“Why did the student report you to the Title Nine office?”

“It was a dumb misunderstanding. And the charges were dropped.”

“Jack, what was the complaint? What did you say to make the student uncomfortable?”

“I said—I told them there might be reasons why a teacher would have an affair with a student.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see her staring at him.

“And have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Had an affair with a student?”

“Jesus, Maggie!” he snapped. “Why would you even ask that?” Was he protesting too much? As if, in some dark recess of his consciousness, he had actually considered the possibility?

“It’s just that . . .” She sighed. “My job’s been crazy lately. It’s gotten hard to carve out enough time for us.”

“I miss it, you know. The way we used to be.”

“You think I don’t miss it too?” She looked at him. “I’m trying, Jack. I really am. But there’s so much I have to juggle. So many people who need me.”

“And what happens if we ever have kids? How are they going to fit into your schedule?”

She stiffened and turned away. At once he regretted mentioning the possibility of a child, knowing how devastated she’d been by her last miscarriage. The ghost of that lost baby still haunted them both. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She stared straight out the window. “That makes two of us.”

Charlie was the last patient on Dr. Gresham’s schedule for the day, and they found him sitting all alone in the waiting room, holding a tattered copy of National Geographic in his lap. It had been only a few days since Jack had last seen Charlie, and he was shocked by how much older he looked today, as if the sand in his hourglass was spilling away ever more rapidly. Charlie smiled as they walked in and tossed the Nat Geo onto the coffee table, where it landed on the pile of other ancient magazines.

“You made it,” he said.

“Of course we made it, Dad.” Maggie bent down to give her father a hug. “You didn’t need to drive here on your own. We could have picked you up.”

“Trying to take away my car keys already? You’ll have to pry them from my cold dead hands.” He gave Jack a nod. “Thanks for joining me on this happy occasion.”

“Sure thing, Charlie.”

“Getting older is all fun and games.” He winced and shifted in his chair. “The fact Dr. Gresham needs to discuss the MRI results in person tells me it’s about to get a whole lot more fun.”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Maggie said, but Jack doubted Charlie was fooled by her reassurance. The false optimism in her voice was obvious.

“Mr. Lucas?” It wasn’t the nurse calling Charlie’s name, but Dr. Gresham himself. He stood holding a medical chart, his expression determinedly neutral. A bad omen, right there in his face.

With a groan, Charlie rose from the chair, and they followed Dr. Gresham down a short hallway to his office. No one said a word; they were all girding themselves for what was coming. Maggie and Jack eased Charlie into a chair; then they sat down flanking him, the three of them facing Dr. Gresham across the desk. Gresham placed his hands on the chart and took a deep breath.

Another omen.

“I’m glad you could be here with your father, