by Nora Roberts
Not for long, she reminded herself and set the blouse and shoe on the bottom step. She had her own packing to do. In two days she would be in London. She was going to tour with Devastation again, but this time, she had a title. Official photographer. It was a tide she’d earned, Emma thought as she hauled the first suitcase onto her bed. She’d been given her shot when her father had asked her to photograph the group for the album cover. The Lost the Sun cover, Emma remembered. The stark black-and-white portrait had earned enough acclaim that even Pete had stopped mumbling about nepotism. And he hadn’t said a word when she’d been asked to shoot the cover for their current album.
It gave her a good deal of satisfaction that it had been he, as the group’s manager, who had called to invite her on the tour. Salary and expenses included. Runyun had muttered, but only briefly. Something about the commercialization of art.
London, Dublin, Paris—a quick visit with Marianne—Rome, Barcelona, Berlin. Not to mention all the cities in between. The European tour was slated to take ten weeks. When it was done, she would do something she’d been promising herself for almost two years. She would open her own studio.
Unable to find her black cashmere suit, Emma headed out and up the stairs, pausing to pick up the blouse and shoe. There was a fascinating mix of scents. Turpentine and Opium. Marianne had left her studio exactly as she preferred it. In chaos. Brushes and pallet knives and broken pieces of charcoal were stuffed into everything from mayonnaise jars to a Dresden vase. Canvases were stacked drunkenly against the walls. Three paint smocks, their bright colors splattered with even brighter paint, were tossed over tables and chairs.
An easel still stood by the window, along with a cup of something Emma wasn’t sure she wanted to investigate. With a shake of her head Emma moved over to the bedroom area. It was hardly more than an alcove. As the years had passed, Marianne’s art had taken over. The big bed with its ornate rattan headboard was squeezed between two tables. A lamp with a shade fashioned like a lady’s straw bonnet sat on one, and half a dozen candles of various lengths stood on the other.
The bed was unmade. Marianne had refused to make her bed on principle since they’d left Saint Catherine’s. In the closet Emma found three items, all hers. The black cashmere suit hung between a red leather skirt she’d forgotten she owned, and an “I Love New York” sweatshirt torn at the sleeve.
Emma gathered them up, then sat on Marianne’s rumpled sheets.
Good God, she was going to miss her. They had shared everything—jokes, crises, arguments, tears. There were no secrets between them. Except one, Emma remembered. Even now it made her shudder.
She’d never told Marianne about Blackpool. She’d never told anyone. She had meant to, especially the night Marianne had come home drunk with the certainty that he was going to ask her to marry him.
“Look, he gave this to me.” Marianne had showed off the diamond heart that hung on a gold chain around her neck. “He said he didn’t want me to forget him while he was in Los Angeles working on his new album.” She had all but cartwheeled around the loft.
“It’s beautiful,” Emma had forced herself to say. “When does he leave?”
“Tonight. I took him to the airport.”
The relief had come in waves.
“I sat in the parking lot and cried like a baby for a half hour after his plane took off. Stupid. He’ll be back.” She had whirled then to throw her arms around Emma. “Emma, he’s going to ask me to marry him. I know it.”
“Marry him?” Relief had skidded into panic. She had remembered the feel of his hands on her, bruising her breasts. “But, Marianne, he’s—how—”
“It was the way he said goodbye, the way he looked at me when he gave me the necklace. Christ, Emma, it took everything not to beg him to take me with him. But I want him to send for me. I know he will. I know he will.”
Of course, he hadn’t.
Marianne had sat by the phone every night, had rushed home from classes day after day to check for messages. There hadn’t been a word from him.
Three weeks later, the first inkling of why had come in via the airwaves. There had been Blackpool, in his trademark black leather, escorting a young, sultry brunette backup singer to some Hollywood bash. The first clips ran on television. Then the tabloids dug in.
Marianne’s first reaction had been to laugh it off. Her next had been to try to reach him. He had never returned her calls. People ran a feature on him and his hot new love. Marianne was told that Mr. Blackpool was vacationing in Crete. He’d taken the brunette with him.
