There wasn’t much food in the kitchen other than a startlingly beautiful cake under a glass cover. It looked like the Taj Mahal, with a dome and spires, all covered with vanilla icing and little candies for the finials.
“My mom is a baker,” Patrick said from the other side of the room. “That’s what she made today before she got so sick.”
“She’s quite an artist,” Gwen said.
Hiram, the medical assistant from Brooklyn, hovered close to look. “She’s a Michelangelo!” he said, but their words of praise only seemed to upset Patrick, who remained on the sofa, staring at the cake while he twisted his hands.
His voice was full of regret when he spoke. “I’d offer you a slice, but I dare not touch it. If she dies, that cake will be her last great creation.”
Her heart ached at the anguish in his voice. If his mother died, he’d probably keep this cake untouched beneath its glass dome for weeks. “Nonsense,” she said. “You are her last great creation, and you know that she would agree with me on that.”
A reluctant hint of a smile tugged the side of his mouth, then vanished. An awkward silence stretched in the apartment, and then Hiram’s stomach let out a mighty growl. He clamped his hand over his middle in dismay, but it served to break the spell on Patrick, who stood.
“Oh, let’s cut into that cake. It’s going to be a long night, and Ma would want you to have it.”
He lifted the glass dome, and the scent of vanilla filled the room. Patrick found a knife, and Hiram brought plates down from the shelf. Patrick stood before the cake, staring at it, his face tragic.
“Would you like me to cut it?” she asked gently.
He passed her the knife. “Thanks,” he said simply, but the moment she began cutting, he flinched and turned away.
“I need some air,” he said and headed toward the window to lift the sash. To her surprise, he squatted down, stuck a leg out, then crawled through the opening and onto a fire escape bolted to the brick exterior of the building.
Every instinct urged her to go and comfort him. They were supposed to be enemies, especially after the debacle in the courtroom, but he was in pain, and she couldn’t ignore it.
“I’ll go see to him,” she said, passing the knife to Jake.
In her entire life she had never crawled through a window, but she could do this. She hiked up her skirts and twisted low to fit beneath the window frame, then got a leg through. She expected the fire escape platform to be right there, but she dangled her foot in vain.
“Whoa there, ma’am,” Patrick said. “Can I help you out?”
She extended her hand, and he took it. Her spine scraped the bottom of the window frame, but she got through the window with the grace of an ungainly cow.
“You can call me Gwen,” she said once she finally had both feet beneath her. Steel grating clanged beneath her shoes, and she shook her skirts back into place.
“I’m not the sort to call a fine lady like you by her given name,” he said, and she was sorry for it.
“I wanted to be sure you are all right.”
He sagged as he braced his hands on the railing and looked out at the dark lane illuminated by only a few streetlamps. “No need to fear I’ll fling myself over. I’m sorry I’m such a lousy sport, but I’m not good company right now. I’m mostly just tired and scared straight down to my bones.”
“It’s all right to be afraid,” she said.
He merely shrugged. “I’ve never lost anyone before. My father died before I can remember. You’ve got a lot more experience with this than me.”
“I’m no expert on dying or grief,” she said. “I’m sure what you are feeling is perfectly normal.”
“You’re young for a widow. You’re probably not even thirty-five or forty years old.”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
He blanched and turned away. “Oh Lord, now I’ve really dug a hole and dived into it headfirst.”
He looked so mortified that she had to choke back a laugh. Men were atrocious at estimating women’s age, which was why so few of them dared try.
“It’s okay,” she said, still battling a laugh.
“It’s not okay.” He looked to the heavens for relief, and it was time to put him out of his misery.
