“No, it isn’t.” Mary patted his arm, touched. She thought back to the time when she and her father had taken Feet to the emergency room for a sprained ankle. Her father had been upset there, too.
“FEET TOLE ME HE WOULD GIVE HIS LIFE FOR THAT KID. AND HE WOULD. ME TOO.” Her father shook his head, shrugging, his heavy shoulders going up and down in his transparent white shirt. “I DO WHAT I CAN DO. I’M HERE. SAME WITH FEET. THAT’S ALL WE CAN DO. BE HERE.”
“It’s going to be okay, Pop.”
“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT, MARE.” Her father turned to her, and his brown eyes glistened behind his glasses, the irises rimmed with grayish cataracts like stormclouds. “NOT EVERYTHING TURNS OUT OKAY.”
Mary masked her surprise. Her father was the person who always told her that everything would turn out okay. For the first time, she sensed that he was speaking to her as an equal, adult-to-adult, not father to child. And she wasn’t sure she liked it. She wanted her rock to stay a rock. “Pop, I know but—”
“I THINK ABOUT YOU AND YOUR SISTER. IF ANYTHING HAPPENED TO YOU.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Pop. Or Angie.”
“WHAT ABOUT MY GRANDBABY?”
“You don’t have a grandbaby. I’m not pregnant, Pop. And Angie’s saving the world, so believe me, she’s not pregnant either.”
“THAT’S THE PROBLEM.”
“That I’m not pregnant?” Mary swallowed hard, realizing that maybe he was wondering if he’d live long enough to see a grandchild.
“NO. WHAT IF I HAVE A GRANDDAUGHTER LIKE RACHEL? A LITTLE ANGEL LIKE THAT BABY? WHAT IF SHE GETS CANCER TOO? IT CAN HAPPEN.” Her father shook his head, suddenly agitated. “HOW CAN GOD LET THIS HAPPEN? HOW CAN OLD MEN LIVE AND BABIES DIE?”
Mary got it finally. “I love you,” she said, reaching over and putting her arms around him.
“Love you too, honey,” her father whispered, then his tears started to flow, and Mary held him tight, heartbroken by his hoarse sobs and the way his shoulders shook, heaving each time. She had never seen her father cry and never wanted to again. She got him Kleenexes from a box on the end table, and in time he collected himself, mopped up his eyes under his glasses, blew his nose loudly, and apologized to her for getting so upset. She told him that it wasn’t necessary but she couldn’t convince him, and she realized that tonight, in a hospital lounge, something had changed between them as father and daughter.
She had become his rock.
*
Mary got home by nine o’clock, exhausted and drained as she closed the door behind her. She dropped her purse and messenger bag on the floor, ignored the mail stacked on the console table, kicked off her flats, and padded through the darkened living room to the kitchen in the back of the house. The light was on, which meant Anthony was home, and as she entered, he looked up from the kitchen island with a warm smile, which still made her heart skip a beat. Anthony Rotunno was still the sexiest man she’d ever seen, an Italian-American hunk just shy of six feet, with thick dark hair, a strong Roman nose, dark eyes the color of espresso beans, and an omnipresent smile, at least for her.
“Anthony, I had the worst day ever.”
“Aw, poor thing.” Anthony came toward her, opening his arms.
“I’m going to whine and whine. Be ready.”
“I am.” Anthony gave her a big hug, rocking her slightly, and Mary buried her head in his chest, which was warm and soft under his worn T-shirt, which he had on with a pair of khaki shorts and bare feet. “How’s Rachel?”
“Not good, and my father’s upset, and this case at work, it’s a nightmare.” Mary released him, and he gave her a quick kiss.
“So what’s going on? Why is Rachel back in the hospital?”
Mary had texted him, but not filled him in. “Long story short, she needs a bone marrow transplant, and Simon got fired this week because his company didn’t want to pay for it.”
“Are you serious?” Anthony stepped back, appalled. “Is she going to be okay? That’s high-risk. When did all this happen?”
“I found out today.”
“Oh no.” Anthony sighed, taking her hand. “Tell me about it over dinner. I hope you feel like eating. I waited when I got your text.”
“Thanks, yes, I do. What are we having?”
“My incredible amazing seafood salad.”
“Nice.” Mary began to rally.
“Come with me.” Anthony led her into the kitchen, which was spacious and pretty with black-granite counters and white cabinets, her favorite room in their new house. The island had been set with place settings, wineglasses, and a big wooden bowl of romaine and arugula mixed with fresh shrimp, seared scallops, and red pepper, topped with strips of fresh basil, which smelled delicious.
“Wow.” Mary sat down on a stool at the kitchen island. “I’m loving the you-making-the-dinner thing.”
“It’s the least I can do until I get a job.”
“Aw, don’t worry, you will.” Mary knew it bothered him that he was still out of work. Anthony had a Ph.D. in American History and had taught at Penn and Drexel, but there were no openings on the tenure track in the area. He’d been offered a tenured position at Stanford but had turned it down because Mary didn’t want to leave Philadelphia.
“So you say.” Anthony went into the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of Lambrusco, and twisted off the wire around the neck.
“How was your day?”
“Good. Did some research. Found an article I hadn’t before.”
“Nice.” Mary was proud of him, because he was using the downtime to finish his book, a nonfiction account of anarchism in 1930s America. He would rather be teaching, but he never complained, and she made enough money to support them. It wasn’t the way he wanted it, but she knew it was temporary.
“I worked here instead of the library. The air-conditioning’s better.” Anthony popped the cork, and Mary could smell the bouquet of the fruity Lambrusco.
“Ah, the perfect summer wine.”
“You say that every time. Even in winter.” Anthony smiled, pouring.
“So fill me in on what happened. That’s so sad, about Rachel.”
“I know.” Mary told him the whole story, bringing him up to speed about everything, including Rachel’s turn for the worse, her father at the hospital, and the fight over her representing Simon. They talked easily back and forth, as usual, and she finished by telling him about how she was waiting to hear whether Bennie would try to settle the lawsuit informally. “So I’m hopeful.”
“You should be. It’s common sense. Only lawyers see things adversarially all the time. It encourages conflict in a way. Peace is better than war. Communication can work wonders. Look at Yalta.”
“Right.” Mary got the gist, though half the time, she had no idea what he was talking about. And if she asked him to explain, they’d be up all night.
“It’s so terrible about Rachel. Simon must be scared out of his mind. First you lose your wife, then maybe your daughter? And your job? Sheesh.” Anthony pushed away his empty salad plate.
“I know, but he handles it all, somehow.”
“Does he?” Anthony paused, his expression darkening. “Or maybe it just looks like he handles it.”