Emma rose and walked to the studio window. Before or since she’d never seen Marianne so devastated. It had been a relief, a great one, when Marianne had finally broken out of her weepy depression, had cursed Blackpool with an expertise that had warmed Emma’s heart. Then, ceremonially, she had tossed the diamond heart out of the window. Emma had always hoped some sharp-eyed bag lady had happened across it.
She’d gotten over it, Emma mused. She’d bounced back into her work with a crack that she’d owed Blackpool. No artist could be worth her salt if she hadn’t suffered.
Emma could only wish she herself had been able to forget it as easily. She would remember, always, everything he’d said to her, every name he’d called her. Her only revenge-had been to burn his prints and negatives.
That was the past, she thought briskly and rose. Her problem was she remembered things too clearly. It was both a blessing and a curse that she could see things that had happened a year before, twenty years before, as easily as she could see her own face in the mirror.
Except for one night in her life, she thought. And that only came in misty dreams.
With her recovered clothes over her arm, she started downstairs. The buzzer sounded, making her frown. Everyone knew Marianne was gone, and that she herself was practically out the door.
The intercom squawked a bit when she pushed the button. “Yes?”
“Emma? It’s Luke.”
“Luke?” Delighted, she released the outside door. “Come on up.”
She dashed to the bedroom to toss the clothes on her bed, then raced back in time to greet him when the elevator doors opened.
“Hello.” She hugged him, tight, a little surprised that he hesitated before he returned the embrace. “I had no idea you were in town.”
She pulled back to study him, and had to force her smile in place. He looked dreadful, pale, shadow-eyed, too thin. The last time she’d seen him he’d been on his way to Miami. A new job, a new life.
“I got in a couple days ago.” His lips curved, but there was no answering smile in his eyes. “Prettier than ever, Emma.”
“Thanks.” Because his hand seemed so cold in hers, she chafed it automatically. “Come in, sit. I’ll get you a drink. We might have some wine.”
“Got any bourbon?”
Her brows lifted. In all the years she’d known him, he’d never indulged in anything stronger than Chardonnay. “I don’t know. I’ll check.”
She waited until he’d lowered himself onto the sprawling L-shaped sectional before she darted into the kitchen.
Miami didn’t agree with him, she thought, pulling open cupboards and searching through their meager liquor supply. Or perhaps it was the breakup with Johnno that didn’t agree with him. He looked dead on his feet. Haggard. Like some survivor of a catastrophe. The Luke she remembered, the Luke she had kissed goodbye eighteen months before, had been a gorgeous, muscular, sleek specimen of humanity.
“Cognac,” she called out. Someone had given them a bottle of Courvoisier for Christmas.
“Fine. Thanks.”
There wasn’t a brandy snifter in the house, so she chose a wine glass, then poured a glass of Perrier for herself.
His smile seemed easier when she sat on the ottoman across from him. “I’ve always liked this place.” He pointed to the mural Marianne had painted on the plaster. “Where is she?”
“In Paris.” She glanced at her watch. “Or nearly. She’s going to spend
a year studying there.”
He shifted his gaze to the photographs that lined a nearby wall. “I saw your photo study of Baryshnikov.”
“The greatest thrill of my life. I was stunned when Runyun let me have the assignment.”
“And the album cover.” He drank, and felt every drop of the brandy slide down his throat.
“Wait until you see the new one.” She kept her voice light and easy, but there was concern in her eyes as they skimmed over Luke. “It should hit the stands by the end of the week. Of course, the music’s not bad, either.”
Emma saw his fingers whiten on the stem of the glass. “How is Johnno?”
“He’s fine. I think they’ve talked him into doing a cameo on Miami Vice … I’m sure he’ll get in touch if he comes down your way.”
“Yeah.” He drank again. “He’s not in town.”
“No, he’s in London.” The opera singer began soaring over scales. “They’re prepping for the tour. I’m going along. In fact, I’m flying out day after tomorrow.”
“You’re going to see him?”
