"The doctor will be in, in a few minutes." But an hour and a half later, Hilary was still waiting. She had begun to shake from head to foot well over an hour before, and she had finally thrown up out of sheer nervousness. She hadn't had anything to eat since that morning. The nurse with the clipboard finally came back, looked at her, smelled the air, and Hilary blushed.

"I'm sorry, I ... I don't feel well."

"It'll probably happen again afterward," she said matter-of-factly. "He'll be right in. We had a little problem down the hall." And all Hilary could think about was the baby still alive inside her, the longer they took, the longer it would live, and soon they would have to kill it. She felt desperation choke her, but there was no way out, she couldn't allow herself to love this baby, couldn't go through it ever again. A part of her tried to tell her this was different, but the rest of her knew that it wasn't. She had loved Megan and Alexandra like her own ... and she had lost them. And one day someone would take this baby from her too. She couldn't let that happen. She had to stop it now ... before it destroyed her.

"Ready, young lady?" The doctor blew into the room like a hurricane, in surgical garb, with a green hat to cover his hair, and a small mask hanging around his neck. She could almost sense the blood dripping from him from his last abortion.

"I ... yes ..." Her voice was a barely audible croak and she felt as though she were going to throw up again or start crying. "Are you going to give me something to put me to sleep?" They had told her nothing about it.

"You don't need any of that. It'll be all over in a few minutes." How few? How long would it take? What were they going to do to her baby?

She lay flat on the table, and the nurse forced her feet into the stirrups, they were wider than usual, and the nurse secured them with straps so that Hilary couldn't move, and she felt a sudden wave of panic.

"Why are you doing that?"

"So you don't hurt yourself." She was about to tie down Hilary's hands too but she begged her not to.

"I promise I won't touch anything ... I swear ... please ..." It was like some medieval torture, and the nurse turned to the doctor and he nodded as he put on a fresh mask.

"Just relax. It won't take long, and then you'll be rid of this." ... rid of this ... she tried to be comforted by the words, but she wasn't. She told herself she was doing the right thing, but everything inside her shrieked that she was killing a baby. They had only taken Megan and Axie away, no one had killed them. It was wrong, it was a sin, it was terrible ... she wanted ... she felt the local anesthetic jab into her sharply, and she wanted to cry and wanted to ask the nurse to hold her hand, but the nurse looked uninterested as she a.s.sisted the doctor. And suddenly Hilary heard a terrible machine, it sounded like it was going to eat the walls. It was the vacuum.

"What's that?" She leapt to half-sitting position, unable to move her legs, and she still felt a sharp pain where they had put the needle in her cervix.

"Just what it sounds like. It's a vacuum. Now lie back. We'll be ready in a minute. Count to ten." She felt an incredible pain as something sharp and metallic shoved its way inside her. No torture ever concocted by Maida and Georgine had equaled this ... not even the boys with their hard bodies pressed into hers ... this was awful, it was beyond bearing, it was ... she let out a scream, and the metal piece inside her felt as though it was tearing her apart. It was forcing her uterus to open, dilating it so that they could take out the baby. "You're further along than we thought, Miss Walker. We're going to have to open a little wider." The local seemed to have done nothing for her and the pain was excruciating as her legs trembled violently and the doctor gave a grunt of satisfaction. "That's it." He said something to the nurse as Hilary threw up all over herself, but the nurse was too busy a.s.sisting the doctor to notice or help her. And then suddenly Hilary knew this was the wrong thing ... she couldn't do it ... she had to keep the baby, and she raised her head again, trying not to vomit so she could tell him.

"No, please ... don't ... please ... Stop!" But he only spoke soothingly to her. It was much too late to stop now. They had to finish what they had started.

"It's almost over, Hilary. Just a little bit longer."

"No ... please I can't stand it ... I don't want to ... the baby ..." She was feeling faint again, and her whole body was wracked by convulsive shaking.

"There will be lots of babies in your life ... you're a young girl, and one day it'll be the right one." He gave another ominous grunt, which she knew now meant he was going to inflict more pain on her, and suddenly he inserted the vacuum. She felt as though every ounce of her body was being sucked out by that machine and she threw up again as it went on endlessly, and then finally there was silence.

