"I remember that look," she said. "You used to stare at me like that way back when... a million years ago."

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes it gave me goose bumps."

"But not anymore, right?"

Her coy shrug told me otherwise.

"I know I've said that I'm glad you've come into my life..."

When I stopped, she raised her eyes to look at me. "But?"

I decided to tell the truth. "I'm not sure I'm ready for a relationship."

For a moment she said nothing. "All right," she murmured finally, with the faintest echo of regret.

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because I've been calling too much. Maybe leading you to think that I was ready when I know I'm not. I'm still an emotional wreck at times. I still think about Vivian way too much. Not that I want her back, because I've realized that I don't. But she's still front and center, in a way that's not healthy. And you've been so generous listening to me when I'm down, offering endless emotional support. And best of all, making me laugh..."

When I trailed off, I could feel her eyes inspecting me. "Have I ever complained that you call too much? Or that your confidences are a burden?"

I shook my head, feeling as if some epiphany were trying to surface in my chaotic brain, like an air bubble rising through water. "No," I said, "you haven't."

"You're describing a scenario in which you haven't offered me anything in return. But you have." The reddish tints in her dark hair glinted in the firelight as she pushed it away from her face. Leaning toward me, she said, "I like hearing from you, whether you're in a good mood or not. I like knowing that I can talk to you about anything, that you'll understand because we once shared a history. I like feeling that you know the real me, faults and all."

"You don't have any faults," I said. "None that I can see, anyway."

She gave a snort of disbelief. "Are you kidding? No one's perfect, Russ. I like to think I've learned some lessons over the past decade, and maybe, I'm more patient than I used to be. But I'm far from perfect."

The waitress delivered our wine, and in the silence that followed, our thoughts seemed to take a more serious turn. Emily took a sip of wine, and when she turned toward me again, I thought I saw a flash of vulnerability cross her face.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know I'm probably putting a damper on the evening."

"Not at all," she said. "It means so much that you're honest with me, Russ. I think that's what I like most about you. You're not afraid to tell me things that you're hurting, that you're afraid of failure, that you're not ready for a relationship. You don't realize how hard it is for some people to say such things. David never could. I never knew what he was really feeling half the time, I don't think he even did. But with you, it's different. You're so open. I always admired that about you, and it hasn't changed." She paused, as if uncertain whether to go on. "I really like you, Russ. You're good for me."

"That's the thing, Emily. I don't just like you... I think I'm in love with you."

My words seem to electrify her. "You think?"

"No," I said with growing certainty. "I am in love with you. It feels strange to say that when I know I'm not really ready to take further steps, but that's how I feel." For a moment I stared into the fire, trying to summon my courage. "I'm not the kind of guy you should love. You can do a lot better than me. Maybe in time..."

Saying the words hurt more than I anticipated and I broke off, feeling a knot forming in my throat.

In the silence, Emily stared at me. Then she reached over and laid her open hand on my leg, beckoning for me to take it. I did, feeling a flood of warmth and encouragement as her fingers intertwined with my own.

"Did you think that I might be in love with you, too?"

"You don't have to say that."

"I'm not just saying it, Russ. I know what love feels like. Maybe I've always loved you God knows I loved you once with every fiber of my being. I don't think that kind of feeling just goes away it leaves its mark on you." She held my gaze, her voice gentle. "I'm okay with waiting until you're ready. Because I like what we have now. I like that you've become one of my closest friends. And I know how much you care for me. Do you remember what I said about friendship? 'It's about someone who walks into your life, says I'm here for you, and then proves it.' "

I nodded.

"You might not believe it, but you've been doing that for me. I don't know if I'm ready for a relationship either. What I do know is that I want you in my life, and that the thought of losing you again would break my heart."

"Where does that leave us, then?"

"How about we just sit by the fire, you and me, and enjoy tonight. We can be friends tonight and tomorrow and for as long as you'd like. And you keep calling and we keep talking and having coffee when the kids are at art. And like everybody in the world, we'll just take things one day at a time."

I stared at her, marveling at her wisdom, and how simple she made it all seem.

"I love you, Emily."

"I love you, too, Russ." She gave my hand a squeeze. "It's going to be fine," she said earnestly. "Trust me."

