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Howard Fletcher had gotten me the leading breast cancer specialist in New York. His expertise and skill meant that my lumpectomy was minimally invasive. I went back to work on Wednesday, the very next day after the surgery and had a full workday.

The small incision healed quickly and I began to feel better. Things returned to normal except that I had my apartment myself now that Jerry had moved out. I was surprised by how little I missed him. I was still tired all the time and after a long day at work, I no longer wanted sex when I got home. I realized that he had provided little else.

The specialist scheduled my first chemo infusion for early January, 2020, more than a month away. I felt I had a reprieve. Even though I was feeling tired and weak, I knew that I would feel much worse once I started chemo. When Roberta called to invite me to California for Thanksgiving, I accepted.

I had not told her about my cancer in our regular calls. She was heavily pregnant with her second child and due any day. As a thirty-nine-year-old, she was deemed an “older mother” and advised to take precautions far beyond those for a normal pregnancy. I knew that she would be dreadfully upset to hear about my situation and this could put her and her unborn child at risk.

Burton kindly allowed me to double up my briefs the week before Thanksgiving and take the entire holiday week off. I sent Roberta my flight details, but told her to stay put at home and not come to the airport in her condition. I flew to San Fran on the Saturday before Thanksgiving and got a rideshare to their place on Nob Hill.

My timing was perfect or terrible, depending on your point of view. Roberta went into labor almost as soon as I got there. Over Owen’s objections, Roberta insisted that I accompany them to the maternity suite at the hospital. I sat on one side of her bed and Owen sat on the other. She held both our hands as she pushed and gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.

Roberta had decided to name her Marie for Mom and fortunately, Owen was supportive of the idea. Roberta beckoned me forward to take the infant soon after she bonded with her, but I hung back, offering Owen precedence. He clucked over his new daughter for a few minutes, then passed her to me. I held her, cuddled her, kissed her, and she gurgled. Owen’s phone rang and he stepped out of the room.

“She loves her aunt!” Roberta said.

“Her aunt loves her back,” I said.

Over the next two days, I spent every moment I could with Roberta and little Marie in the maternity wing. Roberta talked to her endlessly, almost exclusively in French, and I struggled to understand her. Owen was working over the weekend, and came by for a few hours each day. We took mother and baby home on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.

Since her marriage to Owen, Roberta had taken over making the Lawler family Thanksgiving meal at their place in Marin county. She’d planned an elaborate menu for this year as well. However, she was obviously not a hundred percent just four days after giving birth. I volunteered to help her, much to the relief of Owen’s mother and sister.

“They seem to like the way I do Thanksgiving dinner,” Roberta said to me. “Thanks for helping make it happen. I couldn’t have done it alone this year.”

“You’re a gourmet chef, Roberta, you have Mom’s culinary gifts. It’s no wonder they like your cooking.” But my thoughts were less kind. Of course, they are happy to have my sister slaving away to feed them a magnificent meal.

Roberta and I cooked together as we always did – she in charge, me her sous chef. The Lawlers had a professional kitchen with all the requisite equipment, and their cook had the day off. To be honest, I was rather pleased that Owen’s mother and sister stayed out of the kitchen, so I had Roberta all to myself. Little Marie was mostly asleep in her bassinet on a side table. We took turns to cuddle her when she woke and Roberta fed her.

After the meal, everyone made much of Marie for a while. They congratulated Owen and Roberta. Then the men retired to watch football in the enormous sunken family room. The women sat further away from the screen, talking. They dipped in and out of the game, and the men’s conversation as they felt like. Owen’s mother took charge of Owen Junior, who was now a rambunctious toddler.

Roberta retired to Owen’s old room upstairs to put Marie down to sleep again. I went with her. Little Marie was as good as gold. She suckled very contentedly, burped when she was burped and fell asleep without a fuss.

“If she stays like this, my life is going be very easy,” said Roberta. “Owen Junior was colicky from day one, the first three months with him were misery.”

We sat down together on the window seat that commanded a beautiful view of Richardson Bay and Sausalito.

“Johanna, you look run down,” she said. “Have you been sick?”

I screwed up my courage and leaned toward her.

“I have breast cancer,” I said. “I had surgery a few weeks ago. I start chemo in January.”

Her mouth dropped open. The excitement of the arrival of little Marie and the activity and fun of cooking with her had distracted me from my grim reality. But now it resurfaced with all its morbid implications. I thought I was calm and in control, so I was shocked when I began to cry.

Roberta immediately took me in her arms, kissed both my cheeks and then my lips. She wiped my tears with her silk scarf.

“You’re young, strong, and fit,” she said. “Surely you must have a good chance of beating it?”

“I’m going to fight, Roberta,” I said through my tears. “I don’t want to die! I really don’t. But I’m so afraid!”

“Hush, hush, cherie,” she said, sounding so much like Mom. “You must stay here with us so I can take care of you.”

“My cancer specialist and my job are in New York, Roberta,” I said. “But I’ll come here as often as I can.”

“I’ll call you every day. And I’ll come to New York whenever you need me.”

“You already call me every day,” I said, gratefully. “Your support means so much to me.”

“You know I’m with you every moment, Johanna. Even when I’m far away, my arms are always around you.”

“I know. I always feel your love.”

*

I went back to New York after Thanksgiving, and returned to work. The Monday after Thanksgiving, I was sitting in Burton’s office, discussing our current big project. It was the SEC filing we were doing for a German auto company that was in the process of buying a component manufacturer in Cleveland.

“They’re very skittish,” he said. “They’re very worried about adverse publicity if the government raises roadblocks. You know, leaks from Washington, headlines like Germans taking over the American auto industry. They want to be absolutely certain that everything is airtight. They’re a big target, just the type of company the liberal young DOJ antitrust lawyers would love to drag into the headlines and make their careers.”