"Now just a little sc.r.a.ping," he explained, and she saw the room reel as she felt him sc.r.a.pe what was left out of her, but the baby was long gone ... she had lost the others, and now she had killed this one. It was all she could think of as she lay there, wanting to die like her baby. She was a murderer now, just like her father. Her father had killed his wife, and now she had killed her own baby.

"That's all now." She heard the voice she had come to hate, and they took out all their tools, and left her lying there, still trembling and strapped to the table. She could feel something wet and warm pouring out of her, and she knew she was bleeding profusely, but she didn't care anymore what they did to her. She didn't care if she died. In fact, she hoped so. "Just rest for a little while, Hilary." He stared into her face, patted her shoulder, and left the room with a resounding bang, as she lay strapped to the table and sobbed in a pool of her own vomit.

They came back for her in an hour, handed her a damp cloth and a sheet of instructions. She was to call them if the bleeding seemed too heavy, and otherwise she was to stay in bed for twenty-four hours and she'd be fine. That was it. It was all over. She staggered outside once she was dressed, still trembling violently, and hailed a cab, and gave him her address. And she was shocked to realize it was six o'clock. She had been in the doctor's office for almost six hours.

"What'sa matta, lady, you sick?" She looked terrible, even to him, even in the darkness. Her eyes were suddenly dark-ringed, her face was green, and she was shaking so hard she could hardly talk. And she only nodded in answer.

"Yeah ... I got ... the flu ..." Her teeth were chattering and he nodded.

"Everybody's got it." He grinned at her then, she was probably a pretty girl when she wasn't sick. "Just don't kiss me." She tried to smile at him, but she couldn't. She felt as though she would never smile again, at anyone. How could she? How could she ever look herself in the eye again? She had killed a baby.

She crawled into her bed when she got home, without even getting undressed, and she slept until four o'clock on Sat.u.r.day morning. The cramps she felt woke her up, but when she checked, nothing seemed to be out of order. She had survived it. She had done it. And she knew she would never forget it.

On Monday, she went to work looking pale and wan, but she went, and she did her work, and she went home again, with a stack of papers. She was going to bury herself in her work, she was going to do anything to numb herself, and she did. She worked like a machine for the next six months and for another year after that. She became the wunderkind of CBA Network. She became the kind of woman people admired and everyone feared, the kind of person no one wanted to be like.

"Terrifying, isn't she?" one of the new secretaries said the day Hilary turned thirty. "She lives and breathes nothing but this network, and G.o.d help you if you cross her. At least that's what people say. Personally, she scares me." The other girl agreed and they went to the powder room to discuss the two new men in the newsroom. But Hilary was immune there too. She seemed to have no interest in anyone, except her work, her career, and the network.

When she was thirty-two years old, she became a vice-president, and two years after that, she got another promotion. At thirty-six, she was the most senior woman in management, and at thirty-nine she was the number three person at the network, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that one day she would run it. And probably sooner rather than later. The New York Times The New York Times ran a big piece about her shortly afterward discussing her policies and her plans, and ran a big piece about her shortly afterward discussing her policies and her plans, and The Wall Street Journal The Wall Street Journal did another piece on her shortly afterward. Hilary Walker had made it. did another piece on her shortly afterward. Hilary Walker had made it.

Chapter 13.

The air on Park Avenue seemed to crush him as he left his doctor's office two hours later. He wasn't surprised. He had expected it, and yet ... Arthur Patterson had secretly hoped for something different. But the pain had been so great. The pills had barely helped him for the last month, and yet he had tried to tell himself it was something else. He stopped to catch his breath as he reached the corner. It was four-thirty, and he was totally exhausted as the pain ripped through his chest again, and he coughed pathetically. A pa.s.serby stopped to look, wondering if he should help, but Arthur caught his breath and got back into the car, barely speaking to the driver.

He was still thinking of his doctor's words and dire prediction. He had no right to ask for more, reasonably. He was almost seventy-two years old, and he had led a full life ... more or less ... he had been married once ... Marjorie had died three years before, and he'd gone to her funeral, surprised to discover that she had remarried only a few years before, a retired congressman. He had wondered as he stood there, in the dim light of St. James's, if she had been satisfied with her life ... if she had ever been truly happy.

And now he was going to die too. It was odd that it didn't frighten him more. He was only sorry. He had so little to leave the world, a law practice that had slowed down years before, although he still went to the office every day, or whenever he was well enough. He wondered if his partners would miss him when he was gone. There was certainly no one else who would notice his absence, except possibly his secretary, who would just be rea.s.signed to one of the other lawyers.

The doorman gave him a hand as he got out of the cab, and he took the elevator upstairs, making idle conversation, as he always did, with the elevator man on duty. They discussed the early heat, and the baseball scores, and he let himself into his apartment with a sigh of exhaustion. It was so odd to think about it now. Soon it would all be gone ... and then as he walked into the living room, he began to cry. For no reason he could think of, Solange had come to mind ... Solange with her fiery red hair and her emerald eyes ... he had loved her so much so long ago. He wondered if he would see her now, when he died, if there was an afterlife ... a heaven and a h.e.l.l, as he'd been taught as a boy. ... He closed his eyes as he sank heavily into a chair ... Solange ... he spoke her name in a whisper as the tears rolled down his cheeks, and as he opened his eyes again, he had a sudden feeling of desperation. He had let her down so desperately, and Sam ... the daughters they had loved so much had been cast to the winds and totally disappeared. He had let them disappear. It had all been his fault. He could have taken them in, if only he'd had the courage. But it was too late now. Much too late. Solange had died more than thirty years before ... and Sam ... and yet, he knew without a doubt, what he had to do now. He had to do one last thing. He had to find them.

He sat in the same chair until the room grew dark, thinking back over the years, all the way to the trenches near Ca.s.sino, to his wound and the time Sam had saved him ... and the liberation of Paris and the first time he'd seen her. There was no going back. No changing what had happened. And perhaps it would make no difference now. But he knew that before he died, he had to find them, to explain to them ... to bring them together again, for one last time, and with the crushing agony of memory, he remembered that day in Charlestown when he had gone to get Megan and Alexandra, and Hilary had begged him so piteously not to take them.

He lay awake in his bed for most of the night, thinking of the little girls, wondering how he would find them, or if they could be found in time. There was only one thing that he could leave them. The rest was all stocks and bonds. But perhaps the house in Connecticut would mean something to them. He had bought it years before, as a summer place, but seldom ever used it. It was a large, rambling old Victorian house, and he liked going there, but he had kept it more as a home for his sunset years. And now the sunset was coming. There would be no time for retirement, for quiet gardening, for long walks down to the seash.o.r.e. For him, it was all over. The doctor said it was too late to operate. The X rays told their own tale. The cancer had spread too far, and he was too ill now to withstand any dramatic treatment. It was difficult to estimate how much time he had. Three months, perhaps six, or less if the disease spread very quickly.

He got up at midnight to take a sleeping pill, but it was daylight before he fell asleep, sleeping fitfully and dreaming of Hilary's sobs as he drove a car away from her, clutching something to him, he wasn't sure what, and then suddenly Hilary's face became her mother's, and it was Solange crying in his arms, asking him why he had killed her.

Chapter 14.

Arthur Patterson left his office at noon the next day, exhausted from his sleepless night, but he had been determined to go to the office. He had conferred with one of his partners at eleven o'clock, and gotten the name of a man who was thought to be the best in the business. He did not explain why he needed him, and the partner did not ask any questions.

Arthur had placed the call himself, and was surprised that John Chapman was willing to see him that day, when he explained that it was urgent. But Chapman knew who he was, and it was rare that the senior partner of an important law firm called him himself, and with such obvious desperation. He said he would see him shortly after noon, although he had only an hour at his disposal. And Arthur thanked him profusely, and hurried out of his office, patting his pocket to make sure he had his pills. He couldn't afford to be without them.

"Will you be back after lunch, Mr. Patterson?" his secretary inquired as he hurried past her, coughing as was now his habit.

"I don't think so," he said barely audibly, and she shook her head as he stepped into the elevator. He looked terrible and he was too old to be coming to work every day now. She wished someone would force him to retire.

