Chapter Twenty-two

The doctors’ lounge was uncustomarily quiet in the last few minutes before the close of the day shift. The tables were empty, their cheap, brown surfaces cluttered with paper cups and plastic forks. A row of soda and candy machines stood waiting for the next shift of storm troopers to descend, quarters in hand.

Madelaine sat at the rickety table closest to the window, her fingers cupped around the comforting heat of a thick porcelain mug. The burnt scent of French roast coffee wafted upward.

At precisely 5:01 Allenford and Sarandon strode through the single doors, pulling down their surgical masks in unison. Both men nodded at her and headed for the coffee machine, plunking their money in one after another and waiting in silence for the paper cups to drop into the slot and fill with coffee. Then they carried their drinks to the table.

Chris had a pile of tabloids tucked under his arm, and he tossed them onto the table. Headlines jumped up at Madelaine. Angel DeMarco in St. Joseph’s Hospital … AIDS … cancer … heart surgery … heart transplant.

The two men sat down across from her. Chris reached instinctively for the cigarettes in his breast pocket. Pulling one from the pack, he stared down at it, caressing it absently.

Madelaine was used to his little ritual. He’d given up smoking three years ago—due to the sheer volume of staff and patient pressure—but he still held a cigarette when he’d had a hard day and he needed to think.

Finally he looked up at her. “The DeMarco situation is heating up.”

Madelaine nodded. “I heard a photographer from one of the magazines caught him in physical therapy yesterday.”

Sarandon gave a tired smile. “He wasn’t happy—and he made sure everyone on the floor knew it.”

Madelaine laughed softly. “I don’t doubt it.”

“The point is,” Allenford said, “we can’t hold out much longer. Our security is getting more sievelike every day. Obviously we’ve misled the press by implying he underwent simple cardiac surgery, but that won’t last much longer.”

Allenford took a long sip of coffee, eyeing Madelaine. “You know that security is not the only problem here.”

Madelaine knew what he was going to say before he said it. She’d tried not to think about the repercussions of his celebrity, but they kept coming back, worming through her joy at Angel’s progress. “You mean Francis,” she said dully.

Allenford stared sympathetically at her. “Some reporter is going to discover the connection. The only reason they haven’t discovered it yet is because there’s been no official confirmation of the transplant—they’re too busy trying to find the woman who supposedly gave him AIDS. The confusion has them more interested in his sex life than his heartbeat, but that won’t last. Once they find out about the transplant, some smart reporter will track down the sequence of events … and find out about a patient in Oregon who donated his organs on the same night Angel got his heart. When they hit that patient’s name, it’s going to rip through the headlines like a rocket. If he isn’t prepared …” He said nothing more, let the implication hang in the air between them.

Madelaine’s gaze dropped to the table. She studied the tiny black lines in the fake wood-grain veneer. She knew that Chris was right—she’d known it for days, she simply hadn’t wanted to face it. “I’ll tell him,” she said quietly.

Sarandon got to his feet, leaving the half-empty coffee cup on the table. “Just let me know when you’re going to do it.” He grinned. “I’ll advise the staff to grab their Kevlar vests.” Then he shoved his chair out of the way and strode out of the room.

Madelaine watched him go, saying nothing. She tried to imagine what it would be like to tell Angel the truth, and the images caused a sick feeling. She didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to traipse in there and tell him what she’d done what they’d all done. She was terrified of his response, and for more than the obvious reason.

The dreams bothered her.

She realized she’d been silent a long time. She felt Chris’s gaze on her, and she met it. “What?”

He smiled. “You never were any good at games, Madelaine. Just say what’s on your mind.”

She knew it would be smart to say nothing, but she’d learned in the last few weeks that sometimes being smart left you feeling lonely and confused. “It’s Angel,” she said cautiously. “He’s … changing.”

“The good ones do.”

“I think it’s more … surprising than that. He’s becoming …” She couldn’t say it. The words caught in her throat.

Allenford stared at her a second. She saw the moment he understood what she wasn’t saying. His eyes narrowed, and a frown tugged at his brows.

“He’s listening to Francis’s music, eating Francis’s food. Before the surgery, he says, he was allergic to milk—now he loves it. He’s … caring in a way I don’t think he ever really was before.”

“You said you hadn’t seen him since you were kids. People change, Madelaine. Besides, they’re brothers.”

