Part 167 (1/2)

walls. Three paint smocks, their bright colors splattered with even

brighter paint, were tossed over tables and chairs.

An easel still stood by the window, along with a cup of something Emma

wasn't sure she wanted to investigate. With a shake of her head Emma

moved over to the bedroom area. It was hardly more than an alcove. As

the years had pa.s.sed, Marianne's art had taken over. The big bed with

its ornate rattan headboard was squeezed between two tables. A lamp

with a shade fas.h.i.+oned like a lady's straw bonnet sat on one, and half a

dozen candles of various lengths stood on the other.

The bed was unmade. Marianne had refused to make her bed on principle

since they'd left Saint Catherine's. In the closet Emma found three

items, all hers. The black cashmere suit hung between a red leather

skirt she'd forgotten she owned, and an ”I Love New York” sweats.h.i.+rt

torn at the sleeve.

Emma gathered them up, then sat on Marianne's rumpled sheets. Good G.o.d,

she was going to miss her. They had shared everything

-jokes, crises, arguments, tears. There were no secrets between them.

Except one, Emma remembered. Even now it made her shudder.

She'd never told Marianne about Blackpool. She'd never told anyone. She

had meant to, especially the night Marianne had come home drunk with the

certainty that he was going to ask her to marly him.

”Look, he gave this to me.” Marianne had showed off the diamond heart

that hung on a gold chain around her neck. ”He said he didn't want me

to forget him while he was in Los Angeles working on his new alb.u.m.” She

had all but cartwheeled around the loft.

”It's beautiful,” Emma had forced herself to say. ”When does he leave?”