It was a short cab ride from Arthur's office to Chapman's, and he was impressed when he saw the well-appointed offices Chapman kept on Fifty-seventh, off Fifth. It was a smaller building than those that housed Brokaw, Miller and Patterson, but it was respectable and well kept, and Chapman had most of a floor, with a discreet sign on the door that said only JOHN CHAPMAN. JOHN CHAPMAN. A receptionist took his name, and several other people appeared to be waiting for Chapman's a.s.sociates. Most of the other people in the waiting room looked like attorneys. A receptionist took his name, and several other people appeared to be waiting for Chapman's a.s.sociates. Most of the other people in the waiting room looked like attorneys.

"Mr. Chapman will see you now," the young woman said, and ushered him inside. Chapman had an office high above Fifty-seventh Street with thick carpeting and English antiques, and like his own office, it was filled with lawbooks. It was comforting to be in surroundings that looked so familiar. He had been afraid at first that the place he was being sent to would be sleazy, and it was a relief to find that it wasn't.

The door opened to reveal a handsome blond man in a tweed jacket and gray slacks, with lively gray eyes, and the look of someone who had gone to Princeton or Harvard. In fact, he had gone to both. He had done his undergraduate work at Princeton, and had gone to law school at Harvard.

"Mr. Patterson?" He came easily around the desk, and shook Arthur's hand, startled at first by how frail it seemed in his own hand. He had played football in college, and even as tall as he was, Arthur was dwarfed by the young attorney who was thirty years his junior. "Please sit down." He indicated a chair with a warm smile, and sat down in the chair next to Arthur's.

"I'm very grateful to you ..." Arthur coughed, trying to catch his breath. "... for seeing me on such short notice. It's a matter of both urgency and importance, and I'm afraid I ... don't have much time." He meant it just the way it sounded as he coughed again, but John Chapman a.s.sumed he was referring to a deadline a.s.sociated with a court case.

"I was impressed that you were handling the matter yourself, sir."

"Thank you."

He knew who Arthur was, and it was most unusual for the senior partner of the firm to contact an investigation service himself, no matter how ill.u.s.trious the outfit was, and John Chapman's was one of the best-known in the country. It operated more like a law firm than just an investigative bureau, and his own legal background made him extremely helpful. He grabbed a pad and pen as Arthur coughed again, and prepared to jot down some notes about what Arthur wanted.

"Would you like to explain to me, Mr. Patterson, so I can have an idea how we may be of service?" He was quiet and professional and had the precise diction of the upper cla.s.ses, and yet he seemed oddly una.s.suming, easygoing almost, and Patterson found himself curious about him. Why hadn't he gone into his father's firm? His father was the head of the most important law firm in Boston, and two of his brothers were prominent attorneys in New York. And yet he had chosen this rather unorthodox career instead. It was intriguing, but Arthur didn't have the time to think about it now. He had to save his strength to tell him what he wanted.

"It's a personal ... matter." He wheezed, and then took a sip of the water Chapman had quietly poured him while he waited. "Of the utmost confidentiality and importance. You are not to discuss this with anyone." Arthur flashed his eyes at him, but the effort was wasted on Chapman.

"I don't discuss my cases with anyone, Mr. Patterson. Period."

"I'd also like you to do this yourself, if it's possible. One of my a.s.sociates tells me you're the best in the business. I want to hire that talent, and no one else's."

Chapman pursed his lips, waiting to hear the rest, making no commitment to Arthur. "That depends on what's involved. I try to stay involved in all of our cases, to as great an extent as I'm able."

"I want you to do this yourself. And we don't have much time." He coughed and took another sip of water. "I'm dying."

Chapman watched him carefully, curious now. The old man was shaking with antic.i.p.ation, and clutching a file he had taken out of a briefcase. Perhaps it was an old unsolved case he was determined to tie up before he died. It was odd the things people did when they were dying.

"The doctor thinks I might have three months, maybe six, maybe less. I think three months is more like it. I want to find three young women." Chapman looked surprised. It was an odd request from an old man, unless they were his daughters. "They were the daughters of close friends of mine, my closest friends. Their parents died thirty years ago, and two of them were adopted shortly after, the third one was left with her aunt and uncle. They were respectively one, five, and nine years old when I lost track of them, and I have no idea where they are now. I know who adopted the two younger girls, and I know the oldest one wound up in Jacksonville, Florida, and then came to New York twenty-two years ago, but that's all I know. I've included all the information I have in this file, including clippings about their parents. Their father was a very well-known Broadway actor."

