Brooks narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Live in a fantasy world,” he said. “It’s not fair to Richard.”
“What would you suggest I do?”
Brooks shrugged and gently pulled his book from her hands. “Make a different choice. For both your sakes.”
“Love isn’t a choice, Brooks.”
“Of course it is, Gretchen,” he said without missing a beat. “Everything is a choice.”
***
“Mom, Mom.”
Cassandra’s face hovered right above Gretchen’s, wide-eyed and terrified. There were other grave faces, too. Strangers all ringed by light. Had Gretchen’s eyes been closed? Why was everyone looking at her? She was so confused.
The stroke. Now she remembered.
“Am I dead?” Gretchen asked.
A man with soft, cool hands and large brown eyes cradled her wrist carefully in his fingers, taking her pulse. He was about Cassandra’s age and very striking. “Do you know what day it is?” he asked her. “And the month?”
“Friday, September twelfth.”
“Do you remember where you are?”
“Ophelia’s school. Sloan School. The welcome assembly.”
“Okay. Good. Are you feeling better?” The man helped her sit up. “I’m a doctor. I was called over when you passed out.”
She was in the center aisle, splayed out on the floor. The stage was empty, the houselights up. But the auditorium was still full. Everywhere Gretchen looked, there were eyes on her. Everyone was staring. Her skirt was pushed all the way up to her thighs and twisted around her. She tried to tug it down, but before she could, Cassandra swooped in to fix it. Oh, God, this was humiliating.
“Listen,” the man continued, addressing Cassandra now, not Gretchen. “She probably just got overheated. Maybe dehydrated. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about—but someone her age, she should probably get checked out.”
Someone her age.Washeeven old enough to be a doctor?
“Oh, poor Ophelia,” Gretchen said, remembering her darling granddaughter. She’d made such a spectacle at her show. Ofall places. “I’m so sorry. Cassandra, please tell her that I’m very sorry.”
“Mom, she’s completely fine. All the kids are backstage. They can’t even see what’s going on.” Cassandra turned back to the man. “Thank you, Whit. We’ll take her to the doctor right now.”
Whit? As inWhitney? Not that striking after all,anda woman’s name.
“Is she dead?” Gretchen heard a little boy nearby ask. “She looks dead.”
Apparently not all the children were backstage. This was horrific. Gretchen upsetting people, embarrassing Cassandra and Tom and poor Oppy.
And to think: This spectacle was only the beginning.
She held out a hand. “Cassandra, please help me up off this floor.”
—
An hour and a half later, Dr. Davis, their family physician, was sending Gretchen home with assurances and a prescription for Xanax. Truth be told, by the time she’d reached his office, she was feeling absolutely fine. Well, not fine. But much better. She told Dr. Davis she was sure it was stress. And then the excuse popped into her head: She’d just found out that her own mother was in the hospital—a ministroke.
Gretchen’s mother was eighty-nine, still alive and well. She spent her days rattling around her sprawling Greenwich mansion, hosting teas and luncheons, and serving on boards. Gretchen’s father had passed suddenly three years ago—a heart attack while arguing with a stranger about a parking spot. Dying as he lived, in a rage. Her mother had barely missed a beat. If anything, she seemed relieved he was gone.
