In these last few years she had given up driving long distances herself and instead called on a service to send a driver, who would take her where she wanted to go in her own car.
An hour later the intercom buzzed to let her know that her driver was in the lobby. “I’ll be right down,” she said.
As she was putting on her coat, she hesitated, then went to the safe and took out Catherine’s file. She slipped it into a tote bag, and feeling relieved to have it with her, left the apartment.
The driver turned out to be a pleasant-faced man in his mid-twenties, who introduced himself as Tony Garcia. To Olivia, there was something reassuring about the way he offered to carry the tote bag, then put a guiding hand under her elbow at the step in the garage. With approval she noticed that once in the car he immediately checked the gauge and told her there was plenty of gas for the round trip. After reminding her to fasten her seat belt, he concentrated on the driving. The Henry Hudson Parkway North was crowded. As usual, Olivia noted wryly. She had tucked a book in her tote bag, along with the Catherine file. An open book, she had learned, was the best way to discourage a loquacious driver.
But in the next two hours Garcia did not say a word until they drove through the gates of the St. Francis property. “Just turn left and go up that hill,” she told him. “Beyond it you’ll see the cemetery. That’s where I’m going.”
A picket fence encircled the private cemetery, where four generations of Franciscan nuns were buried. The wide entrance was framed by a trestle that Olivia remembered as being ablaze with roses in the summer. Now it was covered with green vines that already were tinged with brown. Garcia stopped the car at the flagstone walk and opened the door for Olivia to get out.
“I’ll only be ten or fifteen minutes,” she told him.
“I’ll be right here, ma’am.”
Low stone markers were on the individual graves. Occasional benches offered a place for visitors to rest. Catherine’s grave was opposite one of them. With an unconscious sigh, Olivia sat down on the bench. Even such a short walk makes me so tired, she thought, but I guess I should expect that now. She looked down at the lettering on CATHERINE’S MARKER: SR. CATHERINE MARY KURNER: SEPTEMBER 6, 1917–JUNE 3, 1977. R.I.P.
“Rest in peace,” Olivia whispered. “Rest in peace. Oh, Catherine, you were my cousin, my sister, my mentor.”
She reflected on the tragedy that had entwined their lives. Their mothers had been sisters. Catherine’s parents Jane and David Kurner and my father had all been killed in a car accident, when a drunken driver crashed into their car on the highway. That was a month before I was born, Olivia thought. Catherine was only a child herself, just turning twelve. She had come to live with us, and, from what I know, she became my mother’s right hand, the strong one. Mother told me that she could barely handle the grief and that Catherine was the one who got her through it.
Olivia felt the familiar hurt as her thoughts turned to Alex Gannon. “Oh, God, Catherine, no matter how strong your vocation, how could you not have loved him?” she whispered into the silence.
Alex’s parents, the Gannons. Olivia wished she could better remember the faces of the people who had been so kind to her mother. They had insisted she stay on as their housekeeper and live in the cottage on their estate in Southhampton after her father, who had been their chauffeur for many years, had died.
I was only five, but I remember Alex and his brother sitting on our porch talking to you, Catherine, Olivia reflected. Even then I thought Alex was like a young god. He was in medical school in New York, and I can remember Mother telling you that you were crazy to think of the convent when it was clear that he adored you. Long before it happened, I remember her saying, “Catherine, you’re making a mistake. Alex wants you. He wants to marry you. In a thousand years there’ll never be another one like him. Seventeen is not too young to get married. And why don’t you admit it? You are in love with him. I see it in your eyes. I see it when you look at him.”
And you said, “And seventeen is not too young to know that I am called to a different path. It is not supposed to be. That’s all there is to it.”
Olivia felt the unwanted tears come to her eyes. Six months after Catherine left for the convent, Mother remarried and we moved into the city, she thought. But when old Mrs. Gannon died, I went to her funeral with Mother and met Alex again. That has been over forty years ago.
