“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.”