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Together, we leaned over the high table and each took a bottom corner of the canvas. Carefully, we lifted it higher, then together we pulled it away from the wall.
“There,” Nick said.
“Yeah.” I grinned. The wall looked clean now, ready for the future. I stowed the canvas in the closet.
Nick crossed the room and hugged me. I pressed myself into him, my arms around his back and felt myself stir. “Want to go upstairs?”
He groaned softly. “Absolutely.”
The phone rang. “Don’t answer it.” I ran my tongue up the side of his neck.
“Let me make sure it’s not the service.” Nick grabbed the phone off the arm of the big chair and looked at the display. “Kit,” he said.
I took his hand and began leading him up the stairs. “Definitely don’t answer it.”
I hadn’t spoken to Kit very often since we returned. She spent much of her time with her mom or on the phone with Alain. But the truth also was that Kit made me think of Rome, and I wanted to forget it. In the same way I’d wanted the painting out of sight, I was inadvertently avoiding Kit.
Nick and I climbed the basement stairs, passed through our living room which was overly warm with late-afternoon sun, and went up the stairs to our bedroom.
At the foot of the bed, we kissed hard, our hands clawing at our clothes.
The phone rang again. “Sorry,” Nick mumbled. He twisted away and glanced at the bedroom phone on the nightstand. “Kit again.”
I lightly bit his collarbone. “Ignore it.”
But a minute later, the phone rang again.
“You better get it,” Nick said, slightly panting, his shirt off, his pants halfway down.
I groaned but grabbed the phone and answered it, holding my discarded T-shirt over my breasts.
“Rachel?” Kit said.
“Yeah, hi. What’s up?”
She broke into sobs.
“Kit, what’s wrong?”
“It’s my mom,” she said, still crying. “It’s everything.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the hospital.”
In the parking lot of Chicago General Hospital, the sun beat on new asphalt, making my shoes stick as I hurried from my car. Inside the doors, the arctic blast of air-conditioning made me shiver.
I wrapped my arms around myself, realizing I had no idea where I was supposed to go.
“Cancer center,” said the woman at the information desk, handing me a map of the hospital campus. Chicago General was a vast complex, only a block from Lake Michigan, and although my husband was on staff, I rarely had occasion to visit.
I headed back outside, into the stifling afternoon. Using the map, I tracked down the cancer center and the chemotherapy unit, where Kit’s mom, Leslie Kernaghan, was supposed to be. And there was Kit, standing outside a glass-walled room, small tears skimming her features.
She smiled bleakly when she saw me. Her face was splotchy and her eyes were pink and raw, making their purplish hue sharper. Her red hair was flattened on one side, as if she’d just been roused from sleep.
I hugged her, then brushed her tears away with my knuckles. “What’s going on?” I looked inside the glass wall and saw Mrs. Kernaghan, or at least a withered, gray version of her, sleeping on a hospital gurney, tubes in her nose, IVs in her arm.
Kit took a deep breath, which caught in her lungs. “She needs this procedure tomorrow. It’s a new radiation treatment combined with chemo. It’s experimental, but it’s her best chance to survive. The thing is, the insurance isn’t covering anything anymore.” Kit stopped and her shoulders shuddered. More tears streamed from her eyes. “But Alain told me he’d pay for it.”
“Oh, how sweet,” I said.
“He said he’d wire the money right away. We didn’t get it. Then he told me yesterday he was getting on a plane. He was going to come here for the procedure, and he was going to pay for it.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it sounded great,” Kit said bitterly.
I could guess the rest. Situations like this, where men disappointed on grand scales, were always happening to Kit. “He didn’t come.”
She shook her head. “He said he had an embassy function he couldn’t miss, and there were problems transferring money overseas. When my mom found out, she started panicking. You should have seen her, Rach. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were bulging.”
I put my arm around her.
“She’s stabilized now,” Kit continued. “I talked the doctor into doing the radiation tomorrow, but they’ll never let us do chemo without payment. It might be the only thing that can save her.”
Kit started to sob—quietly and desperately—with her hand against the glass wall, as if to touch her mom.
I tightened my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Honey, I’m sorry. Doesn’t the Chicago General Board have a fund to help cancer patients?”
Kit gave a curt shake of her head. “They helped us a year ago, when mom was having surgery, but they cut us off.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “There’s a cap on how much they’ll give one person, I guess. We don’t qualify anymore.” She turned to face me. “What am I going to do?”
“Could you get a second mortgage on her condo?”
“It’s an apartment. She rents.”
“I could get Nick to talk to the board. He’s a member now, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well, he’s what they call an associate member. He hasn’t officially made it yet. But I’ll talk to him, and maybe the board can help you out again.”
