Lightning

by Danielle Steel

  “It won't be long,” he promised her, and he certainly didn't have to sleep at their apartment every night. He was going to continue doing just what he had been, and spend most of his nights with Daphne. He wanted to introduce her to Annabelle too, but he was still afraid it would be too confusing for her, and she might tell her mother. But Daphne wasn't pressing him to meet her anyway. As she had admitted to him from the first, she was not overly sentimental about children. She was not overly sentimental about many things. But she was sexual about everything, every moment, every opportunity. They had made love absolutely everywhere in Europe, including a fitting room at Dior, and another at Givenchy. She was wild and passionate, and she made him feel young again, and totally free of his problems.

  Alex caught a glimpse of them again one Saturday afternoon in February. They had just come from previewing the jewelry items at Christie's, where he'd left a bid on an emerald ring for Daphne. Sam bought her a lot of things, and seemed to be happy to spoil her. And as Alex stood watching them, she saw them stroll up Park Avenue, oblivious to anything but each other. It made her sad seeing them again. A lot of things made her sad these days. The way Annabelle looked when her father left, or when she asked about him, and Alex had to find excuses about why he didn't sleep there very often. It still made her sad to see what her body looked like, or that her hair didn't grow back. And it didn't cheer her particularly when Dr. Webber suggested reconstructive surgery to her. It had been long enough since the surgery to begin thinking about it now, but she found she didn't care. She didn't like what she saw, but she was used to what she looked like. And oddly enough, it was Brock she discussed it with, and she was surprised when he thought she should have it. There was nothing she couldn't talk about with him. There was not a single sacred subject. He was the closest thing to a brother she'd ever had.

  “What difference does it make, if I have one boob or two? Who gives a damn?” she said belligerently, over lunch at Le Relais during one of her better weeks without chemo.

  “You give a damn, or you should. You can't live like a nun for the rest of your life.”

  “Why not? I look cute in black, and I don't even have to shave my head.” She pointed to die longer, more glamorous wig she was wearing, and he made a face at her.

  “You are truly disgusting. I'm serious. It'll make a difference to you one day.”

  “No, it won't. I like being a freak. So what? So what, if somebody loved me, would they really care if I went to all that trouble and got an implant? I mean, hell, we're not talking about Sam. For him, I'd have to get two new ones to compete with his British bimbo.”

  “Never mind.” Brock looked at her, thinking about it. “I still think you should do it. It'll make you feel good. You won't be mad at yourself every time you look in the mirror.”

  “Would you care?” she asked him bluntly. “If you met a girl with one breast, I mean?”

  “It could save a lot of time,” he said, making fun of her now, “save you all those difficult decisions. No, I wouldn't care,” he said honestly. “But I'm unusual, and I'm younger. Guys your age are more hung up about appearances, and perfection.”

  “Yeah, like Sam. We know all about that kind, thank you very much.” She still remembered all too clearly his face when he saw her. “Okay, so what you're telling me is that I either need reconstructive surgery, or a younger man in my life. Those are my choices.”

  “That's basically it,” he responded, playing with her again. She was in good spirits. And there were things he had always wanted to say to her, and never had. He never seemed to find the right moment.

  “I still think it's too much trouble. Even the doctor said it hurts like hell. And the procedure sounds disgusting. They take a little skin from here, a little from there, they make tunnels and flaps and loops and bumps, and attach implants and tattoo on nipples.

  Christ, why don't I just paint one on if I meet someone I like. I can do it any shape, any size, any color. You know, I could really be on to something, here,” she went on, and he laughed at her and threw his napkin at her to stop her.

  “You're obsessed.”

  “Can you blame me? I lost a husband with my boob, and the guy ran off and found a girl with a pair, now doesn't that tell you something? If nothing else, he was greedy.”

  “I think you should do it.”

  “I think I'll have a face-lift instead. Or maybe a nose job.”

  “Let's go back to work before you decide to get your ears done.” He loved being with her, and working with her, and he liked Annabelle too. He had met her several times when he came by from the office with papers for Alex. Annabelle thought he was funny and she liked playing with him. He had even taken her skating one day when Alex was really sick and Carmen had the flu, and Sam had disappeared with Daphne.

  They talked about their latest cases on the way back to work. Alex hadn't been to trial in four months, but there was one coming up, and she was trying to decide if she was up to doing it, if Brock helped her. She was tempted to, but she didn't want to give the client less than they deserved. It was a lot to think about while she was in the midst of chemo. And in the end, she decided to give the case to Matthew Billings.

  In March, Brock invited her to Vermont again, on a weekend that Sam was taking Annabelle away. She went, and they had a lovely time. She tried skiing, and she was a little better. She was stronger, and she only had eight weeks left of chemo. She was looking forward to it desperately, but to her that meant several things. It meant Sam would move out, and move on with his life. And even though she called his friend a bimbo, she suspected that they would probably get married. He was obviously very involved with her, and he was very protective whenever Alex tried to ask him questions. He had never actually acknowledged that there was someone else, but it had become obvious that Alex knew. But he was always a gentleman, and refused to discuss her with Alex.

