Chapter Four

Francis stood frozen, unable to dredge up a coherent thought. He was breathing fast, too fast; he sounded like a marathon runner, but he hadn’t taken a step. He glanced at Madelaine, who stood rooted in place, her hands fisted at her sides, her spine ramrod-stiff.

He couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t need to. He’d known her and loved her for almost seventeen years. He knew what she was feeling.

He moved awkwardly toward her. “Maddy?”

She didn’t seem to hear him.

“Madelaine?”

Her voice, when finally she spoke, sounded thin and faraway. “Well, that was certainly a bust.”

It broke his heart that she still had to pretend she was indestructible. “Don’t …”

She sighed heavily. “I should have told her about him a long time ago, Francis.”

They’d had this discussion a hundred times over the years, and he knew that now she was going to beat herself up over the choices she’d made. It was her way; she always took the blame on herself. Took responsibility for the whole world’s unhappiness.

He stood beside her, holding her hand. He wanted to say something, but he felt uncertain, as he always did around her. She was so strong, so resilient, and yet so blind. She couldn’t see that Lina loved her, couldn’t imagine that Francis did.

It was all her father’s fault. Up in that big mansion on the hill, Alexander Hillyard must have done terrible things to his little daughter who’d lost her mother, because even now Madelaine believed she was unlovable. Truly believed it.

“Lina loves you, Maddy. I’ve told you this a million times. She’s just confused.”

Madelaine shook her head—as he’d known she would. “No. I should have told her.”

“Yeah, maybe you should have, but that’s water under the bridge now.”

“I can rectify it. I can tell her now.”

He stared at her, shocked. “You can’t.”

“Of course I can.”

Francis shivered involuntarily. If Madelaine told Lina about her real father, it would all come crashing down, the make-believe house Francis had constructed to hold the family he wanted so badly to be his. He’d always thought of Lina as his daughter. He was the one who had bandaged her scraped knees and held her when she cried. And he was afraid—God have mercy on him—he was afraid she wouldn’t want him anymore if she found her real-father. It was wrong, what he was about to say—an awful, horrible sin—but he couldn’t help himself.

“Let sleeping dogs lie,” he said firmly. “He’d only break her heart, anyway.”

“I’m so afraid of losing her, Francis. I can’t seem to do anything right.” She glanced away from him, stared at the open door. “I thought … after my own father … I promised myself I’d be a good parent”

Her pain snagged his heart. She was standing beside him, close and yet distinctly separate. Alone as always, untouchable, daring the world to lay a finger on her, waiting to be blindsided and betrayed. He moved closer, took her face in his hands and tilted her chin. She felt fragile, so fragile. “Don’t compare yourself to Alex, Madelaine. Alex was cruel and bitter and unfeeling.”

“Lina thinks I don’t feel anything. She thinks I’m cold and perfect and detached.”

“She’s not that stupid, Maddy. She’s a garden-variety teenager, mixed up and running on hormones.”

“No, it’s not like that. She’s like … him. You know she is.”

Francis wished he could lie, but Madelaine was right; Lina was just like her father. Rebellious, wild, free-spirited. The kind of person who lived life recklessly—and sometimes hit brick walls. The kind of person who could walk away from everything at seventeen and never look back.

“No. She’s smarter than him,” he said finally, wanting to believe his own words. “And she might be mad now, but she loves you. Otherwise, she wouldn’t try so hard to get your attention.” He stared down into her huge, pain-darkened eyes and felt as if he were drowning in the need to hold her. God, he wished this were his moment, his daughter, his wife, his life. Without thinking, he leaned down and pulled her toward him, kissing her softly, slowly, on the forehead. Sensations swirled through him, made the blood pound in his head, and he knew he’d gone too far, kissed her too long.…

She drew back. “Francis? What was—”

“She loves you, Madelaine,” he whispered against her skin, “like I do.” The words slipped out, words he’d never had the courage to say before, but now seemed the most natural thing in the world.

She drew back and stared up at him.

He leaned forward, wanting to kiss her again, waiting breathlessly for her to speak.

Suddenly she smiled. “Oh, Francis, I love you, too. I don’t know what I’d do without your friendship.”

The words plunged into his gut. He stroked her silky hair and held her. Tears stung his eyes. He was such a coward—a man whose two loves couldn’t possibly coexist, and between which he could never choose. A priest in love with a woman; a man in love with God.