"Did the parents die simultaneously in an accident?" It was only curiosity on his part. Thus far, it was an intriguing story.

"No." Arthur took a painful breath and continued. "He killed their mother, no one ever really knew why, except that they had an argument and he seems to have gone crazy. I defended him in 1958." Arthur's face went a little grayer as Chapman watched him, surprised that he had taken a criminal case. There had to be more to the story than he was telling. "He was convicted and committed suicide in his cell the night of his conviction. I tried to place the girls in a home together." He seemed close to breaking down as John Chapman watched him, sorry for him, it was obviously painful for him to remember, and worse still to discuss it with this stranger. Any attorney would have felt responsible ... but not responsible enough to go looking for the children thirty years later. Or was it that he felt guilty? "But no one wanted to take all three. I had to place them in separate homes, and leave the older girl with the aunt and uncle." He didn't tell him that he had considered taking them himself, but didn't do it because his then wife wouldn't let him. "There was also a recent clipping about a young woman at CBA," he went on, "by the same name as the oldest girl. I think there's a possibility it might be she, but it could be just a coincidence. I included the clipping and you ought to check it out." Chapman nodded. And Arthur remembered finding the article in the Times Times only weeks before, and praying it was the right Hilary Walker. His hand had trembled as he held the column he'd clipped out and stared at the picture. She didn't look like anyone he knew, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Newspaper photos often didn't. "That's it, Chapman. I want to find those three young women." Young to him perhaps, but certainly full-grown, Chapman thought to himself. He did a quick calculation and realized they were thirty-nine, thirty-five, and thirty-one years old. It wasn't going to be easy to find them. And Arthur confirmed that. "The adoptive parents of the two younger girls moved away years ago, and I have no idea where they went ... I just hope you can find them." only weeks before, and praying it was the right Hilary Walker. His hand had trembled as he held the column he'd clipped out and stared at the picture. She didn't look like anyone he knew, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Newspaper photos often didn't. "That's it, Chapman. I want to find those three young women." Young to him perhaps, but certainly full-grown, Chapman thought to himself. He did a quick calculation and realized they were thirty-nine, thirty-five, and thirty-one years old. It wasn't going to be easy to find them. And Arthur confirmed that. "The adoptive parents of the two younger girls moved away years ago, and I have no idea where they went ... I just hope you can find them."

"So do I." Chapman took the file in his hands, and looked somber as he questioned Arthur. "And when I do?"

"First, I want you to locate them, and then come back to me and tell me that you've found them. Then I want you to explain to them who they are, who I am, that I am an old family friend, and that I want to reunite them with their sisters. I'd like to do it in my home in Connecticut, if that's possible. I'm afraid I can't travel anymore ... they'll have to come here."

"And if they refuse?" It was possible. Anything was possible. He had seen everything in the seventeen years he'd been in the business.

"You can't let them."

"They may not even remember having sisters, two of them anyway, and it may be a tremendous shock and disruption to them." He wondered if there was a sizable inheritance being attached to it, but he didn't want to press Arthur on the subject.

"I owe it to them to bring them together again. It was my fault that they were separated ... that I was never able to find a home for all of them. I want to know that they're all right, that they don't need anything ... I owe that much to their parents."

John was tempted to tell him that it was a little late, but he didn't want to be disrespectful. At thirty-nine and thirty-five and thirty-one, it couldn't matter very much to them anymore why they had been taken from their sisters, if they even remembered having any in the first place. But it was not his place to question the wisdom of arthur Patterson's final wishes. Arthur was sitting watching him with quiet desperation.

"Will you do it?" It was a barely audible whisper.

"I'll try."

"Will you do it yourself?"

"Most of it, if that's possible. I want to read the file first, before I make a definite commitment. I may have operatives already in the field in areas we're interested in who could do the job better and more quickly than I could." Arthur nodded, that much made sense to him. "I'll get to the file as quickly as possible, and I'll call you with an appraisal of the situation."