  It also meant that Alex had to get on with her life too. She had to face the fact that Sam was gone, even if he still lived in the same apartment for the moment. When the chemotherapy was over, she could go back to trial work again. But she wasn't sure what else she wanted to do. It was suddenly more than a little frightening to be on her own again, although Brock kept telling her that the worst was already over.

  They were walking back from the chairlifts in Sugarbush when he said it to her again, and she looked up at him pensively, and realized that he was right. Going through chemotherapy without a husband was pretty bad, but then again she had had Brock, and he had been there for her every moment.

  He had even gone to the doctor with her once so he could understand it better and see what it was like. He had held her hand through the entire procedure. There was very little he hadn't done for her in the past six months. He had become like a brother to her, and there was nothing she was afraid to tell or show him.

  They started talking about reconstructive surgery again that night, after she cooked dinner for him this time, and he told her she was a pretty good cook, though not as good as he was.

  “The hell I'm not. Can you make a souffle?” she bragged. They were always like two kids together, pushing and shoving and laughing and making fun of each other, when they weren't deeply engrossed in more serious subjects.

  “Yes, I can,” he lied, and she grinned at him.

  “Well, neither can I,” she laughed, and they went back to discussing the surgery Dr. Webber had suggested. Sometimes they played because the things they talked about were too sad. “I don't care,” she insisted, serious at last. She really didn't want to discuss it, but Brock had brought it up.

  “You should.” It was a familiar argument by now, and suddenly, she turned around and looked at him. She was completely unashamed with him. He had watched her throw up for months, and seen her bald head. She didn't see anything wrong with showing him what they were discussing. She looked at him oddly then, wondering what he would think of it. She genuinely trusted his opinion, and his kind heart.

  “D
o you want to see it?” she asked casually, like a kid offering to drop his pants to one of his playmates. She felt a little strange for a minute, and she laughed nervously, but he looked at her seriously and nodded.

  “Yes, I would. I've always wondered what it looked like,” he said honestly. “Somehow I could never imagine it being as bad as you described.”

  “It's pretty bad,” she warned. “It's not pretty, and there's a scar.” But even she knew that it looked better than it had in October. And then, without further ado, she pulled off her sweater and unbuttoned her blouse slowly and neatly. She took it off then, and hesitating for only a moment, she pulled off the thermal undershirt she wore with no bra. It was like a slow and very respectable striptease. She stood before him, in all her nakedness, with one breast bare, and the other missing.

  He looked at her eyes first, before he looked anywhere else, and the way she looked at him gave him permission. It was a clean, simple look that passed between them. And as he looked at her, his heart went out to her. She looked so sweet and so young, and so vulnerable, the one breast was still high and firm, the other looked as though it had been slashed from her body with a saber. And without thinking, he reached his arms out to her, and pulled her slowly toward him. He couldn't show her anything different than what he felt. He had loved her for too long to hide it now, with her simple, courageous gesture.

  “You're so beautiful,” he said softly, into her hair. “You're so perfect and so brave …and so decent, Alex.” He pulled away so he could look at her again. “I think you're terrific.”

  “With one boob or two?” she said with a small shy smile, remembering why she had shown him, but she hadn't expected his reaction. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but this sudden tenderness of his surprised her, and touched her to her very soul.

  “I love you just the way you are. You were right.” He held her close to him again, feeling her warmth next to him. “I love you just like this,” he said, bowled over by her, even more than he had been. The trust between them was immeasurable and something very special.

  “You weren't supposed to say that,” she said softly. “You were supposed to be giving me an objective opinion.” She was feeling suddenly taken with him too, and she hadn't expected that. Their relationship had been chaste for so long that she wasn't prepared for this sudden rush of sensuality and love and emotion.

  “I am giving you an objective opinion,” he whispered , nuzzling her face with his lips. “You're very, very beautiful, and I can't keep my hands off you.” And then very slowly, with a tenderness she'd never experienced before, he kissed her. And as he did, one hand gently caressed the breast she had, and the other hand tenderly touched the scar, and then her stomach and her back. And when he pulled her close to him, he held her in his strong hands, and she could almost feel the air go out of her in a rush, and then he kissed her harder.

  “Brock …what are we doing …” she asked, barely able to think, and in another minute, she knew she wouldn't. “What are we …what …ohhh …” she moaned softly, as he unzipped her pants, and slid a hand into them, and then pulled them down slowly. Without thinking, she stepped out of them, and his hands began to explore her legs, her hips, her thighs, and further. And as he did, she took off his clothes, and in a few minutes they stood naked in the cozy house he had brought her to for the second time, and he laid her on the couch in front of the blazing fire, and touched every inch of her with his lips. He kissed her breast, and then her scar, and then let his tongue travel slowly south as she arched beneath his touch, and he pressed himself against her. “Oh Brock … oh Brock …” She couldn't believe what was happening. How could they be doing this? He was her friend. But suddenly he was so much more. He was a part of her world, her life, her body, as he entered her, and they each let out a long, soft moan of endless desire and anticipation. They moved together for a long time, as the fire blazed, and the sparks flew from time to time, and then suddenly he gave an astounding shout, and she gave an astonishing shudder as they came together. And then they lay silent and stunned in each other's arms. He had wanted her for so long, and she had never realized any of what he'd been feeling. They had grown slowly together like two trees, their leaves entwined, their roots slowly becoming one, until they were separate no longer.