“The little shits,” I said. “Not good enough to play the game, so they try to steal the ball.”

“Exactly,” said Burton. “If they were any good, they’d be working for us or our competitors, making five times their government paychecks.”

“I’ve analyzed it from every angle, Burton. I’ve put together every precedent since Sherman I in 1895. It’s bulletproof. There’s no antitrust case. Not even a prima facie one.”

“Not a legal case, maybe,” agreed Burton. “But what about an emotional case? Foreigners vs. Americans?”

“That’s dirty pool, Burton.”

“This is the big leagues, Johanna. The major story is all politics. Law is just in the footnotes.”

“Okay.” I sighed. “I’ll put together a political analysis. I can’t guarantee to cover all the angles, though. I’m a lawyer, not a political consultant.”

“No, no,” said Burton. “We’ll do it together. You’ve already done more than your share. You talk to the Cleveland City Manager, I’ll talk to the mayor. I’ll have Ashley call their offices and get us on their calendars.”

Ashley was Burton’s executive assistant, a young graduate out of the NYU journalism program.

I talked to the City Manager Tuesday morning, and Burton talked to the mayor just after lunch. We met in the late afternoon to compare notes.

“Everything jells, Johanna. If the City Manager is telling you the truth – and I have no reason to think he’s not – then both and mayor and he realize that without the German takeover, Cleveland is going to lose 5,000 jobs. Union jobs. Keeping those jobs translates to serious political capital. I’ll call the Germans first thing tomorrow morning.”

I was fast asleep that night, when I was wakened by the phone ringing on the nightstand. I touched the screen, saw it was Burton, and swiped it open.

“If your house on fire, Burton? It’s three in the morning.”

“I just got a call from Munich. They want us to come and make a presentation to their managing board.”

“When?”

“They want us there this week, Johanna. We’re presenting in Munich on Friday. Tomorrow is Wednesday, we have to leave in the evening.”

I groaned.

“You want to meet for breakfast?” I asked.

Normally, I would have been happy and keen to do a breakfast meeting, but I was so tired! He heard the tiredness in my voice and when he replied, his voice was kind.

“No, no. You’ve been working very hard. Sleep in tomorrow, I’ll have the final presentation ready for us to go over together at lunch.”

I was ashamed at how relieved I was to get out of work.

I spent the morning packing. I assumed the Germans would have formal events set up for us, so in addition to my suits, shoes, and scarves, I packed a long gown and jewelry, just in case.

*

As a partner, Burton was entitled to fly First Class on international flights, whereas as an associate, I was only entitled to Business Class. But as we were checking in at the airport, I was surprised to discover my seat was next to his in First.

“I’m not entitled to this fare, Burton.”

“I know. I paid the difference.”

“I’ll pay you back,” I said.

“No, no,” he said. “I paid for it with miles, it didn’t cost me anything.”

“Well, thank you.”

“It will be a much more enjoyable flight with you to talk to, Johanna.”

We settled into our seats, talked about our presentation till the meal service.

“Tell me about your new niece, Johanna,” Burton said as we were eating.

“Roberta named her Marie, after Mom. I was so pleased.”

“That was very thoughtful of her. I’m happy you’re seeing more of your sister and her family. How’s Jerry?”

“We broke up.”

“I see.” He sipped his wine. “It is always difficult to make a relationship work with that much disparity. Some time ago, I encouraged you to keep things going with him. That was a mistake. I shouldn’t be giving advice. It’s clear from my own relationship that I’m no expert.”

“You’re the man all the women’s magazines rave about, Burton. Successful, modest, a perfect gentleman, thoughtful yet manly, tender without being soft.”

“I should hire you to do my PR,” said Burton, laughing.

I laughed with him but said, “I’m serious. I know this just sounds like flattery from an underling.”

Burton grew serious as well.

“You’re not a flatterer, Johanna.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “I’m honored that you think so well of me. I’ll try to be worthy of your respect.”

We decided to have port after dinner and got to talking about horses.

“I miss riding,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve been on a horse since I moved to New York. All through undergrad, horses and riding were such a big part of my life, I just took them for granted. I didn’t realize how lucky I was.”

“You did what I hoped Annabel would do. I wanted her to work in the stables, to really get to know horses. But Melissa thought stable work was demeaning, vetoed it. I’ve always let her make the decisions about Annabel’s upbringing, you know, division of labor. Plus, as a woman, I thought she would know better what was best for our daughter.”

“Annabel rides, though, doesn’t she? All that mucking out of stalls I did was just the price I paid to saddle up. Believe me, if someone had given me the option of just riding without doing all that work around the barn, I would have taken it in a heartbeat!”

“Perhaps,” said Burton. “But it wouldn’t have been good for you. Working in the barn all those years, you know so much more about horses than the girls who just came in and rode them.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “I never thought of it that way. I just thought I had to work because it was the only way I could ride without paying for it. We didn’t have any money, but I’ve always been a strong girl, never afraid to get my hands dirty.”

“Sometimes too much money is not good for you, Johanna. Like too much chocolate. Or too much port.”

“Well, no more port for me!” I said, laughing. “Does Annabel have a horse?”
“Yes, an Andalusian gray.”

“He must be beautiful.”

“Yes, he is. What did you ride, growing up?”

“Well, in the barn in Wisconsin, I exercised all the horses, Arabians, Akhal-Tekes, Appaloosas, Morgans, even a Belgian draft horse. But out in Montana with Dad, I rode mustangs and quarter-horses. I love quarter-horses with their big chests.”

“Did you race?”

“Just some barrel racing when I was a kid. Dad did rodeos when he was younger, but didn’t want me competing.” We waited while the flight attendant cleared away the remains of our meal. “Tell me about your riding.”

“I won’t give you false modesty, I grew up privileged. My father was a very successful lawyer. He was a partner in our firm, back when there were only three. I went to boarding school in Connecticut, learned to ride there. Played a lot of polo. Some cross-country racing, point to point.”

