Public Secrets

by Nora Roberts

  There was a crackle on the line, a hesitation. “It’s Michael. Michael Kesselring.”

  She stared dully at the prints drying above her work table. “Yes, Michael.”

  “I … are you all right? Is something wrong?”

  She found she wanted to laugh then, long and loud. “No, why should anything be wrong?”

  “Well, you sound … I guess you’ve read some of the tabloids.”

  “I’ve seen them.”

  He let out a long breath. The speech he’d prepared so carefully had vanished from his mind. “I wanted to call and explain—”

  “Why? It’s none of my business what you do, or whom you do it with.” The anger she hadn’t been able to feel through fear came bubbling to the surface. “I can’t think of any reason I should care who you’re screwing. Can you?”

  “Yes. No, dammit. Emma, I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  She was trembling now, but mistook grief and nerves for rage. “Are you going to tell me you haven’t slept with her?”

  “No, I’m not going to tell you that.”

  “Then we really have nothing more to discuss.”

  “Emma. Shit, I don’t know how all of this got so out of hand. I want to talk to you about it, but I can’t do it over the frigging phone. I can try to trade some duty, fly out for a couple of days.”

  “I won’t see you.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Emma.”

  “I won’t. There’s no reason to, Michael. As I said, you’re free to be with whomever you choose, and my blessing if you want it. I’m going to put all of that part of my life behind me. All of it. So seeing you again wouldn’t suit my plans. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” There was a long, long pause. “Yes, I guess I do. Good luck, Emma.”

  “Thank you, Michael. Goodbye.”

  She was crying again, but didn’t bother to brush the tears away. Reaction, she told herself. Reaction was setting in from that horrible scene with Blackpool. She wished Michael well, she really did. Damn him and all men.

  She locked her door, turned the radio up loud, sat on the floor and wept.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  New York, 1986

  THE LOFT LOOKED as though it had been struck by a hurricane. But then, Emma supposed, Marianne had always been a strong wind. There was a scatter of papers and magazines, three empty handbags, two of which were Chinese red, a single sling-back pump of the same bold color, and a pile of records that were spread out on the floor like a deck of cards. Choosing one, Emma set it on the turntable and was met with a blast of Aretha Franklin.

  She smiled, remembering that Marianne had played it the night before while she’d finished her furious packing. It was hard to believe that both Emma and the loft would have to do without Marianne for the better part of a year.

  Emma picked up a purple silk blouse and a red Converse hightop. Two more items that had somehow escaped Marianne’s maniacal search for the essentials. The chance to study for a year in Paris, at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, was an opportunity Marianne hadn’t been able to turn down. Emma was thrilled for her —but it was hard, very hard, to stand in the middle of the loft alone.

  She remained for a moment, listening. Over the sound of Aretha was the rumble of traffic from the street below. Through the open windows she could hear the high, strong soprano of a neighboring opera student practicing an aria from The Marriage of Figaro, Maybe it was ridiculous to consider herself alone in New York, but that was precisely what she was.

  Not for long, she reminded herself and set the blouse and shoe on the bottom step. She had her own packing to do. In two days she would be in London. She was going to tour with Devastation again, but this time, she had a title. Official photographer. It was a tide she’d earned, Emma thought as she hauled the first suitcase onto her bed. She’d been given her shot when her father had asked her to photograph the group for the album cover. The Lost the Sun cover, Emma remembered. The stark black-and-white portrait had earned enough acclaim that even Pete had stopped mumbling about nepotism. And he hadn’t said a word when she’d been asked to shoot the cover for their current album.

  It gave her a good deal of satisfaction that it had been he, as the group’s manager, who had called to invite her on the tour. Salary and expenses included. Runyun had muttered, but only briefly. Something about the commercialization of art.

  London, Dublin, Paris—a quick visit with Marianne—Rome, Barcelona, Berlin. Not to mention all the cities in between. The European tour was slated to take ten weeks. When it was done, she would do something she’d been promising herself for almost two years. She would open her own studio.

  Unable to find her black cashmere suit, Emma headed out and up the stairs, pausing to pick up the blouse and shoe. There was a fascinating mix of scents. Turpentine and Opium. Marianne had left her studio exactly as she preferred it. In chaos. Brushes and pallet knives and broken pieces of charcoal were stuffed into everything from mayonnaise jars to a Dresden vase. Canvases were stacked drunkenly against the walls. Three paint smocks, their bright colors splattered with even brighter paint, were tossed over tables and chairs.

  An easel still stood by the window, along with a cup of something Emma wasn’t sure she wanted to investigate. With a shake of her head Emma moved over to the bedroom area. It was hardly more than an alcove. As the years had passed, Marianne’s art had taken over. The big bed with its ornate rattan headboard was squeezed between two tables. A lamp with a shade fashioned like a lady’s straw bonnet sat on one, and half a dozen candles of various lengths stood on the other.