Arthur was painfully honest with him. "There's not much there, Chapman. Not much more than I told you."

"That's all right. Something may jump out at me." He discreetly looked at the clock he could see over Arthur's left shoulder. It was almost one-fifteen, and he hated to keep Sasha waiting. "I'll call you in the next day or two." He stood up and Arthur followed suit unsteadily.

"I'm deeply grateful to you, Chapman."

"That's all right, Mr. Patterson. I hope you won't be disappointed." Arthur nodded thoughtfully, barely able to consider that. Chapman had had to find them. "I should warn you as well, this could be an expensive project." Arthur looked up at him then with a wintry smile. "I've got nothing else to spend it on now, do I?" to find them. "I should warn you as well, this could be an expensive project." Arthur looked up at him then with a wintry smile. "I've got nothing else to spend it on now, do I?"

Chapman smiled at him. It was a difficult question to answer, and he walked him quietly to the outer office, shook his hand, thanked him for coming, and then hurried back to his office to lock the slim file in the safe, and head out the door at a dead run. Sasha was going to kill him.

Chapter 15.

John Chapman flew out of his office building on Fifty-seventh Street, and raced the two long blocks west, glancing at his watch, and catching his reflection in shop windows. Tiffany ... I. Miller ... Henri Bendel ... it seemed to take hours to get there and he knew how she hated him to be late, but he couldn't hurry Arthur Patterson out of his office after all. The man was ancient and he was dying, and Chapman was intrigued by the case. But he also knew Sasha wouldn't understand that.

She was twenty-eight years old, sinew from head to foot, and every ounce of her was disciplined to perfection. She wore her blond hair pulled back so tight that it looked as though it were painted on her head, her green eyes had a Slavic til, and she wore her lips in a constant pout, which had seduced him from the first time he'd seen her. They had met at a friend's house, a ballet buff, who raved about how talented she was, and how extraordinary she'd been as a little girl. And now she was even more so as a big one. The daughter of Russian emigres, she had studied for years at the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, and then gone on to Juilliard as a young girl, where she'd been a star already in her early teens. At twenty she had been invited to join the American Ballet Theatre. And at twenty-eight, she was not a prima, but she was a fine dancer with a solid career to be proud of. She indulged in the jealousies of her troupe, and it irked her not to be one of the prima ballerinas, but in truth she was too small to be more than one of the corps of dancers. She had the consolation of being very good, and she told John that every chance she got, when she wasn't complaining about her feet or the fact that he was late coming to meet her. But even though she wasn't easy to get along with, for months, John Chapman had found her enchanting ... her discipline, her intense routine, her talent coupled with her tiny face, her feet that seemed to move on b.u.t.terfly wings when she danced, the huge green eyes ... there was something very special about her.

"You're half an hour late." She glared at him halfway through a cup of borscht, when he breathlessly reached her table at the Russian Tea Room. The atmosphere was precisely as it had been for the past fifty years, and they both loved blini and caviar. Besides, it was close to where she rehea.r.s.ed, and they met there half a dozen times a week, for lunch or after rehearsals, or even after performances, late at night, for a quick bite before they went home to his apartment. She lived with four other dancers, and it was impossible to talk, let alone make love in the West Side walk-up that was always filthy and drafty. But her green eyes were looking up at him in reproach as he apologized and sat down. "I was thinking of leaving." She looked like an angry child and he realized, as he always did, how much he loved her.

"I'm glad you didn't." He gently touched her hand, and smiled at the familiar waiter. He was an old Russian who chatted with Sasha in her maternal tongue. She had been born in Paris, but still spoke Russian with her parents.

"I was hungry." Her eyes bore into his mercilessly. "That's the only reason why I waited."

"I'm sorry. I had an important case. The head of a major law firm needed some help, I couldn't shove him out the door." He smiled placatingly at her, wondering how long it would take him to get back in her good graces. Usually, not long, her anger was hard and quick to burst into flame, but generally it abated fairly quickly. "I'm sorry, darling." He touched her hand again, and she looked only slightly mollified by his contrition.

"I had a very difficult morning." She looked petulant, and more beautiful than ever.