“You must be good!”

“I’m sure you’re better with horses than I am, Johanna. I never spent all day with them, brushing them, feeding them, watering them, leading them around the ring. The grooms did all that. It was only later that I realized the grooms knew the horses better than I did.”

I nodded.

“I envy your upbringing, Johanna. Riding mustangs on the open range out West. It’s a romantic image. But I suppose the reality was less so.”

“Yes. The mustangs we had were working horses. Most of the time, I rode them with Dad to do chores. Fixing fence posts, stringing wire, herding cows and sheep, checking on things after a storm. And money was short, we were always trying to save a buck. Mustangs were cheap to buy and maintain.”

He shook his head.

“The romantic image of the cowboy never mentions poverty.”

“Poverty doesn’t make for a good movie,” I said.

“Well, you must come and ride with us sometime soon, Johanna. I’m sure you could teach Annabel a lot.” He paused before going on. “Me, too.”

*

We landed early Thursday morning. Our clients had sent a limousine to pick us up at the airport and deliver us to our hotel. They’d booked a suite on the top floor for Burton and a room for me on a lower floor. It was early in the morning and I had slept on the plane, but I was still tired. I didn’t want to think about the cancer, so I changed into my nightie and got under the covers, intending to take a nap till lunchtime. I set my phone alarm, and fell asleep almost instantly.

When I woke up, it was getting dark. I sat up in a panic, picked up my phone and saw that it was four in the evening. I called Burton and he picked up on the first ring.

“Burton, I’m so sorry!” I cried. “I don’t know what happened! I had my alarm set for noon, local time, but I slept through it. I’ve never done that before!”

“It’s alright Johanna. I called your room several times, then got worried about you. So I asked the hotel to send a maid to check on you. She looked in on you a few times, said you were sleeping peacefully. Jet lag is a terrible thing, it can knock you out when you least expect it.”

“Do you want to go over the presentation? I thought we had all day today!”

“Come up to my suite whenever you’re ready.”

I had a quick shower, got dressed, and ran upstairs. Burton was at the suite’s dining table and had his laptop open. I pulled up a chair and sat by him. I was embarrassed to find he had already gone through our presentations twice, and timed everything. He was doing most of the speaking and I had just a few points to cover.

We did my points first, then went through the whole thing together at double time. At six, he said he was satisfied. I was still embarrassed about sleeping all day and leaving him to do most of the work.

“I’m sorry, Burton,” I said for the tenth time. “I feel terrible about this.”

“You put in a lot of work into getting this presentation together, Johanna. Let’s just see how it goes tomorrow. If we bomb, we’ll go out and get drunk together. But if everything comes up roses ….”

“What?” I asked, pretending to take the bait.

“We’ll go out and get drunk together.”

He delivered the cliché with such a straight face that he made me laugh.

“There,” he said. “That’s what I like to see.”

Our clients were coming to take us out to the Staatsoper, followed by dinner, and our pickup was at seven.

“I better go to my room and get ready,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

*

I put on my long gown, tall heels, and Mom’s snake pendant and bracelets. I added dangly snake theme earrings that I had bought because they nearly matched Mom’s old set. Then I put my hair up in a coiffure and I looked at myself carefully in the magnifying mirror.

There were bags under my eyes, and my cheeks looked a bit sunken. I’d never been a beauty, so I wasn’t vain about my looks, but I really thought I did not look my best. I didn’t want to let Burton down, so I spent a long time doing my makeup. I managed to cover up the bags under my eyes, but there wasn’t much I could do about my cheeks. I wished Roberta was with me, I was sure she would know what to do.

I swirled on my scarf, put on my long coat, picked up my clutch purse, and went downstairs.

Burton was already there, wearing white tie for the opera. He came up and bent over my hand European style.

“You’re looking striking, Johanna,” he said.

“I hope I pass muster,” I said.

Our host arrived a few minutes later. Nicolas zu Ebron Wildenberg was the automotive company’s finance director and was accompanied by his wife, Verena. Burton and I had read up on them. The Wildenberg family had risen to prominence in the late 19th century as industrialists and were elevated to the nobility by the Kaiser at the beginning of the 20th. Wildenberg was tall with a fringe of silver hair like a Roman senator. His wife carried the title of baroness as the younger daughter of a much older Bavarian princely family. She had dark hair and was rather plain, but her eyes were bright and piercing.

Burton went up and shook hands, then introduced me.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Wildenberg said to me. “You are obviously American, but you have a very Bavarian name. I assume you are related to the von Eschenbachs of Abenberg?”

“I have no idea, sir,” I said. “My father’s family migrated from Germany in the 19th century from Bavaria. But I have no idea who my German ancestors were.”

“You carry a grand old name, Fräulein,” said Verena. “The von Eschenbachs were once the masters of Schloss Abenberg or Abenberg Castle in English.”

“Maybe you have noble blood on both sides of your family, Johanna,” said Burton, smiling.

“Both sides?” asked Verena.

“My mother was French,” I said, embarrassed by all this talk about me. “Her family were minor Breton nobility.”

“Herr Wilson, what about you?” continued Verena. “Do you have any German ancestors?”

“None that I know of,” said Burton. “I have an aunt who is passionate about genealogy and she’s traced our family tree back to the 1700s. Almost every single forebear was from somewhere in the British Isles. The name Wilson comes from Wales. Very boring, unlike Johanna.” He paused. “Isn’t it time to leave?”

“It is still a few minutes to seven,” said Wildenberg. “We are being joined by the managing director of one of our main banks, Herr Walter Buol, and his wife. They are Swiss, from Zurich. Walter has a great deal of interest in this deal, his bank is providing the financing for it. I am keen for him to meet you, Mr. Wilson.”