“Maybe.” She leaned forward, crossed her arms on the table, and pinned a steady gaze on her old friend. “Could the heart have memory on a cellular level? Like a cell’s instinctive ability to re-create itself or replicate or—”

“Stop it,” Allenford said gently, touching her hand. “You’re grieving, Madelaine. Let it go. Accept Angel for who he is and be thankful he’s still around. Everything else … let it go.”

“I’ve been trying to, but sometimes when he looks at me …

“Don’t you think you want to see Francis in Angel’s eyes?”

She couldn’t deny the truth of that. She missed Francis so much that she imagined him everywhere—sitting on her couch, swinging in her porch swing, driving up in that battered old car of his. Sometimes she’d turn around to talk to him, and realize instantly that he wasn’t there, that she’d imagined his footsteps on the walk. “Yes,” she whispered.

“What if you didn’t know about the transplant—wouldn’t you think that all these changes were ordinary recovery? Think about it. When a patient goes through this program, he tends to change his life. They’re almost always more caring and more conservative. They’ve learned that each day, each moment of each day, is a miracle. That’s bound to change a man’s outlook.”

The rationality of Chris’s words soothed her. It was possible that she saw Francis in Angel because she wanted so desperately to believe that part of her best friend was still alive. “You’re probably right.”

He gave her a long look. “I don’t believe in that stuff, but we’ve all seen anecdotal evidence for what you’re talking about. Recipients who seem to know things about their donors that they can’t possibly know. I’m not egotistical enough to believe that anything in this world is impossible.” He touched her hand. “I met Francis—however briefly—and I know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If there is memory on a cellular level, your Angel couldn’t have gotten a kinder heart.”

Sighing tiredly, Angel went into the living room that Madelaine and Lina had created for him. He clicked on the television—and heard a reporter say, “Sources close to the superstar confirm that he has received a baboon’s heart in a successful transplant operation. However, cardiologists at St. Joseph’s will report only that—”

With a groan, he turned off the TV and flicked on the light switch.

It was cozy and comfortable, this living room that was and wasn’t his. Big overstuffed denim sofas and Navajo-print chairs huddled around the huge river-rock fireplace that dominated the room. They’d even put a few framed pictures on the mantel—Lina’s school picture, a shot of Francis and Lina snow-skiing, and an old, crackled photograph of Angel and Francis in front of their mom’s Impala.

Pictures of everyone but Madelaine.

She’d given him the trappings of a family life—comfortable furniture, photographs, milk (nonfat, of course) in the refrigerator—but it was too quiet to be real. There were no fingerprints on the glass of the pictures, no dust collecting beneath the furniture.

The only thing out of place in this perfect little cabin was him. The realization depressed him. Once again, he was just passing through life, observing as if through a window. For most of his life, that had been okay. Hell, it had been better than okay, it was what he’d wanted. He’d never wanted to be real, not like most men. He’d wanted to be Peter Pan, playing with the lost boys, gambling and boozing and ignoring the grownups’ rules. That’s why he’d sought out celebrity. It was life on Pleasure Island.

And if he didn’t change, really truly change, he knew that soon he’d start to slip. He’d go back to the life he’d loved. He’d call the wrong friend or decide that a straight shot of tequila—just one—wouldn’t hurt. But one would end up as two, then three, and he’d be back on the roller coaster.

He didn’t belong there, didn’t belong in his old life. But he didn’t fit in this new world, either. He was like a ghost, moving shadowlike through some plane in which he could never really touch anything, never really be touched. He couldn’t go back and he didn’t know how the hell to go forward.

There was a knock at the door, and he felt a surge of relief. He stumbled across the tiny living room and flung the door open.

Val stood in the opening, smoking a cigarette, holding a bottle of tequila. “I can’t believe you live in the suburbs.” He shuddered. “What were you going to do next, mow the lawn or barbecue?”

Angel stared at the bottle, at the sloshing beads of gold that clung to the glass sides. The sweet, familiar smell of the smoke wafted to him, set off a longing deep inside.

His old life. It was here, standing in front of him, wearing designer jeans and long hair and a smile that held nothing but cynicism. And suddenly he wanted it again, wanted to be the same old shit-kicking hell-raiser he’d once been. He wanted that life that smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.

Grinning, he stepped aside. “Valentine. Where in the hell have you been?”

