love, and the kids especially never tire of hearing of the night Megan had projectile diarrhea that grazed Ashley’s hair and splattered against the wall four feet behind her. Both kids, even now, at eight, practically fall out of their chairs at that one.

Ashley has blossomed into such a lovely young woman, poised and pretty. I view her with a degree of pride and I know Scott does as well. We both remember her when she was hardly older than the twins are now, walking up our driveway with a tray of brownies she and her mother had baked to welcome us to the neighborhood. It was our first house, and right away she made it feel like a home. When the twins came four years later, Ashley became a fixture; I cried at her high school graduation.

Anyway, we were all having the most wonderful time when Jared began to reminisce about a night none of us had ever heard about, even his sister. He remembered Ashley’s high school boyfriend, a shy kid named Eric, who frequently visited while she babysat. Scott and I were perfectly comfortable with that so long as her parents were, and they were; Eric was a sweet boy and he liked to play with our kids and when the twins were in bed he and Ashley would sit on our couch and watch television until Scott and I came home. It was all very innocent and sweet.

Well, last night over dinner Jared told us of a night, back in the days of Eric, when he awoke during the night with an upset stomach and came downstairs and saw Eric and Ashley kissing! Oh, the horror of it, he told us, as he is still of an age where he finds kissing to be repulsive, as does his sister. Scott and I roared with wine-infused laughter, and Megan made a funny face to indicate how gross the kissing must have been, and it was all very funny. Except that Ashley wasn’t laughing.

“Jared,” she said, turning a bit red, “I don’t remember that happening. You must have dreamt it.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head for emphasis, “I was awake. I remember. You were kissing!”

And then Megan was out of her chair and mimicking a make-out session, her arms wrapped dramatically around her own sides, making smooching sounds loud enough to startle the dog.

Scott, who had managed to get his laughter under control, looked over at Jared. “Was that how it looked when Ashley and Eric were kissing?”

“Well, sort of,” Jared said, his attention back to his macaroni, “only they weren’t wearing clothes.”

The words hung in the air for an instant. Scott immediately took an enormous gulp of his Pinot Noir and glanced quickly at Ashley, who was now bright red, her lips parting, no doubt to futilely insist Jared had dreamt or imagined the entire event, but before she could say a word the silence was broken by Megan, who started dancing uncontrollably about the room, smooching and laughing so hard she fell to the ground, where she continued to writhe with laughter and scream, “KISSING NAKED! KISSING NAKED!”

“Jared,” Ashley said, because she had to protest even though it was obviously true, “you are making this up. That’s not nice.”

“No,” he said matter-of-factly, “I saw your boobies.”

That was more than Megan could take.

“SAW YOUR BOOBIES! SAW YOUR BOOBIES!”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she rolled about the kitchen floor, howling in that combination of humor and wonder of which only children are capable. She knew it was funny and she knew it was awkward, and she knew there was something about it all that wasn’t right but she didn’t really know what, or why. So the most she could do was make noise and she did that for all she was worth until Scott finally stopped it.

“That’s enough.”

He didn’t shout, he almost never does, he just has a certain tone in his voice that makes it clear he is not making a request, he is making a demand. It is a tone I like a lot; I have heard it used in many settings that do not involve macaroni and cheese. Megan quickly got back in her seat and resumed eating, and Jared drank his milk, and I poured more wine into my glass and Ashley’s and I took a long sip. And it was all quiet, aside from the clanking of the silverware, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at Ashley’s face for fear of how horrified she must have been.

And then Scott started to laugh. It was a quiet laugh at first, under his breath, as though he knew it was something he shouldn’t find funny, but he did. And so did I. And as Scott began to allow himself to laugh, I did too, and soon we were both laughing hard, and the kids were too, even though they had no idea why, they will just laugh pretty much any time they can find a good excuse to. And I got up and walked around the table to stand behind Ashley and put my arms around her and squeezed tight, and to my great joy she began to laugh as well, and so we sat there, enjoying a bottle of wine, or a glass of milk, and most of all enjoying each other, my husband and my son and my daughter and their former babysitter and me, and there was so much love in the room it hung in the air like mist on a spring morning.