At precisely seven PM, Buol and his wife approached us across the lobby. I looked at the wife with shock and some trepidation. For she was Heidi, the mistress of Thomas Lindt that I had met briefly and tensely at Gasthof Müller in Zermatt during my study abroad year. She had not aged at all and looked just as gorgeous as she had almost a decade earlier. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head in an intricate coiffure that was clearly the work of a hairdresser and her diamonds sparkled in the light.

Wildenberg introduced us, and I could see from Heidi's expression that she recognized me. We all went out to his limo and were driven to the opera house. We were seated in Wildenberg’s box, a choice one just over the stage. Wildenberg directed us to our seats, the men on one side of the box and the women on the other. Heidi and I were seated on either side of Verena.

We had some time before the curtain and a white-gloved waiter appeared with a silver tray laden with flutes of sparkling wine.

“I hope this is not the rubbish served by the Staatsoper,” said Buol.

“No, no,” said Wildenberg. “Verena keeps a few bottles of 2006 Schloss Wachenheim Winzersekt in the cellar here. Very drinkable.”

We all accepted the wine Wildenberg made a toast.

“May our deal fly like the Flying Dutchman!”

“To our deal,” responded Burton.

Wildenberg and Buol began to talk to Burton about the work we had done for them, and I tried to listen. However, I was on the far side, with both Heidi and Verena between me and the men. I could barely hear what they were saying over the buzz of noise as the opera hall continued to fill.

“I am very interested in Bavarian history,” Verena said to me. “You must tell me what you know about your family. All of the prominent families in Bavaria are inter-related. It would be wonderful if we had connections across the ocean in America.”

“Oh, I very much doubt my father’s family were related to the nobles of Schloss Abenberg, Baroness,” I said. “It was my great-great-grandparents that migrated from Germany. My grandmother showed me pictures of them as well as the record of their arrival at Ellis Island in the United States. They were very poor, arrived with virtually nothing as steerage passengers. We always assumed they were serfs or servants who had taken the name of their feudal lord in Germany.”

“Hmm, that’s possible, I suppose,” said Verena. “On the other hand, in Bavaria, it is well known that the von Eschenbachs were among those who incurred the wrath of King Ludwig II for opposing his alliance with Bismarck and the Prussians. Shortly after the Franco-Prussian war of 1866, he confiscated their lands, reducing them to penury. It seems quite likely, at least to me, that some of them fled to America.”

“But Fräulein von Eschenbach does not even look German, Baroness,” said Heidi.

“Ah, Heidi, before you came, she was telling us that her mother was French. What did you say her name was?”

No one had ever spent so much time discussing my lineage before, and I was very uncomfortable. But I could see no escape.

“She was born Marie-Aude Thérèse de Rustéphan in Brittany,” I said. I didn’t want to appear boastful, so I smiled and went on. “As you know, the Breton are considered bumpkins, objects of ridicule and contempt amongst the sophisticated Parisienne.”

“Oh, I have the highest regard for gentry from the country,” countered Verena. “Many of my dearest cousins are from rural locales. Many lost their lands in the East after the last war.”

Fortunately, the bell rang for the curtain, ending the conversation for the moment. The opera was Wagner’s The Flying Dutchman and the orchestra struck up the ghostly overture. The Staatsoper was performing the opera in three acts rather than the traditional format with no intermission. Burton had already told me that we were only going to stay for the first act, then leave for dinner.

Even though I was enjoying the opera, soon after the Dutchman’s aria Die Frist ist um, und abermals verstrichen sind sieben Jahr, I began to feel tired again. No matter how much I tried to concentrate on the music – that I loved –, I just could not keep my eyes open. I was awoken by gentle prodding, and realized that Verena was trying to wake me. The theater lights were on, and all in our party were on their feet. Heidi’s expression was particularly contemptuous as I hurriedly stood up and followed everyone down to the coat check.

Wildenberg took us to an intimate little restaurant in the Altstadt or Old Town. It only had two tables, and he’d reserved the entire place, so we were the only guests. I was still very tired and registered very little of Wildenberg’s conversation with the chef, other than realizing that we were having a fixed menu, so I did not have to order anything. After the soup, I began to feel sick, so I excused myself and went to the ladies’ room. I threw up with traces of blood. I washed the sink to remove all traces of the mess I made, then I rinsed out my mouth and washed my face.

I was about to put my makeup back on when Heidi entered.

“Vielleicht sollte ich mit Ihnen auf Englisch sprechen, da Ihr derzeitiger Wohltäter Amerikaner ist,” she said. She spoke Schweitzer Deutch (Swiss German) very slowly and clearly. (Perhaps I should now speak to you in English, since your current benefactor is American.)

“Gerne spreche ich mit Ihnen auf Deutsch,” I replied. “Obwohl Sie meine Unfähigkeit entschuldigen müssen, Schweizerdeutsch zu sprechen.” (I am happy to speak to you in German. Though you must pardon my inability to speak Swiss German.)

“Sie scheinen ein Talent dafür zu haben, sich an reiche und mächtige Männer zu binden,” she responded tartly. (You seem to have a talent for attaching yourself to rich and powerful men.)

“Vielleicht,” I said. “Aber zumindest bin ich denen treu, denen ich mich anschließe.” (Perhaps. But at least I’m loyal to the ones I attach myself to.)

“Ich sehe, die Zeit war nicht nett zu dir,” she said. “Ich nehme an, sich selbst zu verkaufen ist anstrengend.” (I see time has not been kind to you. I suppose selling yourself is tiring.)

I realized that without my makeup, the bags under my eyes and my sunken cheeks were more obvious. She was looking at my face with complacent superiority, for she could see her beautiful reflection in the mirror behind me. I did not have the energy for any more verbal sparring, so I surrendered.

“Ja, Heidi,” I said. “Ich bin müde. So sehr müde.” (Yes, Heidi. I’m tired. So very tired.)