“Trying to find booze in a town that shuts down at twilight—and sells liquor only in state stores.” He shuddered dramatically. “Christ, what an archaic custom.”

Angel led the way into the darkened cabin, turning on a few lights as he went. Val followed, his boot heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

Val set the bottle down on the table with a clunk. “Cuervo Gold. Your favorite.”

Angel looked longingly at the bottle. Could one drink really hurt?

The smoke tantalized him, swirled invisibly beneath his nose, leaving its stamp on the air.

Val collapsed on the overstuffed sofa, one arm flung out along the back. He tucked a long strand of hair behind an ear. “Nice furniture—what did you do, get a Ralph Lauren credit card?”

Angel thought of his high-rise in Vegas—the stark white walls and black leather furniture, the chrome and glass end tables, the bar that glittered in a dozen shades of gold when the lights came on. “Madelaine picked this stuff out.”

One eyebrow shot upward. “Ah …”

Angel saw the cynicism in his friend’s eyes, the inability to understand or appreciate a home like this, or a woman like Madelaine, and again he felt adrift and lost. A man who didn’t belong anywhere. He thought suddenly of Lina, of the way she looked at him—as if he hung the moon—and the things she asked of him without even opening her mouth.

Be my daddy … I love you … be there … be there … be there …

He would only disappoint her if he tried to be a real father. What the hell did he know about being a father? And yet, he’d break her heart if he failed.

“Have a drink,” Val said softly, moving the bottle toward him.

Angel took a step toward the table, his eyes trained on the tequila. Val’s soft, metered voice echoed through him, and he knew it was what the devil’s voice would be like, soft and soothing and reasonable. And it would say what you wanted to hear.…

He went so far as to reach out, to curl his fingers around the warm glass. He lifted the fifth, twisted it open, and smelled the pungent, sweet aroma of the liquor. He wanted to drink it all in one heady gulp, let the tequila flow down his throat and pool firelike in his gut, wanted to let this liquid take everything away—even if it only lasted for a night.

But he knew that if he had one drink—just one—he’d crawl into that bottle and find himself back where he’d begun.

He closed his eyes. Shaking, needing that drink so badly he felt queasy, he slammed the bottle back down on the table. “I can’t do it, Val.”

Val frowned. Something flashed through his friend’s eyes—was it jealousy, or fear? Angel couldn’t be sure. “You always do it. The other heart attacks—”

“It’s not the same anymore. It can’t be. I … I have a kid.” He smiled. It was the first time he’d said the words out loud, and it made him feel surprisingly good. “Madelaine … you remember the girl I used to talk about?” At Val’s quick nod, he went on. “Seems she—we—had a baby all those years ago. Her name is Lina and she’s sixteen years old. I told her I’d quit partying if she would.”

“Sounds like she’s your daughter, all right.”

Angel laughed uneasily. “She is.”

Val released a sigh. A silence fell between them, and it was a long time before he spoke. “I’m proud of you, Angel. I always told you you were stronger than you thought. God knows you’re stronger than I am.”

“I’m not strong.” He said the words quietly, wondering if Val even heard them.

“I was thinking of heading for New York—they’re looking for someone to play the Green Hornet. I thought you might be interested, but … I guess not.”

Angel stared at his friend and knew this was Val’s way of saying a longer good-bye, of pulling back from a friendship that could never again be what it was. It hurt, knowing what was happening, but Angel understood.

“It’s okay, Val.” He said the easy words, the expected ones, though he knew that Val saw the truth in his eyes, the disappointment and the regret. “Keep in touch.”

Slowly Val got to his feet. “You’re gonna make it, Angel.”

Angel nodded, though he wasn’t so sure. “Yeah. Sure I will.”

Angel woke up screaming his brother’s name. He lay in the darkness, trying to control his ragged breathing. The heart ticked away in his chest, completely unaffected by the adrenaline pumping through his body. He felt as if Francis were close enough to touch.

He threw the covers back and stumbled into the kitchen. Wrenching the refrigerator open, he stood in the wedge of yellow-bright light, staring sightlessly at the jumble of jars that Madelaine and Lina had left for him. Without thinking, he reached for the pitcher of skim milk. As his fingers curled around the cold plastic, he snapped. He was about to drink milk, for God’s sake. What was next—humming show tunes?

