“First of all,” he said quietly, “I’d like to thank St. Joe’s for their exceptional level of care. My doctors—Chris Allenford, Marcus Sarandon, and Madelaine Hillyard—fought to save my life even when I made it hard on them. And the nurses and therapists—”
“Angel—show us your scar!”
The jarring question wrenched Angel out of his thoughts and reminded him where he was. He knew instantly that he’d been quiet too long. Now they were really wondering what was wrong with him.
He laughed easily. “Come on, Jeff, you can do better than that. Do you really think my scar is what America wants to see?”
“How do you feel, Angel?”
“Great, thanks. St. Joe’s did a topflight job on me.”
Someone snickered. “They did a pretty good job on us, too. There was no scoop on you at all.”
Angel nodded. “That was on my request. Hell, it took me a while to admit I was this sick. I wasn’t ready to tell the world.”
“And you are now?”
Angel knew a cue when he heard one. He reached into his pocket for the statement he’d prepared, but suddenly it felt too formal. He leaned his elbows over the podium and looked at the crowd. “Here’s the thing. I’m still sick—I’m getting better and I’m gonna live a long time and all that, but I’m recovering from a hell of a cut. I need some time—and I’d really appreciate it if you guys’d give me that.”
The room was quiet for a second, then someone said, “That doesn’t sound like Angel DeMarco.”
Angel glanced at the People magazine reporter who’d spoken—it was the woman who’d interviewed him last year. “It’s me, Bobbie. But a person tends to change after something like this—I think you either change or die.” He laughed. “Let’s face it; I hit the brick wall at the end of the road, and I was damned lucky to hit it at St. Joe’s. That should be your story, Bobbie. I’m one of the lucky ones. Upwards of forty thousand people a year die waiting for organs.”
“Who was your donor?” she asked in a sharp voice.
A hush of anticipation fell across the room.
Angel steeled himself. “That’s confidential.”
“Male or female?” someone asked from the corner.
Angel forced a smile. “Yep.”
“When exactly did you have the surgery?” Bobbie asked, her pen poised to write down the date that would kick-start an investigation.
“That’s no one’s business but mine.” Angel tossed them an easy smile to soften the words.
/> “What are you going to do now? We’d heard you were all set to shoot a new action picture.”
It was strange how unimportant that sounded. A year ago he’d sent Val after that role like a bird dog, with orders to do whatever it took to land the part. Now Angel couldn’t have cared less. The thought of leaving Hollywood forever caused less than a tinge of regret. His old life had begun to have the shimmering, faded edges of a dream he could barely recall.
He thought about telling them his real goal—the Francis Xavier DeMarco Foundation for transplant research. But if he raised Francis’s name, some yahoo would try to interview the mysterious brother, and when they found that he was dead—when they found how and when he’d died—it would all be over. Some eager-beaver reporter would dig until the story broke.
No, he’d tell them about Francis later, when the wound wasn’t quite so fresh and raw. Someday, if and when he felt like it, he’d share the true nature of his miracle with the world.
Someday, but not today.
He flashed his trademark grin. “I’m going to try to settle down and have a regular life.”
“You?” someone said, laughing.
Bobbie watched him intently. “That’s what you said after that stint in Betty Ford.”
Angel didn’t blink. She was right, and they both knew it—he’d said it to her. “That’s true, Bobbie,” he said quietly. “The difference is, then I knew I was lying. I couldn’t imagine my life as anything other than a movable feast.” He couldn’t help himself, he looked up at Madelaine. “Now I see a whole world of new possibilities.”
“How long will you live?” someone asked.
He looked at the reporter. “How long will you?”