*

The presentation the next day went very well. Burton was absolutely brilliant, turning my flat analyses into persuasive, irrefutable arguments. I did my little bit without a hitch. The board of the German company were very pleased and strongly endorsed our work.

We were dropped back to our hotel, and Burton shook my hand in the lobby.

“A triumph, Johanna. Now it’s time to get drunk.”

“I thought we were going to do that regardless.”

“Well, I’m going to take advantage of having a German-speaking colleague take me around Munich,” he said, laughing.

I was tired, but Burton looked so eager that I couldn’t refuse. I took him to Augustiner-Keller, probably the most traditional Munich beer hall. We had sausages washed down with a liter of typical top-fermented Bavarian wheat beer. Then after a quick trip to see the Glockenspiel, I suggested we return to our hotel, hoping to get to bed. Once we were back, he touched me on the arm.

“I wonder if I might talk to you for a moment, Johanna,” he said.

“Sure.”

“Shall we sit down in the hotel bar? It’s rather antiseptic, but convenient.”

The bar was fairly crowded and the only place we were able to get with a bit of privacy was a bench on which we had to sit next to each other. The waitress came by. I thought her uniform was a bit over the top, a Bavarian dirndl that featured a low neckline. She had full, firm breasts and displayed her cleavage as she leaned forward. Burton ordered two liters of beer. When she brought them, we tapped mugs. He took several pulls at his beer, but I took just a few sips.

Burton noticed and said, “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to, Johanna.”

He seemed unsure of how to go on, so I tried to lighten the mood.

“You’re the conquering hero, Burton,” I teased. “You’re not playing the part very well.”

“I don’t feel like a hero,” he said soberly.

Burton drained his beer and ordered another one, along with a shot of Jack Daniels. The waitress looked at me, but I shook my head.

“Melissa called me late last night,” continued Burton. “She wants a divorce.”

“A divorce! Whatever for?”

“Mental cruelty.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Melissa says she has evidence of my neglect of both herself and Annabel. She says she will bring up your name in the divorce papers. She claims I spend far more time with you than with my family and suggests we are having an affair. I thought I should warn you.”

“Thank you, Burton, I appreciate that. I can’t believe she’s got the gall to accuse you.”

The waitress brought Burton’s beer and his shot. He tossed the shot back and returned the shot glass to the waitress.
“I put everything I had into my marriage, Johanna,” he said when the waitress retired. “I tried my best, given the demands of my job. I tried to be a good provider of both material goods and emotional support. But apparently, I didn’t do enough.”

He took a pull of his beer.

“I feel very alone, Johanna. I think I’ve alone in my marriage for a long time now.”

“What about your daughter? Your brother?”

“Annabel’s always been very close to Melissa. As for my brother, well, we were a very WASP family growing up. Results-driven, not warm. Rather cold, in fact. My brother only wants to hear about my successes, not my failures.”

“You haven’t failed, Burton. A relationship is a team effort. You can’t make it work by yourself.”

We sat in silence for a few moments.

“There’s some truth in what Melissa says. For a long time now, I’ve felt closer to you than to her. I’m happy I’m with you at this moment.”

I took his hand in mine.

“I admire you, Burton,” I said. “As a lawyer, and as a man. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

“As a man? Really? I didn’t realize that. It gives me a tingle to hear you say that.”

He drank his beer, and wiped the foam off his upper lip.

“I know it’s inappropriate for me to ask this of you, Johanna. You’re so much younger than me, you may consider it lewd, disgusting even. But I would be so grateful if you would hold me. I haven’t felt a caring touch for so long.”

I put my arm around him and made to kiss him on the cheek. But he turned his head toward me at the last moment, and my lips met his. He opened his mouth and I opened mine. It did not seem as awkward as I expected when our tongues met. He put his arms around me, clinging me to me as though he was drowning.

We kissed for a long while, growing increasingly amorous. I felt his upper body through his clothes with my hands. He was well-built, athletic, his body was definitely a turn-on. In between kisses, I looked into his face. He was in his early fifties, but could have passed for a man ten years younger.

“Will you come up to my suite, Johanna? I have no right to ask you this, …, but I’m asking, begging even. If you refuse, I will understand and there will be no consequences. I would never use my power to harm you in any way.”

“I trust you, Burton.” Then I thought about the cancer, about Heidi’s contempt, and asked, “Do you find me desirable right now?”

“Of course. You’re not Barbie doll pretty, but refined, with distinctive looks all your own. You have the bearing of a European aristocrat, with the brash confidence of a frontier cowgirl. An incredibly rich package, but one for a discerning eye.”

“Kiss me again,” I said.

We went up to his suite and he treated me very formally. He led me to the suite’s enormous bedroom with its canopied antique bed. He lay me down in it and undressed me slowly, kissing every inch of bare skin that he uncovered.

I helped him undress and when we were both naked, we slipped under the covers. He held me in his arms and I felt his hardon against me. He kissed me for so long that I wondered whether he would be able to maintain his erection. Just as I had this thought, he rolled me onto my back.

“You can change your mind any time, Johanna,” he whispered. “Don’t feel like you’re under any obligation. You’ve already given me so much.”

“Make love to me, Burton,” I said. “Don’t tease me.”

He pushed his cockhead into me and I gasped. Then he waited till I grew impatient and arched my back to force the issue. Only then did he push the rest of his length into me. He didn’t fuck me, but made love to me, slowly, gently, even though I rotated my hips to urge him on. He began to cum with a rumbling deep in his throat. I did not cum with him, but I was not disappointed. For me, the sexual climax was less important than the intimacy of the act.

I slept with him that night. In the morning, he held me, cuddled me, kissed me, but did not initiate sex again. We had breakfast in his suite wearing the hotel’s fluffy gowns.

“I wish I were twenty years younger, Johanna,” he said, as I left to return to my room.