He flung his head back and stared up at the wood-beam ceiling. “Get out of my head, Franco.” The words brought a wrenching sense of guilt. He slammed the refrigerator door and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ve got to get on with my life. My life …”

But what was his life—and how did he find it?

He went into the living room and flopped into the Navajo-print chair. “What do I do, Franco? How do I change?”

He waited and waited, but no answer came to him. After a few minutes, he started to feel like an idiot. I’ve gone off the deep end, bro. I’m asking for tips from the recently dead.

His smile faded. It wasn’t funny.

Restless and edgy, he got out of the chair and went to the back door, flinging it open. Outside, dawn was just beginning to break across the water, throwing pink spears across the rippling silver sea. Wind shivered through the trees, and for a weird moment, it sounded like Francis’s laugh. “How do I change, Franco? How?”

You already have.

The words came to Angel from far away, threaded through the wind. At first he didn’t understand, didn’t remember his question. Then it fell into place.

He smiled. “Sure, Franco, go for the easy answer.”

He laughed uneasily and closed the door, going back inside. Now he was talking to ghosts. Could channeling be far behind?

Angel knew he’d changed, but it didn’t feel like anything that mattered much. Little changes—taste in music and food, a new need to be around people. It wasn’t exactly earth-shattering. He hadn’t done anything different, and he was a man who’d always judged himself by his actions, not his words or his feelings. Denying himself one drink and one cigarette wasn’t enough. He had to do something.

He’d been in this cabin for almost a week, and he hadn’t left once. Madelaine brought him food and left it on the porch, as if he were Quasimodo on a low-fat diet. There was a brand-new Mercedes in the driveway—the first time he’d ever owned a car with more than two seat belts and a metal roof—and a brand-new Harley-Davidson Sportster alongside it. He’d yet to drive either one.

He was hiding out here, protecting himself from what would happen when the world found out about his transplant. Now there was confusion about the diagnosis, but that wasn’t going to last.

The world was going to find out, he knew that. Each day the rags offered more money for the inside story. Soon someone would talk.

It should be you, Angel.

He could almost hear his brother’s voice. It was exactly the kind of thing Francis would have said.

Francis would tell Angel to come out of hiding and tell the truth about what he’d been through. Remind him that he could be a role model for someone else, some other poor schmuck who was lying in a lonely hospital bed, waiting for a heart.

He almost laughed out loud at the thought of him him!—being a role model to anyone. He was definitely on too many meds.

And yet he knew the truth when he heard it, knew what he should do.

Before he had time to think about it, he acted. He grabbed the phone and dialed information. He asked for the number for St. Joe’s Hospital and punched it in. A practiced, polished voice answered and put him through to Allenford’s voice mail. Angel left a message that was simple and to the point—please set up a press conference for ten o’clock Thursday morning.

When he’d done that, he felt better, but he knew it wasn’t all he had to do. There was something more.…

He had no idea what.

Something about the heart.

For the first time, he thought about his donor’s family, and what they must have gone through. Instead of caring about who his donor was or how he’d died, Angel wondered about the man’s family (he could never think of his donor as a woman), the people who had chosen to give Angel a second chance at life.

All he’d cared about before was the donor’s name. He’d thrown fit after fit trying to get Madelaine to break her blessed confidentiality. He fantasized about the mysterious man, wondered where he came from and how he died and what he believed in. But was that really the important part? Did it really matter whose heart he had, or did it simply matter that he made the best of the gift he’d been given? The miracle.

They deserved something from him.

A thank-you.

It came to him that easily, without bells or whistles or epiphanies. Just a simple realization that he owed someone his life. He reached forward and grabbed a pen and yellow legal pad off the heavy iron coffee table. He stared down at the thin blue lines and doodled a little heart in the corner.

Before he even realized what he was going to do, he started to write.

As he wrote the last sentence, Angel felt himself changing. It was as if sunlight, pure and hot and white, were flooding through his body, lighting places that had been cold and dark for years. For the first time in his life, he knew—irrevocably and completely—that he’d done the right thing.

Madelaine reached into her closet for something to change into. Her fingertips brushed soft, well-worn flannel. Very slowly she pushed the silks and cottons aside and came to a blue and gray flannel shirt that had been Francis’s.