Later that night, I lay awake in bed. Emily and I had lingered for another hour by the fire, letting the meaning of everything that had been said sink in. When I dropped her off at home, I felt the urge to kiss her, but was afraid of upsetting our newfound balance.

Emily sensed my hesitation and simply leaned in for a hug. We held each other for a long time beneath her porch light, and the intimacy of that moment struck me as more real and more meaningful than anything else she could have done.

"Call me tomorrow, okay?" she whispered, releasing me, but not before raising a tender hand to my face.

"I will."

And with that, she turned and went inside.

The last two weeks of November were some of the happiest in my recent memory. My anniversary passed without incident; neither Vivian nor I mentioned it when she FaceTimed with London, and it wasn't until after the call had ended that I even remembered it at all. At work, I was proving to be hugely productive on behalf of my new clients. London returned from Atlanta on Sunday night, and though she'd had a good time, she slipped back into her routine without a fuss. I spoke to Emily every day, and worked out a deal with Claude to buy her painting, which I then mounted in the family room. I saw Marge, Liz, and my parents the following weekend, the day after Marge and Liz had met with the fertility specialist. While we were all seated in the family room together, they told my parents about their plans.

"It's about time!" my mom cried, jumping up to hug them both.

"You'll be good parents," my dad added. He sounded as gruff as always before he embraced Marge and Liz in turn. With hugs from my dad as rare as solar eclipses, I know they were touched.

Through Taglieri, I learned that Vivian wanted London in Atlanta for the Thanksgiving weekend. Actually, she wanted London beginning on Wednesday evening, through Sunday. I wasn't happy about that, but again, the every-other-weekend pattern just happened to nail every holiday. Vivian arrived on Wednesday to pick up London in the limo and whisk her off to the jet again. As I watched them pull away, I thought about how quiet the house would be without my daughter for the next four days.

The house was quiet that weekend. Because no one, not even me, was there at all.

Instead, that was the weekend when once more, my world began to collapse around me.

But this time, it was even worse.

How did it happen?

Like it always seems to happen: seemingly without warning.

But, of course, in retrospect there had been warnings all along.

It was Saturday morning, November twenty-eighth, two days after Thanksgiving. I'd spent the previous evening with Emily, dining out and visiting the Charlotte Comedy Zone. Once again, I was tempted to kiss her at the end of the evening, but settled instead for another long and glorious hug, one that confirmed my desire to keep her in my life for a long, long time. My feelings for her were already displacing thoughts of Vivian in a way that I hadn't anticipated, and that I hoped would continue. I felt undeniably lighter and more positive about the future than I had in months, if not years.

The call came in on early Saturday morning. It wasn't yet six a.m. when the house phone began to ring, and the sound itself was ominous. My cell phone was on airplane mode, and no one would call the house at that hour unless something terrible had happened. I knew even before I picked up the phone that it was my mother on the other end, and I knew that she was calling to tell me that my father was in the hospital. He'd had a heart attack. Or something worse. I knew she would be frantic, probably in tears.

But it wasn't my mom on the other end of the line.

It was Liz, calling about my sister.

Marge, she told me, had been admitted to the hospital.

She'd been coughing up blood for an hour.

CHAPTER 23.

No

When Marge was eleven, she and my mom were involved in a car accident.

Back then, my mom was still driving one of those huge, wood-paneled station wagons. Because they were from a different generation, my parents weren't accustomed to wearing seatbelts, and as a family we rarely did.

Marge liked seatbelts even less than I did. Whereas I simply forgot to put mine on when I hopped in the car I was still young, remember Marge deliberately chose not to wear them, because it allowed her more freedom to punch or pinch me whenever the mood struck. Which, I might add, was way too often.

I wasn't in the car that day, and though I'm not sure how accurate my recollections are, it seems the accident was no fault of my mom's. She wasn't speeding, the road wasn't busy, and she was passing through an intersection while the light was green. Meanwhile, a teenager probably fiddling with the radio or scarfing down McDonald's French fries blew through the red light and broadsided the rear of the station wagon.

While my mom was a little banged up, it was Marge whom everyone was most worried about. The momentum from the crash had thrown her into the side windows, shattering the glass. While she wasn't unconscious when she arrived at the hospital, she was bleeding and bruised, and had sustained a broken collarbone.