  The bed was unmade. Marianne had refused to make her bed on principle since they’d left Saint Catherine’s. In the closet Emma found three items, all hers. The black cashmere suit hung between a red leather skirt she’d forgotten she owned, and an “I Love New York” sweatshirt torn at the sleeve.

  Emma gathered them up, then sat on Marianne’s rumpled sheets.

  Good God, she was going to miss her. They had shared everything—jokes, crises, arguments, tears. There were no secrets between them. Except one, Emma remembered. Even now it made her shudder.

  She’d never told Marianne about Blackpool. She’d never told anyone. She had meant to, especially the night Marianne had come home drunk with the certainty that he was going to ask her to marry him.

  “Look, he gave this to me.” Marianne had showed off the diamond heart that hung on a gold chain around her neck. “He said he didn’t want me to forget him while he was in Los Angeles working on his new album.” She had all but cartwheeled around the loft.

  “It’s beautiful,” Emma had forced herself to say. “When does he leave?”

  “Tonight. I took him to the airport.”

  The relief had come in waves.

  “I sat in the parking lot and cried like a baby for a half hour after his plane took off. Stupid. He’ll be back.” She had whirled then to throw her arms around Emma. “Emma, he’s going to ask me to marry him. I know it.”

  “Marry him?” Relief had skidded into panic. She had remembered the feel of his hands on her, bruising her breasts. “But, Marianne, he’s—how—”

  “It was the way he said goodbye, the way he looked at me when he gave me the necklace. Christ, Emma, it took everything not to beg him to take me with him. But I want him to send for me. I know he will. I know he will.”

  Of course, he hadn’t.

  Marianne had sat by the phone every night, had rushed home from classes day after day to check for messages. There hadn’t been a word from him.

  Three weeks later, the first inkling of why had come in via the airwaves. There had been Blackpool, in his trademark black leather, escorting a young, sultry brunette backup singer to some Hollywood bash. The first clips ran on television. Then the tabloids dug in.

  Marianne’s first reaction had been to laugh it off. Her next had been to try to reach him. He had never returned her calls. People ran a feature on him and his hot new love. Marianne wa
s told that Mr. Blackpool was vacationing in Crete. He’d taken the brunette with him.

  Emma rose and walked to the studio window. Before or since she’d never seen Marianne so devastated. It had been a relief, a great one, when Marianne had finally broken out of her weepy depression, had cursed Blackpool with an expertise that had warmed Emma’s heart. Then, ceremonially, she had tossed the diamond heart out of the window. Emma had always hoped some sharp-eyed bag lady had happened across it.

  She’d gotten over it, Emma mused. She’d bounced back into her work with a crack that she’d owed Blackpool. No artist could be worth her salt if she hadn’t suffered.

  Emma could only wish she herself had been able to forget it as easily. She would remember, always, everything he’d said to her, every name he’d called her. Her only revenge-had been to burn his prints and negatives.

  That was the past, she thought briskly and rose. Her problem was she remembered things too clearly. It was both a blessing and a curse that she could see things that had happened a year before, twenty years before, as easily as she could see her own face in the mirror.

  Except for one night in her life, she thought. And that only came in misty dreams.

  With her recovered clothes over her arm, she started downstairs. The buzzer sounded, making her frown. Everyone knew Marianne was gone, and that she herself was practically out the door.

  The intercom squawked a bit when she pushed the button. “Yes?”

  “Emma? It’s Luke.”

  “Luke?” Delighted, she released the outside door. “Come on up.”

  She dashed to the bedroom to toss the clothes on her bed, then raced back in time to greet him when the elevator doors opened.

  “Hello.” She hugged him, tight, a little surprised that he hesitated before he returned the embrace. “I had no idea you were in town.”

  She pulled back to study him, and had to force her smile in place. He looked dreadful, pale, shadow-eyed, too thin. The last time she’d seen him he’d been on his way to Miami. A new job, a new life.

  “I got in a couple days ago.” His lips curved, but there was no answering smile in his eyes. “Prettier than ever, Emma.”

  “Thanks.” Because his hand seemed so cold in hers, she chafed it automatically. “Come in, sit. I’ll get you a drink. We might have some wine.”

  “Got any bourbon?”

  Her brows lifted. In all the years she’d known him, he’d never indulged in anything stronger than Chardonnay. “I don’t know. I’ll check.”

  She waited until he’d lowered himself onto the sprawling L-shaped sectional before she darted into the kitchen.

  Miami didn’t agree with him, she thought, pulling open cupboards and searching through their meager liquor supply. Or perhaps it was the breakup with Johnno that didn’t agree with him. He looked dead on his feet. Haggard. Like some survivor of a catastrophe. The Luke she remembered, the Luke she had kissed goodbye eighteen months before, had been a gorgeous, muscular, sleek specimen of humanity.