“Yes, in a couple of days. There’s an enormous amount of work to be done before we start. Luke, what is it?”
He shook his head. Carefully, he set the cognac aside, then reached inside his jacket. Taking out a plain white envelope, he handed it to Emma. “Would you give this to him for me?”
“Of course.”
“As soon as you see him.”
“Yes, if you like.” She started to set it on the table, but caught the look in his eye. “I’ll just put it in my suitcase.” She left him sitting there, looking dully out of the windows. He was standing when she returned, holding the empty wine glass in both hands. She started to speak, then he swayed. The glass shattered on the floor before she caught him. She had braced for his weight. The brittle fragility of his body shocked her more than the pallor.
“Sit. Come on, sit down. You’re ill.” She knelt on the cushion beside him, stroking his hair as he wearily closed his eyes. “I think you’ve got a fever. Let me take you to a doctor.”
“No.” He let his head fall back. His eyes were bright with fury when they met hers. “I’ve been to a doctor. A whole fucking fleet of doctors.”
“You need to eat,” she said firmly. “You look as though you haven’t eaten in a week. Let me fix—”
“Emma.” He caught her hand. She knew. He could see by her face that she already knew, but refused to believe. He’d spent quite a while refusing to believe himself. “I’m dying.” It sounded easy, almost peaceful. “It’s AIDS.”
“No.” Her fingers bit into his. “Oh God, no.”
“I’ve been sick for weeks. Months really,” he admitted on a sigh. “I thought it was a cold, the flu, vitamin deficiency. I didn’t want to face going to the doctor. Then, well, I had to. I didn’t accept the first diagnosis, or the second, or the third.” He laughed, letting his eyes close again. “There are some things you can’t run away from.”
“There are treatments.” Frantic, she pressed his hand to her cheek and rocked. “I’ve read about treatments, drugs.”
“I’m pumped full of drugs. Some days I feel pretty good.”
“There are clinics.”
“I’m not spending whatever time I’ve got in a clinic. I sold my house so I’ve got some money. I’m going to rent a suite at the Plaza. See plays, go to movies, museums, the ballet. All the things I haven’t had time to do in the last few years.” He smiled again, touching a finger to her cheek. “Sorry about the glass.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“It looked like Waterford,” he murmured. “You’ve always had class, Emma. Don’t cry.” His voice tightened as he turned away from the tears in her eyes.
“I’ll clean up the glass.”
“Don’t.” He took her hand again. He so badly needed someone to hold his hand. “Just sit for a minute.”
“All right. Luke, you can’t give up. Every day they’re, oh, I know it sounds trite,” she said desperately, “but every day they’re coming closer. There’s so much research being done, and the media is making the public more aware.” She brought his hand back to her cheek. “They’re bound to find a cure. They have to.”
He said nothing. She wanted a solace he couldn’t give. How could he explain how he had felt when the results had come in? Would she understand, could she, that fear and anger were only two components? There had been humiliation too, and despair. When pneumonia had set in weeks before, the ambulance attendants wouldn’t touch him. He’d been isolated from human contact, from compassion, from hope.
She was the first one to touch him, to weep for him. And he couldn’t explain.
“When you see Johnno, don’t tell him how I looked.” I won’t.
That seemed to comfort him. His hand relaxed again. “Remember when I tried to teach you to cook?”
“I remember that you said I was hopeless, but that Marianne took ineptitude to new heights.”
“You finally caught on to the spaghetti.”
“I still make it once a week whether I want it or not.” He was crying, slow, silent tears that slipped between his closed lashes.
“Why don’t you put off the Plaza awhile and stay here?” When he shook his head, she went on. “Tonight then. Just for tonight. It’s so lonely without Marianne, and I’ll show you the improvements I’ve made in your spaghetti sauce.”
She sat with him, holding on, when he buried his face in his hands and wept.
It was raining when she touched down at Heathrow. A soft spring rain that made her think of daffodils. With her camera case slung over her arm, she walked through the gate. Johnno met her and gave her a smacking kiss. Then kept his arm around her to steer her through the terminal. “Pete’s having your luggage sent over.” He turned her away from baggage claim and toward the exit doors.