She remembered the day he’d left that shirt here—a spring day that had started out cold and rainy and by noon turned almost summer-hot. He’d thrown off the old flannel shirt and put on one of those oversized T-shirts that the drug companies were always giving her.

For a moment the pain was almost unbearable. Blinded by stinging tears, she reached out for the shirt and pulled it from the hanger. She brought it to her nose and breathed deeply.

She could smell him. A trace of aftershave filled her senses, bringing a dozen treasured images to her mind. Francis unwrapping the small red and green plaid box, laughing as he always did when he saw the aftershave. Oh thank God, I was almost out.

She realized in a rush that he wouldn’t be here for Christmas this year, or Thanksgiving. She and Lina would have to make it through those days alone. How would they do it? Every one of their traditions had been forged as a threesome. Who would carve the turkey, who would hang the Christmas lights, who would eat the Christmas cookies they laid out for Santa Claus on the good Spode china?

She clutched the shirt to her face and breathed in deeply, as if she could somehow bring him back to life through the sheer force of her will.

God, how she wanted to turn around and find him there, her priest with the blue, blue eyes and the infectious laugh. She wanted to run into his waiting arms and hear him tell her he loved his Maddy-girl. She squeezed her eyes shut. Just one more time, God … one more time.

Solitude stretched taut around her. She heard the quiet ticking of her bedroom clock, the gentle tapping of the wind against the glass.

Standing in her own bedroom, in her own house, she’d never felt more alone.

Suddenly she couldn’t endure it another second. She shoved her arms in Francis’s shirt and buttoned it up, running headlong through the house. She wrenched the door open and felt the cold air hit her in the face.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Angel. He was leaning against the front end of his gray Mercedes—the one she’d bought for him with an American Express Platinum credit card. He was standing there, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world, in his snug blue Levi’s jeans and faded Aerosmith T-shirt.

He pushed away from the car and strode up the walkway. Wind whipped a long strand of brown hair across his face.

Angel came to within a few feet of her and stopped. For once, he didn’t smile. “I want to see Francis’s grave.”

She frowned. That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. “It’s in Forest Lawn … in Magnolia Heights.”

“I thought maybe you would come with me.” He flashed the smile that had graced a hundred movie magazines, and she noticed for the first time that it was a little sad around the edges, and it didn’t reach his eyes.

“What is it, Angel?”

His false smile faded and he looked up at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. “He’s haunting me, Mad. It’s because there were so many things I never said. I thought maybe … if I said them now, he’d let me get on with my life.” He took a step toward her. “I’m starting to figure some things out, Mad. I can see a life ahead of me for the first time in years, but …”

She was drawn by the words he didn’t say. It felt as if she were falling into the past, but she didn’t care. All she knew was that she was lonely, had been lonely a very long time, and he was holding his hand out for her. She reached down and took it, felt his strong fingers close around hers, and her heartbeat sped up a notch. “I’ll take you,” she said softly, knowing that if she went with him to Francis’s grave, she would tell him the truth about his heart and he might never offer his hand again. She squeezed tightly, clinging to him.

He led her down the path that cut between her faded flower beds, to the sidewalk that guarded her house. The first hint of nightfall tinted the sky a deep, rich lavender blue. Wordlessly she climbed into the soft, sweet-smelling leather seat and directed him toward the freeway.

When they reached the cemetery, it was almost four o’clock. Pink and red fell in silken streaks across the twilight sky.

They walked up the granite path to the grassy knoll she’d chosen for Francis. The church had put up an exquisite white marble marker. Beside it was the wrought-iron bench that Madelaine had chosen.

She led Angel to the bench and sat down beside him. They stared at the marker for a long time, each lost in memories. Finally she drew the flannel shirt more tightly around her and stood up. “I’ll give you a little time alone,” she said, turning to leave.

He grabbed her hand. “Don’t go.”

She gazed down at him, seeing the pain in his eyes, the fear and the frustration and the loneliness, and it threw her back to another time, long ago, when he’d looked at her like that and said the very same words. Slowly, still holding his hand, she sat down.

Quietly he said, “I would change it all if I could.”

She didn’t know if he was speaking to her or Francis, but it didn’t matter. The confession wrapped around her, connected them. “I know what you mean.”

He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “How could you? You’ve never run from anything in your life.”