  “Oh, my God, what happened?” She smiled lazily at him, as he kissed her again, and then pulled her closer to him, as he lay still inside her.

  “Would you like me to explain?” he asked. “You don't know, you will never know, how I have longed for this. You will never know how much I have loved you, and prayed for this moment to come, if you'll pardon the pun.” He was beaming.

  “Where was I when all this was going on?” she said, looking amazed, and blissfully happy. She had never been happier than at that moment. He was sensitive and kind and incredibly sexy. And they had been friends for so long that it was easy to love him now. The transition had been gentle and strong, and now she felt bound to him forever. “How did I miss what you were feeling?” she asked again, feeling very stupid.

  “You were too busy throwing up.”

  “Apparently.” She smiled at him again. “I'm glad I did something as subtle as take my clothes off.” She laughed suddenly at how naive she'd been. She'd never thought for a moment that it would come to this, but she was glad it had. She couldn't believe that she had made love to him, with her “deformity” and her scar, without even trying to hide it from him. And now he gently slipped off her wig and tossed it aside too. They needed no artifice between them. “I guess this means I don't get reconstructive surgery. I got the younger guy instead. Wasn't that the choice?” she smiled, and then she began to worry. “Do you realize how old I am, you young fool? I'm ten years older than you. I'm practically old enough to be your mother.”

  “Bullshit. You act like you're twelve. You'd be a mess without me,” he said honestly, without arrogance or pretension.

  “That happens to be true. But I'm still older than you are.”

  “I'm not impressed.”

  “You should be. When you're ninety, I'll be a hundred.”

  “I'll close my eyes when we make love,” he assured her.

  “I'll lend you my wig.”

  “Good.” He grabbed it then and put it on, and she laughed as he kissed her again, and she felt him rise again. And suddenly there was an urgency to his kisses, an insistence that nothing would satisfy except her body. They made love again, lying by the fire, and afterwards, afraid of exhausting her, he went and got a blanket from his bed and covered her, and they lay together as she slept in his arms. He was a happy man. And he knew he would never let her go now. He had waited too long for her to come to him, and she had drifted into his arms naked and without guile, and now he would do anything he had to, to keep her. At last, she was his now, and no longer Sam's. And Brock had every intention of holding on to her forever.

  Chapter 17

  Brock went to chemotherapy with her the week after they'd been to Vermont, and he sat quietly with her during the examination, followed by the intravenous treatment. All of her X rays and scans had been coming up clear, and she only had seven more weeks now. Dr. Webber was very pleased with her, and included Brock in their discussions about the treatment. She treated them very much as a couple.

  “This is weird.” Alex smiled shyly at him as they took a cab back to the office. She was leaning against him and feeling the first waves of nausea begin, but she was very relaxed with him. There was no embarrassment between them.

  “What's weird?” he asked, watching her to make sure she was as all right as she could be.

  “We are.” Alex smiled, adjusting her wig, which had gotten crooked. “People treat us like we're married. Did you ever notice that? Yesterday in Sugarbush, the guy in the grocery store thought you were my husband. And Dr. Webber acts like You've been coming in all along. Doesn't anyone realize I'm almost old enough to be your mother?” She was surprised at how easy it all was. They had only been physi
cally involved for three days, and it already seemed completely natural, not only to them, but to those around them.

  “I guess they don't notice,” he said, kissing her nose. “That blows that, doesn't it, Ma?”

  “You should be out playing with fourteen-year-olds. Healthy fourteen-year-olds.”

  “Mind your own business, Counselor.” The only thing they both knew they had to do was keep it a secret at work. Partners and associates were not allowed to “fraternize,” or get married, or involved, or one of them would have to leave the firm. It was a pretty standard rule in law firms, and as the junior person to her, Brock would have lost his job, if anyone knew they were dating.

  They chatted as they drove, and eventually, they got stuck in traffic. It took too long for them to get back, and the effects of the chemotherapy overcame her three blocks from their destination. They had to pull over and Brock held her gently as she vomited into the gutter on Park Avenue in front of dozens of people standing on the curb. It was terrible, and she was mortified, but she couldn't stop. Even the cab-driver felt sorry for her. It was obvious she wasn't drunk, but really sick. Brock told him to wait, and leave the meter running. It was half an hour before she could drive on again. Brock wanted to take her home, but she insisted on going back to the office with him.

  “Stop being stupid, for heaven's sake. You need to go home and rest.”

  “I have work to do.” And then she smiled through her misery. “Don't think you can push me around now because I'm in love with you.”

  “That would be too easy.”

  He paid the cab, and took her upstairs. He had to support her as she walked, but no one who saw her thought of anything except that he was helping her. All the partners who knew them knew that Brock was her associate, and that she had been sick for months. People still felt very sorry for her.