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 fashioned 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" sweatshirt

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?"

"Tonight. I took him to the airport."

The relief had come in waves.

"I sat in the parking lot and cried like a baby for a half hour after

his plane took off. Stupid. He'll be back." She had whirled then to

throw her arms around Emma. "Emma, he's going to ask me to marry him. I

know it."

"Marry him?" Relief had skidded into panic. She had remembered the feel

of his hands on her, bruising her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "But, Marianne, he's -how-"

"It was the way he said goodbye, the way he looked at me when he gave me

the necklace. Christ, Emma, it took everything not to beg him to take

me with him. But I want him to send for me. I know he will. I know he

will."

Of course, he hadn't.

Marianne had sat by the phone every night, had rushed home from cla.s.ses

day after day to check for messages. There hadn't been a word from him.

Three weeks later, the first inkling of why had come in via the

airwaves. There had been Blackpool, in his trademark black leather,

escorting a young, sultry brunette backup singer to some Hollywood bash.

The first clips ran on television. Then the tabloids dug in.

Marianne's first reaction had been to laugh it off. Her next had been

to try to reach him. He had never returned her calls. People ran a

feature on him and his hot new love. Marianne was told that Mr.

Blackpool was vacationing in Crete. He'd taken the brunette with him.

Emma rose and walked to the studio window. Before or since she'd never