She sighed. “That only shows how little you know me, Angel. I’ve made a lot of mistakes with our daughter, and I think I took Francis for granted. I thought he’d always be there for me.” She tilted her chin and stared out at the endless acres of grass, watching tiny knife blades of night steal across the headstones. “I was afraid of Francis and Lina. They both loved so easily and so well. Unlike me. I could never seem to get it right, especially with Lina. I was always afraid I’d do the wrong thing, or say the wrong thing, and she’d leave me … just disappear one day and never come back.”

He was silent for a minute, then he touched her chin, forced her to look at him. “Like I did.”

She couldn’t pretend his betrayal had meant nothing. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”

“It wasn’t you, Mad.”

She tried to laugh. “I didn’t see anyone else standing outside my bedroom window.”

The smile he offered was sad. “It was me. I was scared of you and me and the baby. Scared of what I felt for you. How could I know …” His gaze held hers. She waited, breathless and a little afraid of what he would say next. He turned, stared out at the night sky, and when he finally spoke, his voice was raw. “How could I know I’d never feel that way again?”

The words were magical. She felt them wrap around her, squeeze her heart. Answers came to her, spiraling one after another, weaving themselves into a whole that terrified her. He was talking about the past, she knew that, and yet it felt like the future.

In the end she said nothing, and the quiet slipped between them.

“Say something, Mad.”

She turned to him, knowing that her eyes were full of the emotion she was afraid to release. “What can I say, Angel? You want to know if I’ve ever felt that way again? The answer is no.”

“Do you think you could?”

She knew that the answer, once given, could never be taken back. She’d be throwing her vulnerability at him again, giving him the power to break her heart. She thought about saying nothing, or lying, but she knew it was useless. Somehow, she’d already given him that power. “Yes,” she whispered.

A quick smile tugged at one corner of his mouth and he turned quickly away, staring once again at the headstone. “I’ve got a long way to go, Mad. I’m not the man I was before … but I’m not anyone else yet. I can’t make any promises.”

Surprisingly, the words that should have hurt gave her hope. The old Angel would never have been so honest. “We’re not kids anymore, Angel.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that everything doesn’t have to happen overnight. It means that trust isn’t given as easily or taken as casually. There’s a lot of water under our bridge.”

“Yeah.” Angel fell silent again. Finally he pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket. “I want you to read this,” he said, handing it to her.

She frowned in confusion at the sudden turnaround. “What is it?”

“Just read it,” he said.

She took the piece of paper and unfolded it, smoothing the wrinkles against her thighs. The first three words hit her hard. Dear donor family.

She looked up at him.

“It’s a letter to my donor family. I worked on it for six hours, but it still isn’t quite right. I thought you might want to help me.…”

Madelaine saw the uncertainty in his eyes, the need, and it touched her deeply. Forcing her gaze away, she read the letter, and when she was finished, she was crying. Very carefully she folded it back up and looked at him. She started to say that it was perfect, but she couldn’t speak.

She knew that the time had come.

“They say the truth will set you free,” she said quietly.

“The letter … is my way of trying to change, set my life right. I want to be a good father to Lina, but I don’t know how. Sometimes I look at her and I wonder where all those years went and what my life would have been like if I’d walked her to kindergarten and seen her in the school Christmas pageants. I know I have a long way to go, but I’ve got to start somewhere—and the heart feels like the beginning.”

Madelaine carefully set the letter on the bench and turned to look him full in the face. She realized in that instant that she’d never stopped loving him, and the knowledge made it difficult to breathe. “When I was talking about the truth setting you free, I didn’t mean you. I was talking about me.”

He flashed her a grin. “Another deep, dark secret you’re keeping from me?” He saw her seriousness, and his smile faded. “Lina is my daughter?”

“Of course she is.” Madelaine leaned closer. Almost against her will, she touched his chest, felt the heart beating, fluttering in perfect rhythm. She searched for the words, just the right ones.

“You’re scaring me, Mad.”

“I’m afraid you won’t forgive me,” she whispered. She wanted to heap explanations and apologies on him, to make him understand the miracle she’d given him, but he was watching her so closely, she couldn’t think straight. “It made a miracle out of a tragedy, remember that. There was no time to decide, no time to talk to anyone. You were in a coma. You were dying and I had to save you.”