Olivia bit her lip to keep it from trembling and clasped her hands. “Oh, Catherine,” she whispered, “how could you have given him up, and what shall I do now? I have the letter Alex asked my mother to give you, the letter begging your forgiveness. Shall I destroy it, and the record of your son’s birth? Shall I give it to your granddaughter? What do you want me to do?”
The faint rustling of the leaves falling from the trees that were scattered around the cemetery made Olivia aware that she was suddenly chilled. It’s almost four, she thought. I’d better get started for home. What did I expect? Another miracle? Catherine to materialize and counsel me? Her knees stiff, she got up slowly and, with a final glance at Catherine’s grave, walked through the cemetery back to the car. She realized that Tony Garcia must have watched for her approaching, because he was standing beside the car with the door already open.
She got into the backseat, grateful for the warmth, but without any sense of resolution. On the way back the traffic was much heavier and she was impressed by Garcia’s steady and skillful driving. When they were nearing her exit off the Henry Hudson Parkway, she commented on that and asked, “Tony, do you work full-time for the service? If you do, I’d like to request you if I have any more trips to make.”
I should add, any trips that I make in the next few weeks, she thought sadly, realizing that for an instant she had forgotten how very little time she had left.
“No, ma’am, I’m a waiter at the Waldorf. Depending on my hours there, I let the service know when I’m available to drive.”
“You’re ambitious,” Olivia said, remembering how when she began at Altman’s all those years ago, she had always tried to work overtime.
Garcia looked into the rearview mirror and she could see his smile. “Not really, ma’am. I’ve got a lot of medical bills. My little guy was diagnosed with leukemia two years ago. You can imagine how my wife and I felt when we heard that. Our doctor told us he had a fifty-fifty chance, and those odds were good enough for her and for him. Two days ago we got the final word. He’s cancer free.”
Garcia fished into his jacket pocket, pulled out a photograph, and handed it back to Olivia. “That’s Carlos with the doctor who took care of him,” he explained.
Olivia stared at the picture, not believing what she was seeing. “That’s Dr. Monica Farrell,” she said.
“Do you know her?” Garcia asked eagerly.
“No, I don’t,” and then before she could stop herself, she added, “I knew her grandmother.”
When they were down the block from the garage, she reached for the tote bag and said, “Tony, please stop at the curb for a moment. I’d like you to put this bag in the trunk. There’s a blanket quite far to the back. Slip it under the blanket, please.”
“Of course.” Without showing that he was surprised at the request, Garcia followed instructions, then drove Olivia the rest of the way home.
9
Greg Gannon brought the latest proof of his generosity to his private office in the Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle. “Where’ll we put it, Esther?” he asked his longtime assistant, as he stopped at her desk and took it out of the box.
The tribute was a Tiffany engraved glass prism about ten inches high.
“Looks like an ice cube,” he commented, laughing. “Shall I save it for when I have a martini?”
Esther Chambers smiled politely. “It will go in the case with the rest of them, Mr. Gannon.”
“Es, can you just imagine how it will be when I kick the bucket? Who’d want them?”
It was a rhetorical question that Esther did not
attempt to answer as Gannon walked into his private office. Your wife certainly won’t and your sons would throw them in the garbage, she thought as she picked up the prism. And I’ll bet she wasn’t with you last night at that dinner. Then, with an unconscious sigh, she placed the prism on her desk. I’ll put it in the trophy case later, she thought as she read the inscription. FOR GREGORY ALEXANDER GANNON IN RECOGNITION OF HIS CONTINUING KINDNESS TO THOSE WHO NEED IT MOST.
Alexander Gannon, Esther thought. Instinctively, she glanced through the open door that led to the Foundation reception area, where a magnificent portrait of Greg’s uncle dominated the room. He had been a medical scientist whose genius for inventing replacement parts for knees and hips and ankles was the basis of the family fortune.