When I entered Marge's hospital room with my dad, the sight of my sister scared me. At six years old, I didn't know much about death, or even hospitals. My dad stood over her bed, his expression flat, but I could tell by his posture that he was frightened, which scared me even more. Looking down at my stricken face, he frowned.

"Come see your sister, Russ."

"I don't want to," I can remember saying.

"I don't care what you want," he said. "I told you to come here, and you're going to do what I tell you."

His tone brooked no argument and I inched toward the bed. Marge's face was grossly swollen, with deep bruises and multiple stitches, like she'd been sewn back together. She didn't look like my sister; she didn't look like anyone. She looked like a monster in a scary movie and the sight of her caused me to burst into tears.

To this day, I wish I hadn't cried. My dad thought I was crying for Marge and I felt him lay a comforting hand on my shoulder, which made me cry even harder.

But I wasn't crying for Marge. I was crying for myself, because I was afraid, and over time, I came to despise myself for my reaction.

Some people have courage.

On that day, I learned that I wasn't one of them.

The doctors didn't know what was wrong with Marge. Nurses took samples of blood and X-rayed her chest. That was followed by a CAT scan. Three different doctors came to examine her. I watched as a needle was inserted into Marge's lungs to remove tissue for further examination.

Throughout it all, Marge was the only one who didn't seem worried. Part of that had to do with the fact that since she'd arrived at the hospital, her coughing had abated. She joked with the doctors and nurses while Liz and my parents looked on with grim concern, and I thought again about how effective my sister was at hiding her fears, even from those who loved her. Meanwhile, in another part of the hospital, tests were being run. I heard the doctor whispering words like pathology and radiology. Biopsy. Oncology.

Liz was clearly worried, but not yet panicked. My parents sat like stones, barely holding it together. And I was upset, because Marge didn't look good. Her skin had a grayish pallor, which accentuated her weight loss, and I found myself replaying all that I'd seen and the things she'd said over the last few months. The racking cough that never seemed to go away, the soreness in her legs. How exhausted she'd been after her vacation.

My parents and I, Liz and the doctors, were all thinking about the same thing.

The cancer.

But it couldn't be cancer. Marge couldn't be that sick. She was my sister and she was only forty years old. A little more than a week ago, she'd gone to a specialist because she wanted to have a baby. She was looking forward to being pregnant. She had her entire life ahead of her.

Marge couldn't be sick. She didn't have the cancer.

No.

No, no, no, no, no...

I was thankful that Vivian had taken London to Atlanta, because I don't know what I would have done with her all day. I spent hours drifting in and out of Marge's hospital room. When I couldn't take it anymore, I would pace the parking lot or have coffee in the cafeteria. I called Emily and shared what was going on; I asked her not to come by, but she came anyway.

Marge and Emily had a short but sweet reunion a little before noon, and in the hallway afterward, Emily held me as I shook with fear. She told me that she wanted to see me later, if I was up to it, and I promised that I'd call.

Finally, I called Vivian. When I told her what was going on, she gave a strangled gasp and immediately offered to fly back with London right away. I explained that London was probably better off with her, at least through the weekend. Vivian understood.

"Oh, Russ," she said quietly, sounding nothing like her usual brisk self. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry yet," I said, "we don't know anything for sure."

I was lying to myself, and both Vivian and I knew it. She was well aware of the history on my mother's side of the family. As I spoke again, I could hear my voice cracking.

"Do me a favor and don't say anything to London yet, okay?"

"Of course not. Is there anything I can do? What do you need?"

"Nothing for now," I said. "Thanks." Words were becoming hard to form, my thoughts beginning to scatter. "I'll let you know."

"Keep me informed, okay?"

"I will," I promised, and I knew that I would. After all, we were still married.

In the afternoon, while my parents and Liz were visiting the cafeteria, I stayed with Marge. She asked about my work, and at her insistence, I described the ad campaigns I was crafting for my clients. I think she remembered that day in the hospital so long ago, after the auto accident, and could tell how frightened I was. She knew I could speak about work on autopilot, so she kept asking questions, to distract me.

As had become her habit, she asked about Emily and I finally admitted that I'd fallen in love, but wasn't ready to tell our parents yet. At that, she cracked a grin.