“Madelaine.” He touched her chin, tilted her face and forced her to meet his gaze. “I know that. Why—”

“It was Francis’s heart,” she said, feeling her tears rise and fall in burning streaks down her face. “We gave you Francis’s heart.”

He froze, drew his hand back. He went so still, it was frightening.

“Say something,” she pleaded.

He stared at her, his face pale. “You let them cut Franco’s heart out?”

She flinched. “He was brain-dead, Angel. He wasn’t going to get better. You have to understand—”

“Jesus Christ. You let them cut his heart out?”

“Angel—”

“You lied to me.”

She shook her head. “Not a lie … I just let you believe …” She looked away from him, ashamed. “I lied,” she admitted quietly. “I lied.”

He lurched to his feet and strode away from her, stumbling and running across the dark cemetery.

She ran after him. “Angel, please—”

He spun around, slapping her with the coldness of his gaze. “Please what? Please understand that it was right to put Francis’s heart in my body?”

She was crying so hard, she could barely see him. “It’s what he would have wanted.…”

“And you think that helps?”

He ran from her, disappearing into the shadows.

She stood there forever, breathing hard. Then, woodenly, she turned and went back to the bench, collapsing on its metal seat. Curling forward, she buried her face in her hands and cried for all of them.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, but when she looked up, it was dark. A few lights had come on around the cemetery, creating pockets of shimmery light.

Footsteps moved toward her slowly.

She straightened, tried to make out his shape among the shadows. “Angel?”

He stepped into a puddle of light about ten feet away. He was standing tall and straight, his hands plunged into his pants pockets. She couldn’t see his face. “That’s why I’ve been dreaming about him,” he said in a dull, soft voice.

She didn’t know how to answer. The physician in her wanted to deny it, wanted to tell him that the heart was just another organ, no different from the kidney or liver. But the woman in her, the woman who’d loved Francis and his brother, couldn’t be so sure. “Maybe,” she said. Then she realized it was a half answer, the kind of safety that had ruined her life, and she said, “Yes. I believe that’s why you dream of him.”

He moved toward her, his boots crunching on the cold grass. When he got closer, she could see the tear tracks on his cheeks, and it hurt to know how much she’d hurt him. She’d never wanted to do that, not even years ago. She wanted to tell him she was sorry, but the words were little and useless. So she sat there, staring at him, waiting.

He got to the bench and sat down beside her. “I want to hate you for this,” he said at last.

“I know.”

“But you’re the person I wrote that letter to.”

“Yes.”

He wouldn’t look at her. “It must have killed you.”

She wanted to take his face in her hands and force him to look at her, but she didn’t have the courage to touch him. “You know what got me through it?”

“Tell me.”

She could hear the rawness in his voice, the need to understand. “It was Francis. He was a gentle, loving soul who would have given his life to save a stranger, let alone his own brother. He loved you, Angel, and there was no question about what he would have wanted.”

“He was so damned good,” he whispered. “Even when we were kids and I was such an asshole—he always believed the best of me.”

“He didn’t give up his life for you. It’s important that you understand that. He died. Period. And what came afterwards was a gift from the God he loved. Something good came out of his death, but it didn’t cause it. You didn’t cause his death.”

“You don’t understand, Mad …”

This time she couldn’t help touching him. The pain in his voice was like a knife. She leaned forward, touched his cheek in a gentle, fleeting caress. “Make me understand.”

He stiffened, and she could tell that he was grasping for self-control. “I don’t deserve his heart. I can’t … be like him.”

“Oh, Angel,” she breathed. “It would hurt him to hear you say that. You know it would.”

He drew back. “I can’t live for him. I don’t have it in me to be that noble.”

She touched his chest, felt his heartbeat, and in that fluttering rhythm she found a dawning sense of hope. “You have Francis’s heart and your soul, Angel. You have it in you to be anything.”

Tears filled his eyes as he looked at her. She curled her arms around him and drew him to her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. She stroked his hair and rocked him gently, telling him over and over again that it was okay.

Finally he drew back. “I’m scared, Maddy …”

“I know.”

“I don’t know where to go from here, where Francis would want me to go.”

“Just take it one day at a time.”

He laughed. “You sound like my counselor at Betty Ford.”

She smiled. “Where do you want to go from here, Angel? Why don’t you start with that?”

He looked down at her, and she could have sworn there was love in his eyes. “Home,” he said simply. “I want to go home.”