And so today, after I kissed my husband good-bye and got my kids off to school, I sat down at my computer and found the quote I remembered from college. It is from the play Faust, by Goethe, which I didn’t enjoy at all when I read it back then, but I’ve always remembered the concept: a man makes a deal with the devil; he offers his soul in exchange for a single moment of perfection, one moment where he feels whole and complete happiness.

The quote didn’t take long to find.

If ever I to the moment shall say:

Beautiful moment, do not pass away!

Then you may forge your chains to bind me,

Then I will put my life behind me.

I printed it out and I am going to laminate the words and keep them with me. Maybe I’ll hang them on the fridge. And they won’t be the only ones. This is just the beginning. There will be other quotes, other ideas, other people who have understood me without ever meeting me, other words and phrases I will be able to summon when I need them, perhaps in church, or at a dinner party, or to impart a lesson to my kids. I can use them when I argue with Samantha about the decisions I have made, or when I am alone in the bath and questioning them myself. It just feels good to know that there are people out there who can use words better than I can to explain my life. Not that it needs to be explained, if you ask me. But it still feels good.

SAMANTHA

Seven months later

SEVEN O’CLOCK IS SUCH a lively time of the morning out here.

Up early on this Sunday to check e-mail and I hardly even mind it, didn’t need to set an alarm, even as hard as I’ve been working since we started. Something in the salty fresh air of the ocean feels so familiar, so invigorating, it makes my mind feel sharp. In the bustle of the city, I tend to wake with a foggy brain no matter how much I’ve slept. But here at the beach I feel focused and rested, even after all the wine last night, and the midnight skinny-dipping.

The house is just sensational, everything Katherine told me and more. Drinking coffee now in the kitchen I can feel the warmth of the sun as it slips between the vanishing clouds and climbs above the ocean. I can hear gulls squawking in the surf as they dive after whatever washed ashore during the night. Up the way the surfers are arriving en masse. I see three of them on the water but there must be twenty more on the beach, pulling on wetsuits; the morning is chilly, probably no more than sixty degrees out there now, going to seventy after breakfast.

Katherine left filled closets behind; I am in a silver dressing robe of soft flannel, which is hers, over silk pajamas, which are my own. I don’t like to wear her clothes, here or in the city, but now and again I make an exception. This morning it felt just right, luxurious and decadent, like a fudge sundae.

There are more than seventy e-mails waiting for me when I log in. I need to hire more staff. This endeavor has become bigger than Katherine or I dreamt it might, which is remarkable, considering how ambitious we both were from the outset. But it has become clear to me now that I need more help. Seventy is too many messages for a Sunday morning, especially one as pretty and serene as this. I would love to hire Marie, but she is due any day and the sense I get when I speak with her is that her working days are behind her. We’ll see after the baby comes and she settles in, perhaps she’ll change her mind, but I’m not going to count on it. She seems quite content. I won’t push her, but I will ask again.

I’ve never been more impressed by any person in all my life than I am by Marie. What she did, and the way she did it, constitutes the single most dynamic act of courage and love that I have ever witnessed. I told Katherine that I had nothing to do with it and that I knew nothing of it, and both of those were true, whether Katherine believed it or not. I made her a promise that I would not interfere when it came to Stephen and there is no way I would ever have disregarded my word to her.

I found out about it the same time Katherine did, the night of the wedding, when Maurice pulled the car into the driveway in front of my building and I found, to my surprise, that Marie was inside and Katherine was not. When Maurice came around to open the door for me, I gave him a questioning look.

“Hop in,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll explain.”

The she he meant was Marie, not Katherine, and she did explain, right then and there, sitting in her wedding gown while the car idled in the driveway and the last of the sunlight peeked through the open window.

“I’ve done something really big,” she said. She was trembling with excitement, her hands shaking so hard she could hardly take a sip from the bottle of water she held. “I think it might be the best thing I’ve ever done. I hope so. I really, really hope so.”

She just kept saying that, over and over, staring into the distance. The sounds of a New York City Saturday night were all around us.