"Something wrong?" He knew how she worried about her feet and her legs and her arms ... it was not easy being a dancer. A pulled muscle, a torn ligament, and her life could be changed forever.

"They were trying to introduce a new ch.o.r.eographer, and he's impossible. He makes Balanchine look lazy by comparison. This man is mad. You cannot dance the way he asks you."

"You can." Chapman smiled proudly at her. He thought her a remarkable dancer. And this time, she smiled at him. He was almost forgiven. can." Chapman smiled proudly at her. He thought her a remarkable dancer. And this time, she smiled at him. He was almost forgiven.

"I'm trying. But I think he's trying to kill us." She sighed and finished her borscht. She didn't want to eat too much before rehearsal that afternoon, but she was still hungry. He had just ordered blini, and she was tempted but that was too heavy for her when she was dancing. "Maybe I'll have a salad." She told the waiter in Russian and he nodded and disappeared as she told John about her woes of the morning. She asked him nothing about his case. She never did. All she ever thought of was dancing.

"Are you rehearsing tonight?" he asked with eyes full of understanding. He was a kind man, and he didn't mind their life revolving around her work. He was used to that. His ex-wife had been a writer, and he had sat patiently for seven years while she churned out mysteries that had eventually become major best sellers. He had respected her as a woman and a friend, but it hadn't been much of a marriage. Everything had come second to her work, even her husband. She had been a difficult woman. The whole world had to come to a shrieking halt when she started a book, and she expected John to protect her from any possible interruption. And he had done a fair job of it, until the loneliness of his life with her overwhelmed him. Her only friends were her characters, every plot she wrote became real to her, and she wouldn't even speak to him while she was working. She worked from eight in the morning until midnight, every day, and then went to bed, mute with exhaustion. In the morning, she'd start again, but she didn't talk to him over coffee because she was already thinking about the book. It had been lonely being married to Eloise. She wrote under the name of Eloise Wharton. And when she wasn't working on a book, she was either in a major depression because she wasn't working, or she was on tour in thirty cities in forty-five days, pushing her latest epic. He figured out before he asked her for a divorce that they spoke to each other on the average something like thirty hours a year, which was something less than what he needed for a happy marriage. They loved each other, but she loved her work more. And he wasn't even sure how much she understood when he left her. She had been deep in a book, and there had been only the vaguest of answers as he said goodbye and closed the front door behind him. It was a relief, oddly enough, he discovered that it was less lonely being alone than being with her. He could play the stereo, sing when he liked, have friends over who made as much noise as they wanted. He went out with other women. Life was fine. And the only thing he regretted was that they had never had any children. He and Eloise had been divorced for five years, and he was only now starting to think about getting remarried. In fact, he had been thinking about it a great deal lately.

Sasha had nodded in answer to his question about rehearsal. "We are rehearsing until eleven." She still spoke English like someone who had learned it as a foreigner, and yet she had no clearly discernible accent. are rehearsing until eleven." She still spoke English like someone who had learned it as a foreigner, and yet she had no clearly discernible accent.

"Can I pick you up?" His eyes filled with hope, and he told himself that he was not repeating the same pattern. He was not leading his life entirely around Sasha's dancing. Besides, she was so much more alive than Eloise had been. She was so vital, and exciting. Eloise lived in a dark room, with a single light burning over her head, haunted by imaginary people. And she hadn't changed in the last five years. She had only become more successful. She was one of the most successful mystery writers in the country. The new Agatha Christie, The New York Times The New York Times had hailed her, and had hailed her, and Publishers Weekly Publishers Weekly agreed. She was forty-one years old, and she lived in a world of fantasy. Not like Sasha ... not at all ... agreed. She was forty-one years old, and she lived in a world of fantasy. Not like Sasha ... not at all ...

"Thank you. I'll be at the stage door at eleven-ten." And he knew she meant it. She had the precision of a surgeon. "Don't be late." She frowned and wagged a graceful finger.

He smiled at her, and touched her knee under the table. "I won't. I'm not working tonight." All he wanted to do was read the file Arthur Patterson had left him, and that couldn't take him more than an hour, possibly even less. In fact, that was what he was afraid of, that there wasn't anything in it of any real substance. "I'll just look over the files on this new case."