Rosalyn arose early the next morning and drove to Paris. Consumed with worry for her friend, she scarcely noticed she was facing down the ghosts of Paris that had kept her away before.
On the third floor of the hospital, she spotted André standing out on a large terrace, smoking. They shared a hug without speaking.
“How is she?” Rosalyn asked when she finally pulled away.
“Grincheuse,”he said, which meant “grumpy.”
She smiled. “I’ll bet.”
“She won’t be happy to see you,” he said in that measured, thoughtful way of his. “She does not like people to think of her as being sick. She is always so full of life; she wants people to think of her that way.”
As she went to find Emma, Rosalyn wondered: Was it just human nature to wear a mask?
“Knock, knock,” she said as she strode into Emma’s room. The accommodations were very nice, for a hospital: Hers was a private room, with a sitting area and a window that looked out over the rooftops of Paris. Emma wore a hospital gown with a blanket over her knees, and she was seated in an armchair by the window. She looked pale and tired.
“You are quite the intrepid investigator, Rosalyn Acosta. Or did André spill the beans?”
“No, I figured it out all by myself.”
“Like I’ve been saying all along, you really are in the wrong business.”
Rosalyn sank into the chair opposite hers. “Emma, what’s going on? Why are you here?”
“Well, I adore those little Parisian boutique hotels, but with this cast, they simply won’t do....” She trailed off with a shake of her head. “Nothing quite like elevators when you’re out of commission.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“Care for a drink? André snuck in a bottle of Scotch—it’s a nice change from champagne.”
“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Stickler.” Emma laid her head back and closed her eyes.
“I want to be a friend to you, Emma,” said Rosalyn. “Please let me be.”
Emma let out a long sigh. “I hate to heap things on, Rosalyn, what with what happened to your husband and all. But I fear I’m not much longer for this world. That’s why I was in San Francisco. I had a consult with a specialist at U.C. San Francisco Medical Center. But that was pretty much my last attempt.”
“What is it?”
“A rare form of cancer, lymphoma—sarcoma—something or other.” She waved a hand in the air. “Not worth going into. A lot of this sort of thing is curable, but apparently not my version. In this, as in all else, I like to think of myself as a maverick.”
“Is it connected to what happened to your leg?”
Emma let out that raucous party laugh again. “No, as a matter of fact, that really was a dastardly taxi, though I would no doubt recover more quickly were it not for this other thing.”
“But surely there’s something that can be done?”
“Remember how you told me how people say stupid things when you’re grieving, and they try to give advice? Just try being sick and having people ask you: ‘Have you tried coconut oil? Crystals? The finest medical care money can buy?’”
“Excellent point. I apologize.”
Emma shook her head and gazed out the window. “The doctors here insisted on running more tests, and are urging me to try yetanotherexperimental treatment that is about to start clinical trials in San Francisco, but at some point, I’m going to have to call it quits. And truly, I’m not afraid of death; it’s what’s next. Circle of life and all that. What I despise, though, is leaving things unfinished—like getting someone to take over my wine business. Say, you’re sure you don’t want to take the reins? Great excuse to come visit a certain cute vintner in France.”
“I’m not sure that particular vintner wants me darkening his doorstep anymore.”
“Lovers’ spat already? You work quick, Rosie. I’ll give you that.”
Rosalyn smiled and shrugged, looking away and trying to act casual, to ignore the screaming in her head, but of course Emma noticed.