“Story of my life,” I said.

We never had sex again, even though I tried to tempt him a few times in the succeeding weeks. However, we remained comfortable with each other. Our working relationship was unaffected, except that we became easy with physical closeness. A hand on the waist, a light hug, a palm on the cheek, even a touch shoulder to shoulder, these were tangible gestures that I was happy to give and receive. He had always treated me as an equal and continued to do so.

*

I returned to San Fran again for the Christmas break. Owen had bought Roberta a grand piano and turned one of the parlors of his parents’ Marin county house into a music room, complete with remodeling for acoustics. We spent a great deal of the break here, often with Owen Junior and little Marie.

Most of the time, we just talked and I listened to Roberta play. But several times a day she would prevail on me to play with her. In some ways, it was like we were back in Wisconsin again and I reverted to acting more girlishly around her. I tried to record everything in my memory, for I knew this could be my last time with her in relatively good health.

*

I had my first chemo infusion in the first week of January, 2020. I was told what to expect, especially the pain and the loss of my hair. I got two natural hair wigs that closely matched my real hair. 

I was going to have two infusions in this round, two weeks apart. The breast cancer specialist was going to assess my status at the end of the round in late January. I hoped to continue working and hide my condition from the firm. Howard came with me to the first infusion and warned me it would be difficult.

“I wouldn’t advise it, Johanna,” he said.

“Isn’t it possible to work through it?” I asked.

“You’re having a very strong dosage. It’s even possible you could pass out at times. The standard recommendation is ‘don’t operate heavy machinery. Definitely no driving.”

The pain in the first few days was strong, but bearable. I was most afraid that someone would notice my wig. At the first major meeting of the year, Carlotta Feldman, the firm’s female partner, said, “New hairstyle, Johanna?” I readily grasped this opportunity, and thereafter no one mentioned my hair again.

By the second week, the pain came in waves. There were times when it was so intense that it filled my mind. I couldn’t think, it just blanked out everything else. I hid in the ladies’ toilet during these pain ‘blackouts,’ locked in one of the stalls.

I was working with Burton on an IPO filing for a major tech firm with a valuation of almost a billion dollars. Benson and Carlotta Feldman were backing us up, along with the associates that worked for them. I was charged with doing the final read of the prospectus and doing the filings with the SEC.

I got all the documentation from the other associates the day of my second infusion. I came to the office straight from the hospital and the effects hit me around lunchtime. I literally could not see and just sat in my cubicle with my head in my hands. The pain was so intense that in spite of my best efforts, I could not help letting out a groan every so often. One of the other associates stopped by to make sure I had everything, and I managed to control myself long enough to talk to him. I went through the prospectus, page after painful page of dense paragraphs, trying to make sure everything was in order.

A week later, we had a morning status meeting of the whole team. Burton, Benson and Feldman sat at the head of the conference table and the associates sat around the foot.

“The offering is getting headline coverage in all the financial press,” said Feldman. “But we’re still undersubscribed. I don’t understand it.”

“I’m puzzled as well,” admitted Burton. “I expected interest from all the bulge bracket players. But I don’t see any of their names in the book.”

“How is the filing going?” asked Feldman.

All heads turned to me, as I was in charge of the filings.

“The SEC S-1 filing is due next week,” I said. “I have everything in hand. I’ll make the filing on schedule.”

“What about the Red Herring?” asked Benson.

I looked from Benson to Burton to Feldman to the other associates. They waited expectantly and I bit my lip. I should have filed the Red Herring prospectus the week prior, immediately after my final reading. But in the pain from my second infusion, I had completely forgotten.

“I forgot to file it,” I said.

There was shocked silence in the conference room.

“You forgot to file it,” said Benson. “An IPO valued at nearly a billion dollars and you forgot to file it?”

“No wonder we didn’t get any subscriptions from the Wall Street bulge brackets,” said Feldman.

“I’m sorry!” I said. “I’ll go to my computer right now, I can file it within the hour.”

 I stood up and began running for the door of the conference room.

“Wait, wait,” said Feldman.

I turned around to look at her, and ran right into the conference room door. The impact knocked my wig off my head and it fell to the floor. I felt the cool air conditioning on my bare scalp and everyone in the room looked at me in horror. I picked up my wig and ran to my cubicle. I opened my laptop and pulled up the prospectus that I had gone over the previous week.

It took me an hour to get everything uploaded on the SEC website. Then I emailed the whole team to tell them that the Red Herring filing was complete.

Burton called the entire team back for a meeting in the afternoon.

“My phone has been ringing off the hook,” said Benson. “Everyone is asking why the Red Herring was delayed. They’re suspicious, and it’s reflected in the bids they’ve put in the book. The investment bankers say it’s going to cost the client up to a hundred million.”

“I doubt it will be that much,” said Burton.

“Benson’s number is an upper bound,” said Feldman. “But I’d say the number is going to be at least twenty million.”

“We all know who’s to blame,” said Benson. “I was against hiring Johanna from the start. Now she’s dragged the firm’s name in the mud.”

“I think you should go home, Johanna,” said Burton, gently. “You need rest.”

“I can work –”

“Go home, Johanna,” said Feldman.

“Am I fired?”

“Maybe,” she replied. “We’ll have to convene a meeting of all the partners to decide.”

*

In the end, they decided to censure me, but not fire me. I lost two months’ salary, but retained my medical insurance. I went to see the breast cancer specialist at the end of January, two weeks after my second infusion.

“I’m afraid I don’t have good news,” he said. “The cancer is metastasizing. I was hoping that the strong chemo we had you on would stop that.”

“What’s next?” I asked.

“I’ll be honest with you, Johanna. Things are not looking good at this point. The next step is another round of even stronger chemo, but given the results of the first round, the chances are not good. It’s up to you as to whether you want to try it. It will be even more painful. You didn’t take any of the opioids I prescribed in the first round, but you will have to take them this time. Otherwise, you won’t be able to retain your sanity.”