He died thirty years ago, before he realized how much good his inventions would do, Esther thought. I remember meeting him when I started working here. He was so handsome, even when he was seventy years old. He walked so straight, and he had silver hair and those unforgettable blue eyes. He never lived to see how successful his patents would become. The patents have all expired, but the Gannons got hundreds of millions of dollars for years from them. At least the family put some of the money in the Gannon Foundation. But I doubt Dr. Gannon would have approved of the lifestyle of his brother’s family.
Well, it’s none of my business, she reminded herself, as she settled at her desk. Still, you can’t help thinking . . . Sixtyish, with an angular figure and an unbending disposition to match, Esther was given to meditation whenever Greg brought in yet another trophy proving his oft proclaimed benevolence.
Thirty-five years ago she had begun working for Greg Gannon’s father’s small investment firm. Their office at that time was in lower Manhattan, and the business had been struggling until the medical devices invented by Alexander Gannon had released a tsunami of money and recognition. The investment firm had flourished and the income from the patents had changed the life of the Gannon family.
Greg was only eighteen then, Esther thought. At least after his father passed, he took over the investment firm and the foundation. His brother, Peter, never did much except pour money into Broadway musicals that closed on opening night. Some producer he is. If anyone knew how comparatively little those two give away, they’d stop kissing their feet in a moment.
Funny about those boys. Boys, she admonished herself sarcastically. They’re middle-aged men. But it is funny how Peter got all the looks in the family. He could still be a movie star with that handsome face and big brown eyes and charm to spare. No wonder the girls were always throwing themselves at him. Still are, I bet.
On the other hand, Greg never did outgrow his pudgy teenaged shape and, let’s face it, he’s as plain as Peter is gorgeous. Now Greg’s starting to go bald and he’s always been sensitive about his height. Kind of unfair, I guess. But neither one of them, in my opinion, has lived up to his father and certainly not to Dr. Gannon.
Oh well, better remind myself that I get well paid, I have a nice office, I have a fat retirement package when I choose to take it, and a lot of people would love to be in my situation.
Esther began to go through the batch of mail that had been placed on her desk. It was she who examined the hundreds of requests for grants and steered the appropriate ones to the board, which consisted of Greg and Peter Gannon, Dr. Clay Hadley, Dr. Douglas Langdon, and for the past eight years, Greg’s second wife, Pamela.
Sometimes she was able to pass along “grassroot pleas,” as she called them, from smaller hospitals or churches or missions in desperate need of money. For the most part the requests that went through had been the kind that would put the Gannon name on hospitals and art centers where the family name would be displayed large, and their largesse could not be missed. In the past couple of years, there had been fewer and fewer of those grants.
I wonder how much money they really do have left? she asked herself.
10
Monday night after Scott Alterman’s call, Monica had barely slept. Tuesday night was the same. Her first thought on waking at six A.M. on Wednesday had again been of him. He’s not serious, she thought, as she had tried to convince herself all the previous day. He’s got to be bluffing. He wouldn’t give up his practice in Boston to move here.
Or would he? He’s a brilliant lawyer. He’s only forty years old and he’s successfully defended high-ranking politicians all over the country and has a national reputation. That’s just it. With that reputation he can go anywhere. Why not New York?
But even if he does relocate, except for occasional phone calls and sending flowers to the apartment once or twice, he hasn’t really bothered me much in the four years I’ve been here, she reassured herself. She tried to take comfort in that thought as she showered, dressed in a maroon sweater and matching slacks, and clipped on small pearl earrings. I shouldn’t even wear these, she thought. The babies always grab at them. Over coffee and cereal, she began to worry about Sally Carter again. Yesterday, I didn’t discharge her and that was a stretch. Today, unless she developed a fever during the night, I have to let her go.
At eight fifteen she was at the hospital to make her early rounds. She stopped at the nurses’ desk to speak to Rita Greenberg. “Sally’s temperature has stayed normal and she’s been eating pretty well. Do you want to sign her discharge papers, Doctor?” Rita asked.
