“Pardon?”
Pierre kept his eyes on hers, watching for her reaction. “I may have Huntington’s disease.”
Molly sagged backward a bit. “Really?”
“You know it?”
“Sort of. A man who lived down the street from my mother’s house had it. My God, Pierre. I’m so sorry.”
Pierre bristled slightly. Molly, although dazed, had enough presence of mind to recognize the reaction. Pierre wanted no pity. She squeezed his hand. “I saw what happened to Mr. DeWitt — my mother’s neighbor. But I don’t really know the details. Huntington’s is inherited, right? One of your parents must have had it, too, no?”
Pierre nodded. “My father.”
“I know it causes muscular difficulties.”
“It’s more than that. It also causes mental deterioration.”
Molly looked away. “Oh.”
“Symptoms can appear anytime — in one’s thirties, or forties, or even later. I could have another twenty good years, or I might start to show signs tomorrow. Or, if I’m lucky, I don’t have the gene and won’t get the disease at all.”
Molly felt a stinging in her eyes. The polite thing to do might have been to turn away, to not let Pierre know that she was crying — but it would not have been the honest thing. It wasn’t pity, after all. She looked him full in the face, then leaned in and kissed him.
Once she’d pulled away, there was an extended silence between them.
Finally, Molly reached a hand up to wipe her own cheek, and then used the back of her hand to gently wipe Pierre’s cheek, which was also damp. “My parents,” said Molly slowly, “divorced when I was five.” She blew air out, as if ancient pain were being expelled with it. “These days, five or ten good years together is as much as most people get.”
“You deserve more,” said Pierre. “You deserve better.”
Molly shook her head. “I’ve never had better than this. I — I haven’t had much success with men. Being able to read their thoughts… You’re different.”
“You don’t know that,” said Pierre. “I could be just as bad as the rest of them.”
Molly smiled. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen the way you listen to me, the way you care about my opinions. You’re not a macho ape.”
Pierre smiled slightly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
Molly laughed, but then immediately sobered. “Look, I know this sounds like I’m full of myself, but I know I’m pretty—”
“In point of fact, you are drop-dead gorgeous.”
“I’m not fishing for compliments here. Let me finish. I know I’m pretty — people have told me that ever since I was a little girl. My sister Jessica has done a lot of modeling; my mother still turns heads, too. She used to say the biggest problem with her first marriage was that her husband had only been interested in her looks. Dad is an executive; he’d — wanted a trophy wife — and Mom was not content to be just that. You’re the only man I’ve ever known who has looked beyond my outer appearance to what’s inside. You like me for my mind, for… for…”
“For the content of your character,” said Pierre.
“What?”
“Martin Luther King. Nobel laureates are a hobby of mine, and I’ve always had a fondness for great oratory — even when it’s in English.” Pierre closed his eyes, remembering. ‘“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.’”
He looked at Molly, then shrugged slightly. “Maybe it’s because I might have Huntington’s, but I do try to look beyond simple genetic traits, such as beauty.” He smiled. “Not to say that your beauty doesn’t move me.”
Molly smiled back at him. “I have to ask. What does ‘
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Pierre kept his eyes on hers, watching for her reaction. “I may have Huntington’s disease.”
Molly sagged backward a bit. “Really?”
“You know it?”
“Sort of. A man who lived down the street from my mother’s house had it. My God, Pierre. I’m so sorry.”
Pierre bristled slightly. Molly, although dazed, had enough presence of mind to recognize the reaction. Pierre wanted no pity. She squeezed his hand. “I saw what happened to Mr. DeWitt — my mother’s neighbor. But I don’t really know the details. Huntington’s is inherited, right? One of your parents must have had it, too, no?”
Pierre nodded. “My father.”
“I know it causes muscular difficulties.”
“It’s more than that. It also causes mental deterioration.”
Molly looked away. “Oh.”
“Symptoms can appear anytime — in one’s thirties, or forties, or even later. I could have another twenty good years, or I might start to show signs tomorrow. Or, if I’m lucky, I don’t have the gene and won’t get the disease at all.”
Molly felt a stinging in her eyes. The polite thing to do might have been to turn away, to not let Pierre know that she was crying — but it would not have been the honest thing. It wasn’t pity, after all. She looked him full in the face, then leaned in and kissed him.
Once she’d pulled away, there was an extended silence between them.
Finally, Molly reached a hand up to wipe her own cheek, and then used the back of her hand to gently wipe Pierre’s cheek, which was also damp. “My parents,” said Molly slowly, “divorced when I was five.” She blew air out, as if ancient pain were being expelled with it. “These days, five or ten good years together is as much as most people get.”
“You deserve more,” said Pierre. “You deserve better.”
Molly shook her head. “I’ve never had better than this. I — I haven’t had much success with men. Being able to read their thoughts… You’re different.”
“You don’t know that,” said Pierre. “I could be just as bad as the rest of them.”
Molly smiled. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen the way you listen to me, the way you care about my opinions. You’re not a macho ape.”
Pierre smiled slightly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
Molly laughed, but then immediately sobered. “Look, I know this sounds like I’m full of myself, but I know I’m pretty—”
“In point of fact, you are drop-dead gorgeous.”
“I’m not fishing for compliments here. Let me finish. I know I’m pretty — people have told me that ever since I was a little girl. My sister Jessica has done a lot of modeling; my mother still turns heads, too. She used to say the biggest problem with her first marriage was that her husband had only been interested in her looks. Dad is an executive; he’d — wanted a trophy wife — and Mom was not content to be just that. You’re the only man I’ve ever known who has looked beyond my outer appearance to what’s inside. You like me for my mind, for… for…”
“For the content of your character,” said Pierre.
“What?”
“Martin Luther King. Nobel laureates are a hobby of mine, and I’ve always had a fondness for great oratory — even when it’s in English.” Pierre closed his eyes, remembering. ‘“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.’”
He looked at Molly, then shrugged slightly. “Maybe it’s because I might have Huntington’s, but I do try to look beyond simple genetic traits, such as beauty.” He smiled. “Not to say that your beauty doesn’t move me.”
Molly smiled back at him. “I have to ask. What does ‘
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