But never before had his love for Madelaine compromised his vows—he’d loved her with a purity that didn’t taint his priesthood. Or at least, those were the pretty lies he told himself as he lay in his lonely bed, thinking of her.

Until now. Now he’d kissed her—and not as her priest or as her friend, but as the man who loved her. He’d let the words slip out into the harsh light of day, and God help him, he’d waited breathlessly for her answer.

And that wasn’t even his greatest sin. He’d told her—begged her—to keep the truth from Lina.

Lina, the daughter who was and wasn’t his, whom he loved more than his own life. He’d furthered the lie that would break her heart.

Angel was back in Seattle. He stared out the cheesy little window in his hospital room and watched the rain drizzling down the glass. Of all the places to be, a hospital room in Seattle—Seattle—was the worst. Last night they’d flown him in by helicopter, under cover of night, strapped like a slab of meat on a gurney, his face masked, his name hidden.

He was a nobody in that helicopter, just another dying man being flown to a high-tech hospital. He’d been transferred under the strictest security to conceal his identity. Mark Jones—that’s what they called him. A high-risk patient sent to a private wing in ICU. It was the way he’d wanted it, but still it angered him to be so anonymous. For years he’d been wined and dined and photographed wherever he went; for years he’d been somebody. And now he was just plain old Marie Jones, a nobody with a failing heart.

There was a knock at the door, a quietly spoken “Mr. Jones?”

He tried to sit up, but the needles in his veins resisted, sending spikes of pain shooting up his arm. Muttering a curse, he ignored the pinching and kept at it. By the time he was upright, he was winded and he thought for a humiliating second that he might puke. The room swam before his eyes. His heart pecked and stuck like a stutterer’s words.

His chest didn’t hurt, but he knew that was a false sense of security. He was shot full of drugs, and when they wore off, he was going to hurt like a son of a bitch. “Come in,” he said in a wheezing, breathless voice.

The door opened and a tall, gray-haired man in a white coat sauntered in. The door squeaked shut behind him.

The new visitor sat down and scooted close to the bed, flipping through Angel’s paperwork. “I’m Chris Allenford, head of the transplant team here at Saint Joseph’s.”

Angel concentrated on keeping his heart rate even—not easy with fear pulsing through his blood. He wanted to look casual and at ease right now, wanted to look healthy.

This was the man he’d been waiting for, the man he’d tried to believe in ever since this nightmare began. The man who could take the horror of the last few days and make it all vanish.

Angel used all of his acting skills and dredged up a cocky smile. “Hey, Doc.”

“I’ve spoken with your doctors Kennedy and Gerlaine, and they tell me you’ve been briefed on your condition. I’ve also consulted with Dr. Jonson at Loma Linda, and we all agree on your prognosis.”

“Gerlaine told me that corrective surgery was impossible. In LaGrangeville it probably is, but here …” He let the sentence trail off, afraid to actually ask the question.

Allenford frowned.

I’m not ready, Angel thought suddenly. Not ready to talk about this. Not ready for a frown.

Allenford laid the chart on the bedside table. “I could ramble on about how weakened and enlarged your heart is, but you’ve heard all this before. As a young man you contracted a primary viral myocarditis, which damaged your heart. You were advised to change your lifestyle. Advice which, apparently, you ignored.” He shook his head. “The technical term for your present condition is end-stage cardiomyopathy. What that means is that your heart is shot. Used up. If you don’t have the operation, you’ll die. Soon.”

Fury flashed through Angel, so hard and fast, he felt dizzy with it. “An operation. Christ, you doctors, you’re all the same. You say ‘you need an operation’ like it’s no different than telling me I need a wisdom tooth pulled.” He struggled to sit up straighter and couldn’t. The failure increased his anger. “Well, Doc, you let ’em cut your fucking heart out and then tell me how it was. If you still endorse the operation, I’ll think about it.”

Allenford never broke eye contact, but the wrinkles in his cheeks seemed to deepen. “I don’t know … I’ve never been a very brave man.”

The words were quietly stated and honest. Angel lost his hold on anger. Fear slipped in to replace it, twisting his insides. “My heart,” he whispered, wanting to sound cocky and sure of himself, and knowing that again he’d failed.

Allenford stared down at him. “I can’t pretend to know how you feel, Mr. DeMarco, but I can tell you a little bit about the surgery. Demystify it somewhat. Years ago, heart transplants were very risky ventures, very uncertain, and most patients died. But we’ve made great strides in the last decade. Anti-rejection drugs, tissue typing, and immunosuppressants—they’ve all played a tremendous part in making this type of operation successful. And you’re one of the lucky ones—only your heart has been damaged; your other organs are functioning amazingly well, given the life you’ve led. This gives you a jump on long-term post-op prognosis. Approximately ninety percent of all patients live a relatively normal life afterward.”