“That’ll take too long. We need help now.”
“Then we’ll give you the money.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course. I should have thought of it sooner. How much is it?”
“Three grand.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“I know it’s a lot, but…” She looked at her mom again, and her face twisted in agony.
“It’s fine. I’ll talk to Nick, and I’ll come back—”
“No, don’t,” Kit said. “Please don’t tell Nick.”
“Why?”
“I’m embarrassed. And my mother is, too. She hates being a charity case. Please.”
I thought about our finances. We had joint checking and saving accounts, as well as joint investments. If I took money from any of those, Nick would notice. But I also had my own savings, started long before Nick and I were together.
Kit sank her face into her hands, her shoulders trembling. “I just don’t know how much more I can take.”
I kissed her on the head. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll get you the money. I’ll go talk to your mom now, and then I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning, okay?”
She raised her head and gave me a fierce hug. “You are a good friend.” She said it in a way that implied she hadn’t been so sure about that a moment before.
On Monday morning, I went to work at seven. With the office cool and still empty, I checked my e-mail, returned calls from Friday and made appointments to call on an architectural firm the next day. As other employees trickled in, I checked my watch, waiting for nine o’clock, when my bank would open its doors and I could get Kit the money she needed. Because I was getting the funds from a savings account, I couldn’t write a check.
At five minutes to nine, my boss, Laurence Connelly, stepped into my office. His suit coat was already off, and he wore his usual suspenders, a too-shiny pink tie and a smirk. “How’s it going, Blakely?”
“Just fine.” I tried a smile, but since I’d gotten back from Rome without the Rolan & Cavalli account, things had been icy between Laurence and me. Every time Laurence tossed it in my face, which was often, I was reminded not only of my failure at the meeting but how I’d failed my marriage, as well.
“How was your weekend?” I asked.
He ignored the pleasantry. “Are you seeing the Baxter Company soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Get them to up their service agreement. We need that cash. Got it?” I knew what he was saying behind the obvious words—salespeople who didn’t bring in that cash could be fired. He’d already let four people go this year.
I stood, signaling the end of the conversation. “I know that, Laurence. That’s why I’m going to see them.”
“And what about Thompson & Sons?”
“I’m calling on them today.” I tossed my purse over my shoulder and reached for my sunglasses at the edge of my desk.
“Where are you going?”
“To the bank.”
He crossed his arms. “You can do your banking at lunch.”
I thought of Kit’s mom, tubes extending from her arms, like a battered boat tethered to a dock. “It’s important personal business. I’ll be back soon.”
“This is the business you need to be concerned about.” He pointed to the floor with a stubby, manicured finger.
I moved toward the doorway, hoping he’d step back. “I made my numbers last month.” Translation: Back off, blowhard.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re doing too well this month.”
“And that’s why I’m seeing the Thompson people today and Baxter tomorrow.”
He wasn’t moving. I knew Kit was at Chicago General, pacing, waiting for me, while her mother waited, too.
I angled a shoulder and pushed past him, trying to ignore the heavy, musky cologne he apparently thought was sexy. “See you later, Laurence.”
Outside on Monroe Street, the August air lay like steam over the Loop. People rushed for the doors of buildings—and for the air-conditioning—the same way we all rushed for warm shelter in the winter. I got in a cab and directed the driver north to Lincoln Park Savings & Loan, the small community bank where I’d done my banking since college and where Nick and I had opened accounts after we got engaged. We no longer lived in the neighborhood, and it was rare that either of us actually had to visit the branch.
I stepped inside the chilly confines of the bank and waited in line for one of the three tellers who appeared unruffled by the fifteen or so people already waiting for their services.
Ten minutes later, I finally made it to a teller.
“How can I help you?” asked a young man wearing a white shirt and blue tie.
“I need a money order for three thousand made out to Katherine Kernaghan.”
I thought of Nick then. I should tell him—I should come clean about something—but this was merely aid for a friend who desperately needed it, with money that was truly mine, which I’d earned. And Kit had asked me not to mention it.
The rationalizations didn’t help much. It only reminded me of the other, larger, secret I’d kept from him.
Two minutes later, I was in another stuffy, airless cab, speeding toward Chicago General.
Kit had changed clothes from the day before, but she was standing in the same place, her hand on the glass window.
I stood next to her and looked inside. Her mom was being tended to by a thermometer-wielding nurse in pink scrubs.
“How’s she doing?” I said.
“Same.” Kit’s voice was devoid of emotion.
“Are you working this week?”
“Goodman gave me the week off.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.” Neither of us moved. “Were you able to get the money?”
“Of course.” I handed her a white envelope with the money order inside. I felt like I was doing something illicit.