“Marie,” I said, “where is Katherine?”

She broke into a smile at that, so wide it spread to us all. There was such electricity in her face it made me tingle, and while I hadn’t yet heard exactly what it was, I knew right then she was right, it was the biggest thing she’d ever done.

And so she took a deep breath and she told us.

She told us about the first time Stephen called the office looking for Katherine. Marie did as she was told, explained that Katherine had resigned and left no forwarding information. The second time he called, the following day, she did the same. The third time, when he tried to disguise his voice and used a phony name, clumsy and nervous, Marie had tears in her eyes as she sent him away.

The following day, he didn’t call, nor the day after that. And as the days passed, and Marie didn’t have to turn away his calls, the ache in the pit of her stomach grew. It grew and grew until it grew into a memory, began to feel as though it had been in a dream, or another life. Which, in a way, she said, it sort of had.

And then a month passed and she had given up that dream and settled into the rhythm of caring for Katherine, and tending to her job, and contemplating her future, when on the third Thursday after her period nothing happened. This was unprecedented; Marie was as regular as you could be, she had never been even a day late since she was seventeen. And she knew immediately she was pregnant, knew for sure, even before the drugstore and the powder-blue tip and the week that passed before she said a word to her doctor or her fiancé. When she finally told Adam, they agreed they would be married as quickly as was feasible. They wouldn’t have a big, glamorous wedding, they both knew that, because his family thought she was a gold-digger and her family thought his family was pretentious, and there was just no need to deal with any of that. So they got into bed and made love more passionately than Marie could ever remember, and then they lay in the dark and drank sparkling apple cider out of champagne flutes and fantasized about what they would do for a wedding if their options were unlimited.

“I would have Bruce Springsteen walk you down the aisle, shake my hand, and then play ‘Born to Run’ on a harmonica,” he said.

“I would have us go up in a hot-air balloon and we could recite our vows as we watch the sun rise,” she said.

“I actually like that,” Adam said, and then he paused to think a minute. “You know, we could do that if we wanted to. Where would we do it?”

“Aspen,” she said, without hesitation, “and we’d bring an iPod and speakers and have ‘Annie’s Song’ by John Denver playing.”

And then, just like that, it all came flooding back, and she told Adam right there, that night, nude and newly pregnant in their bed, that she needed to go to Aspen to look for Stephen. She couldn’t Google him, because she didn’t know his last name, and even if she could she didn’t want to talk to him on the phone—or, even worse, over e-mail—she needed to see his face when she told him. She needed to know, for herself, if he felt as Katherine did, that they were perfect for each other. She needed to know if he was willing to fight for her, and to be there when it got hard, which there was little doubt it eventually would. And so she went, on a wing and a prayer, and Adam went too, and they took a room in the Grand Hyatt at the base of Aspen Mountain, and on the first day they hiked up Smuggler’s Mountain and waited in vain on the observation deck for a ruggedly handsome man and a gorgeous golden retriever. That night they went to Jimmy’s and sat at the bar and ate burgers, and Adam drank beer, and they looked carefully at every man that entered. Marie was certain she would know Stephen if she saw him. There was no reason she should but she was sure she would.

Around nine they gave up and walked to Main Street for ice cream, and along the way they heard music and found a jazz concert in the grassy field across from the skateboard park, so they sat and listened and enjoyed the clean air and gentle breeze. And just when it was time for bed she remembered what was on the other side of the park, and she took Adam by the hand.

“Follow me,” she said, “I need to show you something.”

“What is it?”

“I just thought of where I want to get married.”

The sound of the water rushing across the stones became louder as they walked farther from the music, and as they reached the gravel path and passed the sign that said JOHN DENVER SANCTUARY, the jazz behind them faded away and all that was left was the rumble of the stream and the crunching of their footsteps. And she held his hand the entire way, and was thinking of how perfect it would be to make all the most important promises of her life in this place, when she saw the dog.