“Remind me to kiss his feet.”
When he opened the door of a limo, Emma lifted her brow.
“I hate airport traffic,” Johnno claimed. When he’d settled in, he poured two glasses of Pepsi and offered her a bag of chips. “Besides, this way we can eat. How’d you handle the flight?”
“With Dramamine and prayer.” She dove into the chips. Eating on a plane was a luxury her stomach couldn’t afford. “Don’t worry. I stocked up on both for the tour.”
“Glad to have you aboard.”
She stalled, asking questions, keeping it light. He said nothing when she reached up and closed the privacy glass between the backseat and the driver.
“I appreciate your coming to pick me up.”
“I figured you had a reason.”
“Yes. Can I have a cigarette?”
He took two out, lighted them both. “Serious?”
“Very.” She took two long pulls on the Gauloise. “Luke came to see me a couple of days ago.”
“He’s in New York?”
“Yes … We had dinner.”
“That’s nice. So how is he?”
Keeping her eyes lowered, Emma took the envelope out of her purse. “He wanted me to give you this.”
She turned to study the dreamy rain while he opened the envelope. He read in silence. There was only the quiet hum of the motor, the gentle lap of rain, the muted music of a Chopin prelude from the speakers. She waited, a minute, then five, before she looked at Johnno again.
He was staring straight ahead, his eyes blank. The letter lay in his lap where he had dropped it. When he turned to look at her, her heart wrenched.
“You know?”
“Yes, he told me.” Not knowing what else to do, she took Johnno’s hand in both of hers. “I’m sorry, Johnno. So sorry.”
“He’s worried about me.” Johnno’s voice was dull as he stared back down at the letter. “He wants to make sure I go in for tests. And he—he wanted to reassure me that he’d keep quiet about our relationship. Jesus.” His head fell back on a hollow laugh. “Jesus Christ. He’s dying and he wants me to know my reputation’s safe.”
“It matters to him.”
His throat was raw. There were tears in it, he realized and took another rough drag on his cigarette. “He was important to me, dammit. Now he’s dying, and what am I supposed to say? Thanks, old man. Damn sporting of you to take my secret to the grave.”
“Don’t, Johnno. It’s important to him to do this his way. He’s—Luke’s trying to tie up his loose ends. He needs to tie up his loose ends.”
“Oh fuck. Oh bloody fucking hell.” The grief and the fury raged inside him. There was nothing he could vent it on. It did no more good for him to curse the disease than it had done for him to curse fate for making him what he was. He took out another cigarette, fingers shaking as he fought with the lighter. “I arranged for some very discreet, very expensive testing about six months ago. I’m clean.” He dragged in smoke while he crumpled the letter in his fist. “No nasty problems with my immune system. Nope. No problem here.”
Because she understood, her voice was brisk. “It’s incredibly stupid to feel guilty because you’re well.”
“Where’s the justice, Emma?” He smoothed out the letter, then carefully folded it and slipped it into his pocket. “Where’s the frigging justice?”
“I don’t know.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “When Darren was murdered I was too young to ask myself that question. But I’ve asked it, Johnno, hundreds of times since. Why is it the people we love die, and we don’t? The nuns say it’s God’s will.”
“It’s not enough.”
“No, it’s not enough.” She searched her conscience. She supposed she’d known all along that she would tell him. “Luke’s in New York. He’s staying at the Plaza for a few weeks. He didn’t want me to tell you.”
He tightened his arm around her. “Thanks.”
When the limo pulled up in front of Brian’s London home, Johnno kissed her. “Tell Brian … tell him the truth. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
“All right.” She watched the limo disappear in the misty rain.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Emma switched to a wide-angle lens and crouched at the foot of the stage in the London Palladium. There was no denying that Devastation was as dynamic in rehearsals as they were in concert. She was delighted with the shots she’d taken so far, and was already readjusting her schedule to work in darkroom time.