“Before I do I want to talk to the mother myself,” Monica said. “I’ve got a heavy schedule at the office. Please call Ms. Carter and tell her I have to meet with her before I discharge Sally. I’ll be back here at noon.”
“I left a message yesterday to say that as a precaution you were keeping Sally for another twenty-four hours. I guess she got the message, because Mommy dearest never came to visit Sally. I checked with the evening shift. That lady is some piece of work.”
Dismayed, Monica walked into the cubicle containing Sally’s crib. The baby was sleeping on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek. Her light brown ringlets framed her forehead and curled around her ears. She did not stir when Monica’s trained hands felt her back, listening for a sign of a rattle or a wheeze, but there was none.
Monica realized she was yearning to pick up Sally and have her wake up in her arms. Instead, she turned abruptly, left the cubicle, and began to make the rest of her rounds. All her little patients were progressing well. Not like Carlos Garcia, who was touch and go for so long, she thought. Not like Michael O’Keefe, who should have died three years ago.
In the corridor to the elevator she ran into Ryan Jenner, who was approaching from the opposite direction. This morning he was wearing a white jacket. “No surgery today, Doctor?” she asked as she passed him.
She had expected a casual “Not today” kind of answer tossed over his shoulder, but Jenner stopped. “And no windswept blond tresses,” he replied. “Monica, some of my friends from Georgetown are coming up for the weekend. We’re having cocktails at my place and going out to a Thai restaurant on Friday night. A couple of them, Genine Westervelt and Natalie Kramer, told me they hoped you’d be there. How about it?”
Startled at the suddenness of the unexpected invitation, Monica’s response was hesitant. “Well . . .”
Then, realizing she was being asked to meet with former fellow students and not for a personal date, she said, “I’d love to see Genine and Natalie again.”
“Good. I’ll e-mail you.” Jenner moved briskly down the corridor away from her. As Monica again began to walk to the elevator, she impulsively turned her head to look at his retreating back and was embarrassed to meet his glance.
Sheepishly, they nodded to each other as they simultaneously quickened their pace in opposite directions.
Promptly at noon Monica was back in the hospital waiting for Renée Carter, who arrived at twelve thirty, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she had kept Monica waiting. She was wearing an obviously expensive olive green suit with a short belted jacket. A black high-neck sweater, black stockings, and impossibly high black heels
gave her the look of a fashion model about to embark on the runway. Her short auburn hair was tucked behind her ears, creating a frame for a very pretty face that had been further enhanced by expertly applied makeup. She’s not going home to take care of Sally, Monica thought. She’s probably got a lunch date. I wonder how much time she spends with that poor baby?
A week ago it had been the elderly babysitter who brought Sally to the emergency room. Renée Carter had arrived an hour later, wearing an evening gown and defensively explaining that the baby had been fine when she left her earlier that evening, and that she hadn’t realized her cell phone was turned off.
Now Monica realized that even with the makeup, Carter looked older than she had appeared that night. At least thirty-five, she thought.
Today, Carter was accompanied by a young woman of about twenty, who nervously volunteered that she was Kristina Johnson, Sally’s new nanny.
Carter made no attempt at apologizing for being late. Nor, Monica noticed with dismay, did she make any attempt to pick up Sally. “I fired the other babysitter,” she explained in a voice that bordered on being nasal. “She didn’t tell me that Sally had been coughing all day. But I know Kristina won’t make that kind of mistake. She’s been highly recommended.”
She turned to Kristina. “Why don’t you dress Sally while I talk to the doctor?”
Sally began wailing when Monica, followed by Renée Carter, left the cubicle. Monica did not turn back to look at her. Instead, heavyhearted at the thought that Sally was being taken away by this seemingly indifferent mother, she firmly warned Carter to pay close attention to Sally’s allergies. “Do you have any pets, Ms. Carter?” she asked.
After a moment’s hesitation, Renée Carter said reassuringly, “No, I don’t have time for them, Doctor.” Then, with visible impatience, she listened as Monica explained the importance of watching for signs of asthma in Sally.