  “Cognac,” she called out. Someone had given them a bottle of Courvoisier for Christmas.

  “Fine. Thanks.”

  There wasn’t a brandy snifter in the house, so she chose a wine glass, then poured a glass of Perrier for herself.

  His smile seemed easier when she sat on the ottoman across from him. “I’ve always liked this place.” He pointed to the mural Marianne had painted on the plaster. “Where is she?”

  “In Paris.” She glanced at her watch. “Or nearly. She’s going to spend a year studying there.”

  He shifted his gaze to the photographs that lined a nearby wall. “I saw your photo study of Baryshnikov.”

  “The greatest thrill of my life. I was stunned when Runyun let me have the assignment.”

  “And the album cover.” He drank, and felt every drop of the brandy slide down his throat.

  “Wait until you see the new one.” She kept her voice light and easy, but there was concern in her eyes as they skimmed over Luke. “It should hit the stands by the end of the week. Of course, the music’s not bad, either.”

  Emma saw his fingers whiten on the stem of the glass. “How is Johnno?”

  “He’s fine. I think they’ve talked him into doing a cameo on Miami Vice … I’m sure he’ll get in touch if he comes down your way.”

  “Yeah.” He drank again. “He’s not in town.”

  “No, he’s in London.” The opera singer began soaring over scales. “They’re prepping for the tour. I’m going along. In fact, I’m flying out day after tomorrow.”

  “You’re going to see him?”

  “Yes, in a couple of days. There’s an enormous amount of work to be done before we start. Luke, what is it?”

  He shook his head. Carefully, he set the cognac aside, then reached inside his jacket. Taking out a plain white envelope, he handed it to Emma. “Would you give this to him for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “As soon as you see him.”

  “Yes, if you like.” She started to set it on the table, but caught the look in his eye. “I’ll just put it in my suitcase.” She left him sitting there, looking dully out of the windows. He was standing when she returned, holding the empty wine glass in both hands. She started to speak, then he swayed. The glass shattered on the floor before she caught him. She had braced for his weight. The brittle fragility of his body shocked her more than the pallor.

  “Sit. Come on, sit down. You’re ill.” She knelt on the cushion beside him, stroking his hair as he wearily closed his eyes. “I think you’ve got a fever. Let me take you to a doctor.”

  “No.” He let his head fall back. His eyes were bright with fury when they met hers. “I’ve been to a doctor. A whole fucking fleet of doctors.”

  “You need to eat,” she said firmly. “You look as though you haven’t eaten in a week. Let me fix—”

  “Emma.” He caught her hand. She knew. He could see by her face that she already knew, but refused to believe. He’d spent quite a while refusing to believe himself. “I’m dying.” It sounded easy, almost peaceful. “It’s AIDS.”

  “No.” Her fingers bit into his. “Oh God, no.”

  “I’ve been sick for weeks. Months really,” he admitted on a sigh. “I thought it was a cold, the flu, vitamin deficiency. I didn’t want to face going to the doctor. Then, well, I had to. I didn’t accept the first diagnosis, or the second, or the third.” He laughed, letting his eyes close again. “There are some things you can’t run away from.”

  “There are treatments.” Frantic, she pressed his hand to her cheek and rocked. “I’ve read about treatments, drugs.”

  “I’m pumped full of drugs. Some days I feel pretty good.”

  “There are clinics.”

  “I’m not spending whatever time I’ve got in a clinic. I sold my house so I’ve got some money. I’m going to rent a suite at the Plaza. See plays, go to movies, museums, the ballet. All the things I haven’t had time to do in the last few years.” He smiled again, touching a finger to her cheek. “Sorry about the glass.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “It looked like Waterford,” he murmured. “You’ve always had class, Emma. Don’t cry.” His voice tightened as he turned away from the tears in her eyes.

  “I’ll clean up the glass.”

  “Don’t.” He took her hand again. He so badly needed someone to hold his hand. “Just sit for a minute.”

  “All right. Luke, you can’t give up. Every day they’re, oh, I know it sounds trite,” she said desperately, “but every day they’re coming closer. There’s so much research being done, and the media is making the public more aware.” She brought his hand back to her cheek. “They’re bound to find a cure. They have to.”

  He said nothing. She wanted a solace he couldn’t give. How could he explain how he had felt when the results had come in? Would she understand, could she, that fear and anger were only two components? There had been humiliation too, and despair. When pneumo
nia had set in weeks before, the ambulance attendants wouldn’t touch him. He’d been isolated from human contact, from compassion, from hope.

  She was the first one to touch him, to weep for him. And he couldn’t explain.

  “When you see Johnno, don’t tell him how I looked.” I won t.

  That seemed to comfort him. His hand relaxed again. “Remember