“When can I start?”

“You’re very weak from the first round. We’ll have to give you a few weeks to recover before we start again. End of February would be the earliest.”

I worked through February at the office, feeling slightly better as the first round of chemo wore off. I was still dreadfully tired all the time. I dragged myself to work, back home, and then straight to bed.

I had the first infusion of my second round in late February. I was barely meeting my responsibilities at work. In fact, I certainly would have been falling behind, except that Burton did a lot of work that I was supposed to do. Then the COVID pandemic hit and the firm moved to working from home. This was a blessing for me, as I could conceal my condition from everyone much more easily.

I went in for the second infusion of my second round in mid-March. At the consultation with the specialist before the infusion, he was caring, but frank.

“There’s still hope, Johanna, but it’s fading. We’re running out of treatment options. I always hate when I have to tell patients this, but you should begin making plans for the end. Talk to your lawyers, get your will in order, that sort of thing.”

I had the infusion, and went home. The following week, the pain was so intense that I could barely hold on to my consciousness. I called Burton, asked for leave from work, and began taking the opioids.

*

The hours pass slowly now, dribbling by as I sit in my chair by the window. The pain is constant, and I look at the time every few minutes. I try to postpone taking the next opioid pill. I want to hold on to my lucidity for as long as possible, as the price of relief is to float away into a semi-conscious haze where I lose touch with my sense of self.

In contrast to the hours, the days march by in fast forward, spurred by their dreary sameness. It seems like every time I look at my phone, a whole week has slipped by. How is that possible? I don’t think I have many left.

I’ve learned firsthand that blood is thicker than water.

Roberta comes every other weekend, leaving her demanding tech job, her husband, and two children in San Francisco. My sister is a ray of sunshine, always cheerful and positive. She takes me on outings to the park, to cafés, to art exhibits. She plays music for me on my keyboard. When I heard her play, I really understand why the great romantics used to say that music is the sound of heaven.

She gently suggests how I would get comfort out of communing with Jesus and the Lord. Roberta was always an observant Catholic, but ever since Mom died, she has become devout. She talks to priests on my behalf and lights candles for me in her church, and even in St John the Divine in New York.

She never complains, but every now and then, she mentions how she would love for me to move to San Francisco. The rational part of me wants to comply, so she can see me every day. But the irrational part of me doesn’t want her in-laws to see me in this state, wasting away. My relationship with them has always been fraught. I am ashamed of what I have become, a frail invalid who can barely walk, the merest shadow of my former self. I can deal with their dislike and even their contempt, but I could not bear their smug pity.

Brigette comes once. But I can see that my state freaks her out. The young have such a hard time understanding weakness. They want to see improvement, recovery, hope, a future. Hopelessness and futility frighten them. I try to be upbeat during her visit, but it is hard, for she easily sees through my pathetic efforts. When I suggest that she could support me just as well with calls and texts, she grasps at that eagerly.

Burton comes once as well. He is gentle, promises to come as often as I want. But I tell him that I have everything I need and remind him of his busy schedule. I encourage him to move on past Melissa, to find companionship for the rest of his life. He leaves, genuinely grateful, and does continue to call.

Everyone else I know sends a message, sometimes a follow-up, but that is it. I am gone, part of their past, something they want to hurry by and forget. Death is always such a downer.

It now takes me a long time to get ready after I wake. I wait for the home healthcare nurse to come by and check on me. She is a kindly lady and does her job well. She asks me all the questions she is supposed to ask. She nods approvingly when I tell her about my daily routine of going downstairs and walking around the block, as though it were a great achievement. Once I lose patience and shout, “It’s nothing! Nothing, I say! I ran the Boston Marathon! I hiked the Presidential Traverse!” Then I see her reproachful expression and apologize.

But what really irritates me about her is the way she looks at me. I can see that she feels sorry for me. It gets harder and harder for me to keep from screaming at her –

You don’t understand! I’m the luckiest girl in the world!

I had parents who were both larger than life, and who loved me unconditionally. Through their genes and life lessons, they gave me the ability to live a life beyond the imagination of most people. I have a sister who is my exemplar of perfection and has always been my rock of support. The three of them made it possible for me to make the most of each and every day. I have been given far more than my fair share of life.

I have had the full measure of extremes. I’ve known heights of happiness, excitement, and achievement so dizzying that thinking of them still intoxicates me. I’ve plumbed depths of sorrow I would not wish on my worst enemy. I’ve seen, heard, touched, all the beauty of this world. Do I wish I had more time? Of course, I do, for that is the human condition. If I lived to be a hundred, on my deathbed, I would still wish for more. So I must be content with the years I’ve had and grateful for the time I’ve been given.

But I don’t say it, for I could never find the words to make her understand.

My only regret is that I never got the chance to give back, to be that ultimate giver, a mother. My own mother gave so much of herself, set such a great example for me to follow. I often sigh, and run my hand over my belly. My womb is wasting away now, it will never nurture a new life. Perhaps it is for the best. I am not leaving behind a motherless child that I can no longer protect and raise.

I think fondly of the men in my life. I allow myself to sink into those memories as I would into the arms of a lover.

Tim, who viewed me as a goddess and put me on a pedestal, but came into my life too young, too soon. Thomas, who treated me like a princess, but left me feeling like a whore. Duane, who never quite knew what to make of me, but still loaned me his heart before moving on and betraying me. Jerry, who saw me as a source of sex and funds, a lifestyle he could not afford, but nonetheless delighted in giving me physical pleasure. Sometimes they were spoiled little boys, sometimes they were strong, caring men, but most of the time, they were something in between.

I loved them all in different ways and the time we shared is still precious. They will never know how much they meant to me. I hope they find great happiness, all of them. And if they ever think of me, I hope they will smile and murmur my name.

