such games might lead left her uneasy. Though she probably meant more to Steve than she suspected, he was what he was, she told herself, a womanizer, perfect for a “marvelous interlude,” but not much more. Despite his outrageous offer that they live together, she knew she could never expect better than being number one in his string, the way she had been tonight. And that could become a kind of control, especially when fueled by jealousy, she realized, thinking of his eagerness to play Mandy and her against each other. She’d no illusions that his being with the others, especially if she continued to care for him, would make her far un-happier than it already had and eventually consume her. Revulsed by the pall of such sexual masochism, she shuddered, watching the slick blackness of the millennium’s first morning slide by outside the window, and renewed her determination to break off with him. Lisa’s right. I deserve better.
When she got out of the cab at her apartment in the East Village, a cool drizzle tingled against her cheeks. It felt like a cleansing shower.
Chapter 5
Steele’s first days of convalescence didn’t go too badly, for no other reason than the doctors and Martha had laid out his every move in a schedule. Between his twice-a-day walks with regular half-block increases, his carefully planned meals three times a day, and all his follow-up visits for tests and checkups he’d had little time to think, which was fine by him.
Except at night. Then he mostly sat in the living room, staring at the grand piano and nursing a tumbler of scotch. No need to worry about my breath in the morning, he told himself as he switched back from vodka.
“It doesn’t say anything about continuing with alcohol on these sheets of instructions you brought home,” Martha pointed out, scowling at him and shoving the papers in his face after he’d been home a few days.
“Two drinks a day, Martha. It’s good for the heart. Been in all the medical journals for years,” he declared, raising the amber fluid in a toast.
“Oh, really. Then you should have already had the healthiest heart in the land.” Without waiting for an answer, she huffed out of the room and headed off to bed, muttering, “And did they mention the
size
of the glass by any chance?”
The piano had been Luana’s. Whether playing professionally for choirs, teaching at schools, or giving private lessons, she’d possessed a boundless passion for music all her life, including a dream to someday take a master’s program for concert pianists. When diagnosed with inoperable cancer of the pancreas, prognosis six months, she immediately signed up to take the audition she’d so often postponed. “At least I’ll know if I’m good enough,” she explained, submerging herself in the hours of daily practice necessary to prepare her presentation piece— Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 20.
Steele had found the urgency of the playing nearly impossible to bear. Each note, exquisitely poignant to the point of pain, seemed to tick off how little time she had left. As the date of the competition approached, she became too weak to sit at the bench for long periods, and his despair for her deepened. She nevertheless persisted, resting between segments of the score and insisting that he make a tape of her playing. On her behalf he submitted the recording to the judges, along with a letter from her doctor attesting that, for medical reasons, she could not perform in person. A week later she received a telegram announcing that they’d accepted her, conditional on her being well enough to attend classes.
The flash of pride he’d witnessed in her gaunt eyes at that moment seemed as much for her spirit’s triumph over the cancer, despite its destruction of her body, as for her musical victory. When he tried to tell her how much he loved her and that he felt in awe of her courage, she smiled.
“I’m proud of me, too, and that makes me feel sexy,” she’d said.
When she got out of the cab at her apartment in the East Village, a cool drizzle tingled against her cheeks. It felt like a cleansing shower.
Chapter 5
Steele’s first days of convalescence didn’t go too badly, for no other reason than the doctors and Martha had laid out his every move in a schedule. Between his twice-a-day walks with regular half-block increases, his carefully planned meals three times a day, and all his follow-up visits for tests and checkups he’d had little time to think, which was fine by him.
Except at night. Then he mostly sat in the living room, staring at the grand piano and nursing a tumbler of scotch. No need to worry about my breath in the morning, he told himself as he switched back from vodka.
“It doesn’t say anything about continuing with alcohol on these sheets of instructions you brought home,” Martha pointed out, scowling at him and shoving the papers in his face after he’d been home a few days.
“Two drinks a day, Martha. It’s good for the heart. Been in all the medical journals for years,” he declared, raising the amber fluid in a toast.
“Oh, really. Then you should have already had the healthiest heart in the land.” Without waiting for an answer, she huffed out of the room and headed off to bed, muttering, “And did they mention the
size
of the glass by any chance?”
The piano had been Luana’s. Whether playing professionally for choirs, teaching at schools, or giving private lessons, she’d possessed a boundless passion for music all her life, including a dream to someday take a master’s program for concert pianists. When diagnosed with inoperable cancer of the pancreas, prognosis six months, she immediately signed up to take the audition she’d so often postponed. “At least I’ll know if I’m good enough,” she explained, submerging herself in the hours of daily practice necessary to prepare her presentation piece— Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 20.
Steele had found the urgency of the playing nearly impossible to bear. Each note, exquisitely poignant to the point of pain, seemed to tick off how little time she had left. As the date of the competition approached, she became too weak to sit at the bench for long periods, and his despair for her deepened. She nevertheless persisted, resting between segments of the score and insisting that he make a tape of her playing. On her behalf he submitted the recording to the judges, along with a letter from her doctor attesting that, for medical reasons, she could not perform in person. A week later she received a telegram announcing that they’d accepted her, conditional on her being well enough to attend classes.
The flash of pride he’d witnessed in her gaunt eyes at that moment seemed as much for her spirit’s triumph over the cancer, despite its destruction of her body, as for her musical victory. When he tried to tell her how much he loved her and that he felt in awe of her courage, she smiled.
“I’m proud of me, too, and that makes me feel sexy,” she’d said.
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