called, and it was four o’clock before she was able to leave the hotel.
She went for a long brisk walk to New Bond Street, and looked at all the shops. They were brightly decorated for Christmas, and every store she glanced into was full of shoppers. Their holiday shopping was in full swing. She had no one to buy a gift for-she had already sent Paul a framed photograph from New York, and a case of good French wine to Mark. She walked back to the hotel around six o’clock, and as soon as she walked into her room, Finn O’Neill called. He had a deep masculine voice that sounded a little hoarse. He asked for her by name and then exploded in a fit of coughing. He sounded very sick.
“I’m dying,” he announced, when he stopped coughing. “I can’t see you tomorrow morning. Besides, I don’t want to get you sick.” It was nice of him to think of and be concerned, and she didn’t want to get sick either, but she hated to lose a day. She had nothing else to do in London, unless she saw Paul.
“You sound awful,” she said sympathetically. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“He said he’d come over later, but he hasn’t shown up yet. I’m really sorry. You were nice to come all the way to London. Maybe if I stay in bed tomorrow, I’ll be okay by the next day. Are you in a hurry to get back?” He sounded worried, and she smiled.
“I’m fine,” she said calmly. “I can stay as long as I have to, till we get the job done.”
“I hope you have a good retoucher. I look like shit,” he said, sounding like a little kid, and very sorry for himself.
“You’ll look fine, I promise. It’s all in the lighting,” she reassured him, “and we can airbrush. Just get better. Chicken soup,” she recommended, and he laughed.
“I don’t want to look like Georgia O’Keeffe’s grandfather on the book.”
“You won’t.” It was quite an image. She had looked him up on the Internet, and knew that he was forty-six years old, and now she remembered what he looked like. He was a good-looking man. And his voice sounded young and energetic, even if he was sick.
“Are you okay at the hotel?” he asked, sounding concerned.
“I’m fine,” she reassured him again.
“I really appreciate your coming over here on such short notice. I don’t know what my publisher was thinking, they forgot we needed a photo for the book, and they just reminded me this week. It’s a little crazy, with Christmas and everything. I asked them to contact you, but I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I had no other plans. I was going to Cape Cod, and it’s actually more fun to be here.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “I live in Ireland, but it’s pretty depressing there this time of year too. I have a house here that I use whenever I’m not writing. Have you ever been to Ireland?” he asked with sudden interest, and then succumbed to another fit of coughing.
“Not in a long time,” she admitted. “It’s very pretty, but I haven’t had any reason to go there in years. I like it better in the summer.”
“Me too, but the wet, brooding winters are good for my writing,” he laughed then, “and Ireland is good for my taxes. Writers don’t pay income tax in Ireland, which is pretty cool. I took Irish citizenship two years ago. It works well for me,” he said, sounding pleased, and she laughed.
“That sounds like a great deal. Was your family Irish?” Given his name, she assumed they were, and enjoyed chatting with him. It was a good opportunity to get to know him a little better, even if on the phone. The more they talked, the more at ease with her he would be when they finally met and worked together.
“My parents were Irish, born in Ireland, but I was born in New York. Their being Irish made it easier to make the switch though. I had dual nationality, and then finally gave up my U.S. passport. It just made more sense for me, as long as I’m willing to live there. There are some fabulous houses in Ireland, and some beautiful countryside despite the bad weather. You’ll have to come and visit sometime.” It was the kind of thing people said, although she couldn’t imagine doing that, and once she took his photograph for the book jacket, it was unlikely that they’d see each other again, unless she did another shoot with him.
They chatted for a while longer, and he told her what his book was about. It was about a serial killer and was set in Scotland. It sounded eerie, but the plot had some interesting twists and he said he’d give her a copy when it was finished. He said he was putting the last touches on it. She told him she hoped he felt better and agreed to meet two days later, to give him time to get over his cold. And after that Hope decided to call Paul. She had no idea if he was in London, but she figured it was worth a try. He answered on the second ring, and he sounded pleased and surprised to hear her. She could hear the familiar tremor in his voice. Over the years, his voice had changed, and sometimes his speech slurred.
“What a nice surprise. Where are you? In New York?”
“No,” she said simply, with a quiet smile. “I’m in London. I came over here to work, just for a few days. I’m shooting a book jacket for an author.”
“I didn’t think you did that anymore, after your last big museum show,” he said warmly. He had always been proud of her work.
“I still do commercial work once in a while, just to keep my hand in. I can’t do arty stuff all the time. It’s fun to do different things. I’m shooting Finn O’Neill.”
“I like his books,” Paul said, sounding impressed and genuinely pleased by her call. She could hear it in his voice.
“So do I. He’s got a cold, so we delayed the shoot by a day. I was wondering if you were here and wanted to have lunch tomorrow.”
“I’d love it,” he said quickly. “I’m leaving day after tomorrow for the Bahamas. It’s too cold here.” He had a beautiful boat he kept in the Caribbean in winter. He spent a lot of time on it. It was his escape from the world.
“I’m glad I called.”
“So am I.” They agreed to meet at the hotel for lunch the next day. She hadn’t asked him how he was. She would be able to judge it for herself when she saw him, and he didn’t like to talk about his illness.
Paul had turned sixty that fall, and had been struggling with Parkinson’s for ten years. It had changed everything about their life, and his. He had developed a tremor right after his fiftieth birthday, and at first he had denied it, but as a cardiovascular surgeon, he couldn’t hide from it for long. He had had no choice but to retire within six months. And then the bottom had dropped out of his world and her own. He had continued to teach at Harvard for the next five years, until he couldn’t manage that anymore either. He had retired completely at fifty-five, and that was when the drinking began. For two years he hid it from everyone they knew, except for her.
The only wise thing he had done during that time was make some excellent investments, in two companies that made surgical equipment. He had advised one of them, and the investments had been more profitable than anything else he had ever done. One of the companies went public, and when he sold his shares within two years of his retirement, he made a fortune, and bought his first boat. But the drinking kept everything about their life on edge, and as the Parkinson’s hampered him more and more, he was barely able to function. And when he wasn’t sick, he was drunk, or both. He had finally gone into treatment for his drinking at a residential facility that one of his colleagues at Harvard had recommended. But by then, their entire world had fallen apart. There was nothing left and no reason to stay together, and Paul had made the decision to divorce her. She would have stayed with him forever, but he wouldn’t allow it.
As a physician, he knew better than anyone what lay ahead for him, and he refused to drag her through it. He made the decision about the divorce entirely on his own, and gave her no choice. Their divorce had been final two years before, after her return from her months in India. They tried not to talk about their marriage and divorce anymore. The subject was too painful for both of them. Somehow, with all that had happened, they had lost each other. They still loved each other and were close, but he wouldn’t allow her to be part of his life anymore. She knew that he cared about her and loved her, but he was determined to die quietly on his own. And other than her work, his seemingly generous gesture had left her completely alone and at loose ends.
She worried about him, but she knew that medically he was in good hands. He spent months at a time on his boat, and the rest of the time he lived in London, or went back to Boston for treatment at Harvard. But there was relatively little they could do to help him. The disease was slowly devouring him, but for now, he could still get around, although it was a challenge for him. It was easier for him being on the boat, with the crew around him all the time.
They had married when Hope was twenty-one years old, when she graduated from Brown. He had already been a surgeon and professor at Harvard by then, and was thirty-seven years old. They had met when Paul came to