I think of Burton, who taught me to be a lawyer, and showed me what the ‘gentle’ in gentleman means. And finally, Jack, my darling Jack, my unrequited love. I still send him messages regularly. I don’t know if he gets them, for he never responds anymore. It is probably better this way. He couldn’t be my sheepdog, couldn’t protect me from this wolf. If he came, his helplessness would tear him apart, emotionally scar him. And he already has too many scars.

I look out the window and see the whole world. I see the snow-covered peaks and the magical glacial lakes of Montana and the Swiss Alps. I see the verdant rolling dales of Wisconsin. I see the horses, oh, the beautiful horses, manes and tails flying as they gallop across the fields. I look down and see the teeming crowds and heavy traffic of the New York streets. What a trip it had been!

I close my eyes and I see Dad, far above me on the ice face, looking back down at me. His twinkling blue eyes were encouraging, radiating encouragement as strong as the rope that joins us. You can do it, Skipper! I’m here for you! I see Mom, sitting by me on the piano bench, with her fingers poised over the keyboard, ready to follow my part of the Satie duet. Her dark eyes echo Dad’s. You can do it, Johanna! I’ll help you! They are waiting for me to join them. I’m coming, I say. I’m coming home.

*

I awoke from my dream with so much pain that I couldn’t help sobbing out loud. There was no one to hear, no one to respond. There was no recourse, no respite.

I pulled Dad’s old Ruger out of my purse and checked the magazine. I put the muzzle up against my temple and caressed the trigger with my finger. Then I put it down and picked up my phone. I had one last thing I wanted to do.

I’m dying, Jack, I texted. But I didn’t want to go without telling you that I love you once again. If there’s a hereafter, I’ll be watching over you from there.

I picked up the gun again but then remembered it hadn’t been fired in quite a while. I hobbled over to my study, and got out the oil and rags. I cleaned it thoroughly and held it up the way Dad used to. Then I went back to the living room. When I sat down, I realized that I was on Mom’s favorite chair, an antique Louis XV. It was part of her inheritance that she’d brought over from France. I shouldn’t ruin it with blood, I thought.

I went to the kitchen and lay down on the ground. I jacked the slide, slipped off the safety and put the gun to my temple again. My phone started ringing back in the living room.

“Shit,” I muttered. “Can’t a girl kill herself in peace?”

I put the gun in the back of my waistband and slowly made my way to the phone and swiped it open.

It was Jack. He said simply, “Johanna.”

There was magic in his gravelly voice, it lifted my spirits immediately.

“Jack! You called!”

“I’m sorry, Johanna. I’m so sorry I haven’t returned your calls and texts, haven’t been to see you. It wasn’t because I don’t care for you. I thought you were better off without me.”

I’d lived my whole life being strong. But now, my strength was gone. I had cracked.

“I need you, Jack. I’ve always taken care of myself, but I can’t anymore. I can’t face the pain alone.”

“Just one more day, Johanna. I’ll be there by tomorrow.”

I went back to my study and put Dad’s gun back in my purse.

Jack came the next day in the mid-morning, just after the home health care nurse left. I led him to the living room and sat him on the sofa.

“You want a beer? Or a soda?”

“No,” he said.

I saw the edges of a bandage at the open collar of his shirt.

“What happened?” I asked, the direction of my eyes making my question clear.

“Cut myself shaving.”

“It’s a pressure bandage,” I said. “You’ve been shot. Or stabbed.”

“It happens,” he said. “Shaving can be dangerous sometimes. But I’m fine. It’s only the good ones that die, and I’m not that good. Come sit with me.”

I sat beside him and he put an arm around me. I put an arm around his shoulders, gingerly, to avoid hurting him. We sat like that, holding each other, and the minutes ticked by. I was so happy, I had a stupid smile on my face.

“How can you be so happy, Johanna?”

“I’m with you, Jack.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then I saw a tear appear in his eye and trickle down his cheek. I wiped it away, saying, “Shhh, shhh.”

“It’s not fair, Johanna.” His voice was so masculine, so strong, but it broke. “You’re the young one, you’re the good one.”

“I’ll fight, Jack. If you’ll stay by my side.”

“I’m here for you. Whatever happens. What’s next?”

“Radiation. I wasn’t sure I wanted it. But now that you’re here, I’ll do it. It’s the last shot.”

His hands formed fists.

“I wish I could give you my life,” he said.

“I wouldn’t take it,” I whispered. He turned his face to me, I kissed him, and he kissed me back. “One day at a time, Jack. We’ll live in the moment, taste the sweetness of each second we have together.”

Finally, he told me what I had waited so long to hear.

“I love you, Johanna.”

*

Against all odds, the radiation worked.

“Things like this make me believe in God,” my specialist said. “No one else could have saved you.”

I’m in remission, but the cancer has left its mark. It has aged me, turned most of my dark hair white. It has etched creases on my forehead, lines on my face. I’d always looked younger than my years; now I look older.

But Jack tells me I’m beautiful and that’s all that matters to me. He lives with me now. I have to pinch myself when I get up in his arms to convince myself I’m not dreaming. Oh, he still leaves suddenly and without explanation. I never know where he's going or how long he’ll be gone, or even if I’ll ever see him again. The only promise he gives me is that if he’s alive, he’ll be back.

He worries that he’s punishing me with the uncertainty. But I remind him that the cancer cells are still there, spread throughout my body. They’re dormant for now, but could flare up and take me at any moment like they took Mom. We’re both living on borrowed time.

I’m working again, even running again, though not as long or as hard as before. That will come. I’m grateful to be alive and to be loved unconditionally. I take joy in each hour, each day. I no longer take time or love for granted.

Every time Jack comes back to me, we talk of our future together. Of the places we’ll go, the mountains we’ll climb. So my story hasn’t ended. Not yet.