But now Nick and I had those things again. The sex was passionate and the ghosts were gone. It was as if my night with Roberto had driven away the woman Nick slept with in Napa. I knew that such a thought was somehow sick and wrong—what kind of person needed a matching bout of infidelity to cancel out the other?—but the effect couldn’t be denied. I no longer thought of the woman as a goddess. I no longer felt insecure or bruised. I realized how much I loved this man, my husband, and because of that, we’d grown assured again in our relationship.
“Nick,” I said impulsively.
“Yeah, hon?”
“I want to take down this painting.”
“Your Rome painting?”
I nodded.
“It looks great in here. Why?”
I stared at its slashes of red and gazed at the girl, who seemed to be me, in the middle of it. My throat threatened to close. “I just don’t like it anymore. I don’t need it.”
When Kit and I had returned from Rome, I agonized over whether to tell Nick about Roberto. Nick hadn’t told me about his affair until a few months after Napa, but the point was he had eventually. He’d had enough respect for me, and for us, to come clean with his sins. In those weeks after Rome, I understood how impossibly difficult that must have been for him, and I cherished him all the more for it. But I found I couldn’t do the same. Not because I didn’t respect him as much, or our marriage. On the contrary, I adored him; I adored us, the way we were now, again. It was simply that we’d already been through too much. Another transgression would splinter us irrevocably.
It sounded like a cop-out to my own ears, yet in my gut I believed it to be true. And so I kept my mouth shut, and a little piece of my heart grew black from the secret, the lack of fresh air. But it was my fault, I reckoned, my cross, and I was bearing it willingly. I didn’t need the painting to remind me.
“What will we put there?” Nick asked.
“My photo paintings. I’ll be done with this one by the end of the week, and I know I’ll get it right this time.”
“Out with the old, in with the new?”
“Exactly.” If the painting was gone, maybe I could forget. Maybe I could forgive myself.
Nick stood from the chair, the newspapers crinkling. “Let me help you, then.”
Together, we leaned over the high table and each took a bottom corner of the canvas. Carefully, we lifted it higher, then together we pulled it away from the wall.
“There,” Nick said.
“Yeah.” I grinned. The wall looked clean now, ready for the future. I stowed the canvas in the closet.
Nick crossed the room and hugged me. I pressed myself into him, my arms around his back and felt myself stir. “Want to go upstairs?”
He groaned softly. “Absolutely.”
The phone rang. “Don’t answer it.” I ran my tongue up the side of his neck.
“Let me make sure it’s not the service.” Nick grabbed the phone off the arm of the big chair and looked at the display. “Kit,” he said.
I took his hand and began leading him up the stairs. “Definitely don’t answer it.”
I hadn’t spoken to Kit very often since we returned. She spent much of her time with her mom or on the phone with Alain. But the truth also was that Kit made me think of Rome, and I wanted to forget it. In the same way I’d wanted the painting out of sight, I was inadvertently avoiding Kit.
Nick and I climbed the basement stairs, passed through our living room which was overly warm with late-afternoon sun, and went up the stairs to our bedroom.
At the foot of the bed, we kissed hard, our hands clawing at our clothes.
The phone rang again. “Sorry,” Nick mumbled. He twisted away and glanced at the bedroom phone on the nightstand. “Kit again.”
I lightly bit his collarbone. “Ignore it.”
But a minute later, the phone rang again.
“You better get it,” Nick said, slightly panting, his shirt off, his pants halfway down.
I groaned but grabbed the phone and answered it, holding my discarded T-shirt over my breasts.
“Rachel?” Kit said.
“Yeah, hi. What’s up?”
She broke into sobs.
“Kit, what’s wrong?”
“It’s my mom,” she said, still crying. “It’s everything.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the hospital.”
In the parking lot of Chicago General Hospital, the sun beat on new asphalt, making my shoes stick as I hurried from my car. Inside the doors, the arctic blast of air-conditioning made me shiver.
I wrapped my arms around myself, realizing I had no idea where I was supposed to go.
“Cancer center,” said the woman at the information desk, handing me a map of the hospital campus. Chicago General was a vast complex, only a block from Lake Michigan, and although my husband was on staff, I rarely had occasion to visit.
I headed back outside, into the stifling afternoon. Using the map, I tracked down the cancer center and the chemotherapy unit, where Kit’s mom, Leslie Kernaghan, was supposed to be. And there was Kit, standing outside a glass-walled room, small tears skimming her features.
She smiled bleakly when she saw me. Her face was splotchy and her eyes were pink and raw, making their purplish hue sharper. Her red hair was flattened on one side, as if she’d just been roused from sleep.
I hugged her, then brushed her tears away with my knuckles. “What’s going on?” I looked inside the glass wall and saw Mrs. Kernaghan, or at least a withered, gray version of her, sleeping on a hospital gurney, tubes in her nose, IVs in her arm.
Kit took a deep breath, which caught in her lungs. “She needs this procedure tomorrow. It’s a new radiation treatment combined with chemo. It’s experimental, but it’s her best chance to survive. The thing is, the insurance isn’t covering anything anymore.” Kit stopped and her shoulders shuddered. More tears streamed from her eyes. “But Alain told me he’d pay for it.”
“Oh, how sweet,” I said.
“He said he’d wire the money right away. We didn’t get it. Then he told me yesterday he was getting on a plane. He was going to come here for the procedure, and he was going to pay for it.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it sounded great,” Kit said bitterly.
I could guess the rest. Situations like this, where men disappointed