She cried when she told us about her meeting with Stephen, about how she cried that night, too, and how he was exactly as she had imagined, and how he remembered every detail of his time with Katherine, including Marie’s own explicit texts. They spent a long time sitting on stones that night, and Stephen listened closely as she explained it all, including the details of Katherine’s diagnosis, her treatment, what she was facing, how she was feeling. And when she was finished, she said, Stephen never budged, didn’t hesitate, and had only five words to say.

“I want to see her.”

It was over breakfast the following morning that they devised the plan and began to make the arrangements.

“And the rest,” Marie said to Maurice and me in the car that night, “is history.”

And she took another deep breath and there was silence, and then we were all overcome at exactly the same time. I reached out for Marie and kissed her repeatedly, and I held her until I felt her tears mingling with my own on my cheeks. And I heard a car door slam shut and then another open, and then Maurice slid in beside us.

“I don’t know if this is appropriate,” he said, “but I need a hug too.”

The three of us embraced for a long time, thinking of Katherine and Stephen, wondering what they were doing at just that moment. What were they saying to each other? Were they holding hands, were they dancing?

Then Maurice adjusted his chauffeur’s cap. “Ladies,” he said, “what do we do now?”

“We go to my apartment,” Marie said. “Adam is waiting with a justice of the peace to marry me.”

So that’s where we went. Maurice and I were the only witnesses. And now they are having a little girl, any minute, and they are naming her Katherine.

So I would love to hire Marie; she is a miracle worker. And there is no doubt Katherine always intended for her to be involved in what we are doing now. Maybe at some point I will be able to talk her into it.

I miss Katherine.

I am joyous to know that she is in a better place, but that doesn’t change the fact that I miss her terribly. The energy in her stare, the length of her stride, even when the pain in her back was the worst and the chemo left her nauseous and dry-mouthed, it was still an effort to keep up with her when she walked. She had an amazing presence, always, on her best days and her worst. I miss every bit of it.

It was the morning after her reunion with Stephen that she first told me of her idea. I had hardly slept at all, rolling about in bed with my phone beside me on the pillow to be sure it would wake me up when Katherine called, which she finally did just after nine.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she said. “How much do you know about my evening?”

“I know everything and nothing,” I said. “You know I had nothing to do with it.”

“I know,” she said. “You did exactly what you should have. And so did Marie. I’m blessed to have both of you in my life.”

“Don’t forget Maurice,” I said. “He cried like a baby when he found out what was going on.”

That made her laugh.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m home. I need to talk to you about something. I’ve been meaning to for a while, and this finally seems like the perfect time.”

“Katherine, whatever it is can wait,” I said. “If you don’t tell me every single thing about last night in the next thirty seconds I am going to jump out of my own skin.”

She laughed again. “I will, I promise. But I need you to come over here. I’ll tell you all about it over breakfast.”

“Will I meet any special someone who might have spent the night?”

“You just might.”

I was in a taxi within five minutes.

I didn’t meet Stephen right away; he was in the bedroom, asleep. Katherine told me about their evening, about the way they danced and drank champagne until midnight and then went back to her apartment where they made love and then realized neither of them had eaten any dinner so they raided her refrigerator and sat at the kitchen table and watched the sun come up. And now he was sleeping and she was not, because she had something even more important she wanted to tell me and it couldn’t wait any longer.

“Do you remember the time you asked me how much money I was worth and I said you would find out when the time was right?” she began.

“I do.”

“Well, the time is right.”

And so, seated there at her kitchen table, while I drank coffee and ate a bagel with cream cheese, she told me everything. I say it that way because it is remarkable how detailed her vision was. I learned that morning that Katherine really was a genius, which I suppose should have been obvious from all her professional accomplishments, but sometimes you have to witness a genius in action to truly appreciate her.

She told me that during all the hours she had spent alone, watching chemicals drip into her veins, she had kept her mind occupied by arranging these plans in her head. In that way, she said, she spent more time and mental energy on this deal than she had on any of those she had put together on Wall Street.

“Some of those were worth a hundred billion dollars,” she said, “but in the end, that’s only money. And if Wall Street and my father taught me anything, it’s that money is meaningless. And someone else taught me that it’s what you do with money that matters.” She looked straight into my eyes. “You did.”

