Next, the sound that would forever make him flinch. When Cate’s machines had been turned off, a hush fell upon the room. Andrew waited for a twitch. Fight, damn you. Nothing. Not a shift from her pale skin. The only sound was the flatline humming.
Then there was the vision he was sure he could never erase from his mind. By the time he’d said goodbye to his wife, all of her lush blonde hair was gone. The once beautiful model had looked more like a ninety-year-old nuclear holocaust survivor, than a thirty-five-year-old cancer patient.
The brutal disease’s effect on a human being had scared the hell out of him the most. He’d heard the warnings, but when he saw the devastation with his own gray eyes—up close and very personal since it was his wife—it had been like witnessing a gruesome murder. Every day.
Never again.
The elevator door chugged opened and he stepped off. Project leaders had shared details of the new wing with him as the construction progressed. Only now that it was all finished and he touched the fabric of the lounge chairs in the waiting room, felt the silkiness of the privacy curtains, and ran his hands along the embossed wall covering, did it hit him.
This was over. It was done.
“Andrew, we’re in here,” Julia called out to him standing outside the administrator’s office.
Julia was strong, like Cate. Her other sister, Diana, however, was a mess.
“Diana, please get it together.” Julia’s impatient tone irritated him.
“I’m being forced to remember what my sister went through. I’m allowed to be upset.”
“Be upset. Just stop blubbering.” Julia put an arm around him. “How are you, Andrew?”
“Fine.” He stifled his annoyance at their bickering.
Even as his temper rose, his heart squeezed painfully in his chest. It’d been unclear at the time of her death exactly where Cate’s massive inheritance would go. His father had reviewed Cate’s trust and spoke to the Reese family attorney on his behalf. Andrew had made it clear to his dad that he didn’t want Cate’s money. He wanted her. She hadn’t touched her own trust, so neither would he. Not even to pay the mounting medical bills. She was his wife. She was his responsibility, and he’d taken that damn seriously. Only later, had he felt the regrets that came with being deep in debt.
The administrator shook his hand, not meeting his eyes. Yeah, he remembered there’d been a lot of that. On the way to the actual ceremony, Andrew trailed behind everyone. As Cate’s husband, he should have been the Grand Marshal of that pity parade.
No. Andrew had walked many runways as a model. Felt eyes on him. Admiring him. Wanting him.
He’d rather remember the spotlight feeling worshipped. Although now, he much preferred the quiet anonymity of working behind the scenes in fashion.
The ceremony ended and he acted detached when he left the hospital, even though he felt more devastated than when he’d gone in.
Andrew made a silent vow to show as little emotion as possible from that point forward. He’d feel the pain, but wouldn’t burden anyone with his messy feelings. No, he wasn’t ready.
God, he almost kissed Gwen earlier. Right there in the damn office and didn’t think he’d stop at just a kiss.
On the street, while waiting for a taxi to go have a strong drink, he spotted Julia and Diana leaving. Diana grabbed her sister’s hand. They would be all right, he thought warmly to himself. They still had each other.
Andrew had nothing. No one. Just a job at Prada.
CHAPTER NINE
n Tuesday morning, Gwen gasped for the air she’d been holding.
O “Breathe, Gwen,” the tech reminded her.
The mammogram machine released her throbbing tender breast.
“One more, Gwen. You doing okay?”
What if I said no? She nodded, regardless, and placed her hands in the position she’d learned years ago. The whine of the machine signaled the crushing pain about to bear down on her. It wouldn’t be so terrible if it weren’t for the ribbons of scar tissue banding the upper and lower quadrants of her right breast from past biopsies.
Because of her mother, she and Skye had gotten mammograms since they were in their late twenties. A small calcification found during Gwen’s first mammogram had put her on a vicious cycle of follow-up mammograms. Those found more calcifications that needed more biopsies. Those got followed up with another mammogram that...found more suspicious cells. And so on, and so on.
All of Skye’s tests had been clear, putting the pressure on Gwen to keep up her testing. She drew the line at expensive and invasive genetic screening. She’d been coming to Lenox Hill hospital every six months, and the way these people hovered over every miniscule dot that appeared on her dark charcoal films, she expected them to catch anything early.
“Okay, wait here. I’ll go show these to Dr. Sage.” Maya, the same woman who’d been taking her films for years, ran off to find the radiology doctor.
Gwen took a seat and waited for results that would probably tell the doctor nothing—as usual.
We’ll need another biopsy just to be sure.
Her mind wandered to Andrew. Back to him really. She’d not heard from him the rest of the afternoon yesterday. She went to bed last night, wondering what if Dan hadn’t called? The jealous look in Andrew’s eyes made her tingle, but the way he’d taken off hinted at a battle going on inside his mind.
Would it be easier if he were divorced as well? Sitting in a hospital gown, waiting for mammogram results made thinking about his deceased wife surreal.
Gwen typed ‘Cate Morgan’ into Google to pass the time. A few blogs announced the news of her death. Catherine Morgan, former Lanvin model, died in early December... one old blog post started.
Ah ha! She’d been a model, too. Must have been how she and Andrew had met. Gwen’s eyes shot to the cold tile floor. It would make sense if Andrew didn’t want to get involved with someone else in fashion.
While scrolling, she found Cate’s blog. One post revealed that she’d had a rare cancer diagnosed right after she’d graduated from college. She had survived the disease once. That meant like most women who’d beaten cancer, Cate had found herself back on the battlefield. Fighting an army of cells who’d retreated and studied their enemy to figure out a sure-fire way to win the war.
Cate’s struggles while married to Andrew had been more difficult than in her youth. In one post, she detailed how she’d started saying no. No, to repeated tests. No, to biopsies. No, to surgeries.
She’d been fed up and had enough. Amen, Sister.
Cate had also done something Gwen found extremely brave. Each post included a mirror selfie, showing what the disease and those treatments had been doing to her magnificent appearance. By the last post, the poor woman was almost unrecognizable.
Andrew Morgan certainly personified the ideal of for better or for worse.
Gwen clicked a few more links. She had a strange desire to see a picture of Andrew in that old world of his, but found it odd there weren’t any pictures of him on Cate’s blog. “If he were my husband, I’d get tee-shirts made up,” Gwen mumbled to herself.
In the photo on his desk, Andrew looked different standing next to Cate. That must have been his brave face. Now, his smile seemed peaceful, especially when looking at Gwen. Perhaps the man he used to be—the person Enrico hinted at, was indeed returning.