another parent would.”
“What am I, chopped liver?” Holly replied indignantly.
“No, of course not. But you’ll have your hands full.”
“I’m having a baby, not dropping off the planet.”
“I know. And believe me, I’m counting on you to be there. And to spoil my kids rotten.”
Holly gave a tremulous laugh and reached for a napkin, using it to dab at her eyes. “You mean you won’t roll over in your grave if I let them eat Froot Loops and watch R-rated movies?”
“I might. But don’t let that stop you.”
Holly blew her nose into the napkin. “While we’re on the subject, I have a confession of my own: I’m with Edward—I think you’re jumping the gun. There’s still a chance you can beat this.”
Camille shook her head mournfully. “You can afford to believe in divine intervention, but I have to be realistic.” There was more she could have said—about how much this was hurting her and how the last thing she wanted was to drive a wedge between her and her husband by introducing another woman into the mix—but she held her tongue. There were no words to express how she was feeling, or to convince Holly. All she knew was she couldn’t allow her family to fall apart when she had the means to spare them at her fingertips, no further away than her client list.
They spoke no more on the subject. They finished their croissants—Holly polishing off hers as well as Camille’s—and Camille paid the bill. She glanced at her watch as they were leaving, surprised to see it was nearly lunchtime. As they walked to the subway station, Camille told her sister about the Texas oil magnate, newly divorced, who’d flown in from Houston to discuss the possibility of her finding his next wife for him. She was on her way to meet him now; he was taking her to lunch at Jean Georges. “If you’re interested, he’s filthy rich.” She hadn’t yet given up on Holly, who so far had resisted all her matchmaking efforts.
“No, thanks. I don’t do filthy rich, just filthy,” Holly said, grinning as she placed a hand on her belly. “Speaking of which, you, um, wouldn’t happen to know what time it is in London?”
THEIR FIRST ANNIVERSARY, Edward had taken her to dinner at the Four Seasons. Camille would long remember that night. How handsome he looked in his best suit and tie, and how elegant she felt in the new dress he’d insisted she buy for herself. She’d questioned the wisdom of splurging on such a pricey meal—at the time, they were subsisting on student loans and the meager salary from her part-time job as a research assistant—but he’d assured her they could afford it. He didn’t bat an eye at the menu prices, nor did he select the least expensive bottle on the wine list. After they’d eaten, he whisked her off to Central Park, where they’d gone for a carriage ride—the final treat of the evening. Only then did he confess he’d sold his collection of jazz CDs to finance the occasion. Camille, deeply moved by the knowledge that he would make such a sacrifice for her, could have wept. She had never loved her husband more than she did that night.
This week, they would celebrate their twentieth anniversary. Edward had warned her ahead of time not to make any plans, saying with a wink he wanted to surprise her. Camille could only hope it wouldn’t involve her getting on a plane. There had been a time she’d have loved nothing more than to be spirited off to Paris or Rome for a romantic weekend, but these days she simply wasn’t up for it. The course of chemo she was on was mild, aimed only at slowing the progression of her disease, but she was feeling the effects. Her appetite was off, and she tired easily.
Camille was relieved, the evening of their anniversary, when their hired car made the turn onto Fifty-Second Street instead heading for the airport. Minutes later, they were pulling up in front of the Four Seasons restaurant. “You remembered,” she said, leaning in to kiss
“What am I, chopped liver?” Holly replied indignantly.
“No, of course not. But you’ll have your hands full.”
“I’m having a baby, not dropping off the planet.”
“I know. And believe me, I’m counting on you to be there. And to spoil my kids rotten.”
Holly gave a tremulous laugh and reached for a napkin, using it to dab at her eyes. “You mean you won’t roll over in your grave if I let them eat Froot Loops and watch R-rated movies?”
“I might. But don’t let that stop you.”
Holly blew her nose into the napkin. “While we’re on the subject, I have a confession of my own: I’m with Edward—I think you’re jumping the gun. There’s still a chance you can beat this.”
Camille shook her head mournfully. “You can afford to believe in divine intervention, but I have to be realistic.” There was more she could have said—about how much this was hurting her and how the last thing she wanted was to drive a wedge between her and her husband by introducing another woman into the mix—but she held her tongue. There were no words to express how she was feeling, or to convince Holly. All she knew was she couldn’t allow her family to fall apart when she had the means to spare them at her fingertips, no further away than her client list.
They spoke no more on the subject. They finished their croissants—Holly polishing off hers as well as Camille’s—and Camille paid the bill. She glanced at her watch as they were leaving, surprised to see it was nearly lunchtime. As they walked to the subway station, Camille told her sister about the Texas oil magnate, newly divorced, who’d flown in from Houston to discuss the possibility of her finding his next wife for him. She was on her way to meet him now; he was taking her to lunch at Jean Georges. “If you’re interested, he’s filthy rich.” She hadn’t yet given up on Holly, who so far had resisted all her matchmaking efforts.
“No, thanks. I don’t do filthy rich, just filthy,” Holly said, grinning as she placed a hand on her belly. “Speaking of which, you, um, wouldn’t happen to know what time it is in London?”
THEIR FIRST ANNIVERSARY, Edward had taken her to dinner at the Four Seasons. Camille would long remember that night. How handsome he looked in his best suit and tie, and how elegant she felt in the new dress he’d insisted she buy for herself. She’d questioned the wisdom of splurging on such a pricey meal—at the time, they were subsisting on student loans and the meager salary from her part-time job as a research assistant—but he’d assured her they could afford it. He didn’t bat an eye at the menu prices, nor did he select the least expensive bottle on the wine list. After they’d eaten, he whisked her off to Central Park, where they’d gone for a carriage ride—the final treat of the evening. Only then did he confess he’d sold his collection of jazz CDs to finance the occasion. Camille, deeply moved by the knowledge that he would make such a sacrifice for her, could have wept. She had never loved her husband more than she did that night.
This week, they would celebrate their twentieth anniversary. Edward had warned her ahead of time not to make any plans, saying with a wink he wanted to surprise her. Camille could only hope it wouldn’t involve her getting on a plane. There had been a time she’d have loved nothing more than to be spirited off to Paris or Rome for a romantic weekend, but these days she simply wasn’t up for it. The course of chemo she was on was mild, aimed only at slowing the progression of her disease, but she was feeling the effects. Her appetite was off, and she tired easily.
Camille was relieved, the evening of their anniversary, when their hired car made the turn onto Fifty-Second Street instead heading for the airport. Minutes later, they were pulling up in front of the Four Seasons restaurant. “You remembered,” she said, leaning in to kiss
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