Katherine pulled a beautiful leather binder out of a briefcase she had by her feet and opened it to the first page. “I wrote this out because I wanted to say it exactly right,” she said. “I’ve never been very good at telling people how I feel, so it seemed much safer to me to do it this way. I hope it doesn’t seem impersonal. I promise you, whatever this piece of paper lacks in emotion, it makes up for in sincerity.” Then Katherine cleared her throat and began to read. “In the very first written connection we ever made with each other, Samantha, I told you that you had given me faith in the intrinsic decency of mankind. And, every day since then, you have exceeded that. I don’t believe it is possible for me to ever express in words what your friendship and commitment have meant to me the last three months. But I do believe I can say, without question, that I could not have made it to here without you. That sounds like a cliché, but it is actually the truth. So, I think if I were to say that you saved my life, it would be mostly accurate. And it’s very hard to find a way to say thank you for that.”

Katherine took a sip of coffee. Both our hands were shaking a little.

When she read on, it was in a different tone, it was her professional voice, like she was making a presentation in a boardroom.

“I have spent a great deal of time thinking, over the past few weeks, about what to do with my money. I hope to be around for a long time, but you never know what may happen, and I want all of this to be very clear. The only people I need to take care of are my mother and Maurice, so I will see they are both always secure. I plan to leave Marie all my clothes and jewelry, lord knows she needs them. And I am going to leave my apartment to you. I think you’d like it uptown, closer to the park.”

I started to speak but she held up her hand.

“Let me get to the part of this that matters,” she said. “The really big idea I have been working on has nothing to do with any of those. And it has everything to do with you. In another conversation we had online before we met, you told me that you considered yourself a support group without the group. Today, I am proposing that we give you the group. Inside this envelope are the founding documents of the charitable endeavor that will be my legacy, and a job offer. I would like you to be the chief executive of the foundation, with total authority to shape its vision and its mission. We are going to provide thousands of women the sort of support you have given me, and we are going to do it however you see fit.”

She closed the binder and slid it across the table. When I saw the letters emblazoned upon the front, my lips began to quiver.

BFF: THE BREAST FRIENDS FOUNDATION

“Almost all of the legal work to get us started has been done. We have a meeting this afternoon with the lawyers. You’ll need to get to know them quickly. We’ll meet with Dr. Z tomorrow. I have asked him to be our first medical consultant. And then, after that, it’s pretty much going to be up to you to figure it out. I have the utmost confidence in you, Samantha, to take this and make a real difference. To make thousands of women feel the way you did when the cute nurse with the dimples told you that you no longer had cancer. That’s your mission.”

I ran my fingers over the smooth leather cover silently. I had no idea what to say.

“It’s a little overwhelming, I know,” Katherine said, more softly now. “If you want to take a little time to think it over, I’ll understand.”

I didn’t need any time to think about anything. I stood and walked around the table and put my arms around her shoulders, and just like that my life was changed.

So that was how it began.

And what it begat has been the most fulfilling experience of my life. I am exhausted and frazzled and fully consumed by this job, and I love every second of it. I have never known what it is like to feel this committed to anything. It is rewarding beyond words, and in its own way it is freeing as well. I wouldn’t change a moment of my life the last few months, and I don’t have any other plans for the immediate future. My goal is to run this foundation until it is no longer necessary, until the day when a woman like Katherine or Brooke or me will be diagnosed with cancer and say: “Shoot, I’m going to be out of work for a week.” Or: “I hope the medication doesn’t upset my stomach.” I honestly believe I will live to see that day.