“Relatively normal,” Angel said, feeling sick at the thought.

“Yes, relatively. You’ll take medications for the rest of your life, you’ll have to watch your diet and exercise. No drugs, no smoking, no booze.” He leaned forward, smiling gently. “That’s the downside. The upside is that you’ll be alive.”

“Sounds like a great life. I can hardly wait.”

Allenford’s hawkish gray brows pulled together slowly. “I’ve got a seventy-year-old indigent apple picker down the hall who won’t even be considered for a new heart.… Then there’s the six-year-old girl who has been in constant arrest for the past week—all she wants is to live long enough to see seven candles on her birthday cake. Either of them would take your condition in a second.”

Angel felt like shit. “Look, I’m sorry, I just …”

Allenford wouldn’t let it go so easily. “I know you’re a celebrity, but believe me, that doesn’t mean anything in here. I won’t put up with your tantrums and your selfishness. In here you’re just another patient waiting for a new heart. The hard truth is, Mr. DeMarco, you’re going to die. Without the surgery, you’ll get weaker and weaker. You won’t be able to move around much, and drawing a decent breath will seem like a gift from God. I know it’s difficult, but you’ve got to understand what I’m telling you. Life as you know it is over.”

Angel knew he should shut up now and pretend to be a team player. But he was scared and angry, and his fame had given him license to misbehave for so long, he didn’t know any other way. “I could get up, walk out of here, and take my chances.”

“Of course you could. And you could get hit by a bus before you die of heart failure.”

“I could die screwing some woman’s brains out.”

“Yes, you could.”

“Maybe that’s what I want to do.”

“Maybe it is.”

Angel stared at the man. He’d never felt such a confusing jumble of emotions. His head was spinning with thoughts, possibilities, fears. Mostly fears. “If I did decide to have the surgery—”

“Let me tell you right now, Mr. DeMarco, it’s not completely your decision.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re talking about a heart transplant here, not capping a tooth. There are only so many hearts available. Unfortunately, most families choose not to donate a loved one’s organs. Thousands of patients die every year waiting for a new heart.”

“Are you telling me I could die waiting for a heart?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ, what a mess.”

“Your condition is critical. If UNOS—that’s the United Network for Organ Sharing—agrees that you’re an acceptable candidate, they will put you on the top of their transplant list. The first heart that matches would be yours. But I couldn’t guarantee anything.”

The words hit him like a sucker punch. “Whoa. Now you’re telling me I might not even be put on the list?”

“A psychological profile is required. We all need to believe that you’ll change your life and take care of the heart.”

The truth crept over Angel. He realized the significance of the doctor’s words. For once, Angel couldn’t storm or charm or buy his way out. All he could do was play ball—pretend to be worthy of this chance. And he didn’t have a hope in hell that he was that good an actor. “Oh, this is just perfect. I’m going to die because I’ve got a shitty personality.” He gave a bitter laugh. “My mother was right.”

“Assuming you get on the list—and that will be up to your psychiatrist and your cardiologist—your chances of getting a new heart … in time, are running at about fifty-fifty.”

He wanted to say, Thanks for the morbid stats, Doc. I’ll be sure to set my heart on the surgery, but he bit back the sarcasm. Instead he asked, “How are you going to guarantee my anonymity while I’m here?”

“We’ve put a lid on everything—you’re just Mark Jones, in for a heart transplant. Only my oldest and most trusted team members will know who you really are.” He sighed. “To be honest, I don’t know how long it will last, but we’ll do our level best to protect your privacy. If a leak occurs, I’ll report simply that you’re here for cardiac surgery.”

Angel knew from experience that sooner or later, the news would get out. He hoped to hell it was later. “Okay. I’ll be a good boy, I’ll change my life and cut out the booze and drugs. Where do I go to wait?”

“You’re not going anywhere, Mr. DeMarco. You’re far too sick to leave the hospital. I’ll set up a meeting with your team cardiologist for early tomorrow morning—after we’ve run all the matching tests. She’ll fill you in on the rest of the details.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “No women doctors.”

Allenford laughed at him. “You’re not famous in here, Mr. DeMarco. I pick the players for your team.”

“Team.” Angel said the word with disgust. “No team is gonna get their heart cut out, is it, Doc? Just little ole me on life support.”