Katherine gave me the authority to decide exactly how best to utilize the enormous endowment she designated to the Breast Friends Foundation. My first idea was to provide counseling and support for patients immediately after diagnosis, so we began with that, and that is an ever-expanding goal. We also provide grants for women who have to leave their jobs, or substantially reduce their hours, during their treatment cycles. That is a complicated process but it is wonderfully rewarding. We have made a real difference; there are at least two women I am convinced would have lost their homes were it not for our assistance. So that is a big part of what we do. But I quickly realized there wasn’t any way we could justify all the dollars Katherine gave us in those endeavors alone. So, about a month into the process, I decided our primary function would be to fund cutting-edge medical research. We have already donated more than $15 million toward breast cancer research in Katherine’s name, and in the next year we should double that. Phillip Rogers, the Wall Street powerhouse who once broke Katherine’s heart, is in charge of our investments and has done brilliantly well, even in a challenging economy. His passion for this cause, and his devotion to honoring Katherine’s wishes, have been invaluable and, in their own way, heartwarming.

As for Katherine, she and Stephen were in Aspen by the end of the first week. When she said she was entrusting it all to me she wasn’t exaggerating. She said she had spent enough time working in her life, and not enough climbing mountains. She also said she thought I had climbed my share of mountains and needed to try the work.

“And,” she said, “don’t count on hearing a lot from me. My philosophy has always been to put the right people in the right jobs and then get out of their way. You are the right person for this job. I’m getting out of your way.”

She stayed true to that as well. For the first month or so, I think I heard from her twice a day. Soon enough that shrunk to once. Then, less than that. These days I hear from her about once a week, usually via e-mails, and while I miss the sound of her voice, nothing makes me happier than knowing she is in a place that brings her such joy and peace. It is a miracle to me how happy she sounds and how well she feels. She begins her next round of chemotherapy next week, and, as she has in the past, she will fly Dr. Z out to Colorado to meet with her doctors. To date, I know all of them are very satisfied with her treatment. I speak with Dr. Z quite often about foundation matters and he updates me about Katherine as much as is appropriate; I speak with him far more often than I do with her.

The last time I heard from her was three days ago. She has taken to sending me notes from the tops of mountains, mostly in the Maroon Bells, which is part of the Elk Range, where there are six peaks known as “Fourteeners,” which means fourteen thousand feet of elevation. After she told me about making the first hike of that sort, I asked Dr. Z if it was all right for her to be in such elevation.

“Have you ever heard her happier than she is up there?” he asked me.

I had not.

“Then there is no better place in the world she could be,” he said.

That made sense to me, and so I am always thrilled when an e-mail comes in from her and the message says it was sent nineteen hours ago. That means she was in a place too close to the sky for cellular service. And Stephen, bless him, is always by her side. They always attach a photo, and each time their choice in hats seems to have become more and more outrageous. And, always, there is the dog at their feet.

So that’s where she is now, and I’m here in her home in the Hamptons. She has ceaselessly encouraged me to spend my weekends out here but this is the first time I have taken her up on it; there has just been too much to do in the city. But when I awoke this morning and smelled the salt in the air, it took me back, in a way that only the sense of smell is able, to Hawaii, and I thought to myself: I need to be here more. I need to ride my bicycle out here in this air, and run on the beach, and swim, when the ocean gets a little warmer. Maybe I’ll do another triathlon next year. I could set aside some time to train. That would feel great. I feel good now, but I could feel even better and that would be the way.

Maurice drove us out. He continues working for Katherine, at full salary, and I suspect he always will. They love each other, those two, and there is no doubt he misses her more than I do and he hears from her more often as well. In the meantime, he drives me around the city when I need him, which isn’t often, and looks after the house. It is easy to understand why Katherine leaned on him over the years as she did: he has an air of serenity that is soothing on even the longest days.

And so that is pretty much the story up to now. It is difficult to say for sure where it will go from here. Right now I need to go. I hear Andrew rustling upstairs. He sleeps a lot later than I do. I think I’ll run upstairs and jump into bed with him before he wakes up too much. This is our first weekend together in a while and I’ve missed him. Usually he sneaks into the city for dinner with me or I race up to Connecticut to see him. It isn’t ideal but such is life; he’s busy, I’m busy, you know how it can be. We’re having a good time. Brooke is apoplectic we aren’t talking about getting married. Actually, her disapproval is one of my favorite things; it adds an air of danger and naughtiness to the relationship, which it really doesn’t deserve. I like him a lot. I think I might even love him, but for the moment liking him is working just fine.