Dr. Allenford closed the chart and set it aside. “No, Mr. DeMarco, we’re not going to face the knife … or the extensive recovery.” He leaned forward. “But we will be the ones that find the heart, remove it, bring it here, and place it inside you. I, in particular, am the one who wields the knife.” A smile slowly crossed his face. “So I’d think about an attitude adjustment if I were you.”

They stared long and hard at each other, and Angel knew that neither one of them was used to losing. Finally he said, “Consider it adjusted.”

Allenford grinned. “Good. I’ll let the social worker fill you in on all the details. I’ll speak with Dr. Hillyard tomorrow, and check on the results of your tests. After that, we’ll make all the necessary decisions.”

Angel got a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He tried to ignore it, couldn’t. He was in Seattle, scene of the old crime, and Madelaine’s old man had always wanted her to be a doctor. “Dr. Hillyard?”

“Madelaine Hillyard is the best cardiologist on the team—and she doesn’t mind difficult patients.”

His ragged heart skipped a beat, maybe even stopped. It was the first time he’d heard her name spoken aloud in years, and it brought a sudden tide of memories. Fleeting images, remembered moments. Madelaine, her long brown hair tangled and dripping wet, her knees drawn up to her chest, her fingers plowing through the sand for hidden treasures, laughing, always laughing; the starlit night they’d huddled beneath a huge, old oak tree, burying bits and pieces of carnival glass amidst a shower of grown-up words. I’ll always love you, Angel … always.

Madelaine, his first love, had become a cardiologist.

Bitterness drew a thin smile from his lips. Just what her daddy wanted.

He stared at Dr. Allenford who was standing up, getting ready to leave. Angel wanted to say something, but his throat had seized up and nothing would come. At the doorway Allenford nodded, then left the room, closing the door behind him.

Angel lay motionless, breathing hard, feeling the catch and release of his stuttering heart, listening to the blip-blip-blip of the monitor. He’d run out of second chances, out of second opinions. His life came down to this moment, this instant in time when he was broken and alone.

What was he supposed to do now? Lie in this single metal-barred bed and wait for some poor sucker to die? Lie here and let them cut his chest open, rip his heart out, and throw it in the trash like so much garbage?

Heart transplant. The words were knives, tearing his guts open.

What they wanted to do to him was an abomination, an obscenity. And Madelaine would be the one to do it.

No way.

He threw the covers off his body and plucked the needles from his arms. He tossed his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He was getting the hell out of this place. They weren’t gonna cut his heart out and sew in someone else’s. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—live that way. He’d die the way he’d always lived. Full tilt, taking no prisoners.

He took a single step, just that, and pain exploded in his chest. With a cry, he crashed to the floor. His arm flung out, caught a table and sent it sprawling. Water splashed the floor. Plastic cups and pitchers banged on the linoleum.

He lay there, unable to breathe, gasping for air like a mackerel. And hurting. Christ, even with the drugs, he was hurting like he’d never hurt before.

Suddenly he understood. He was dying. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. Soon. It didn’t matter whether he wanted the surgery, didn’t matter that he’d be a freak when it was over. He had no choice.

He twisted around and crawled back to the bed. Grabbing the metal bed frame, he hauled himself upright and collapsed on the mattress.

He slid back under the covers and closed his eyes. It hurt so badly, he wanted to cry.

If only he had someone to talk to, someone real, who cared about him. Someone who was the kind of friend Francis and Madelaine had once been.

Madelaine.

How many nights had he lain awake in the dark, wondering how his brother was doing, what Madelaine had become? How many times had he picked up the phone to call them both, only to hang up before anyone answered?

He sighed heavily. Madelaine. Even now he could bring her face to mind, the thick brown hair that fell in waves to the middle of her back, the slashing eyebrows and Gypsy-tilted eyes, the rounded curves of her body. Most of all he could remember her laugh, throaty and soft.

Back then, she had laughed all the time.

Back then. Before he’d walked out on her.

The last time he’d seen Madelaine, she sat hunched on the end of the tattered sofa, looking so out of place in his family trailer, her cashmere sweater drooping sadly across one shoulder, her cheeks stained with tears.

He allowed himself to remember it all again, and with remembrance came the burning shame. The lies he’d told her, the words that fell like poison from his lips, the feel of the blood money in his hand, the lingering memory of her perfume—baby powder and Ivory soap.

And now the ultimate revenge was hers.

His life depended on the woman he’d betrayed.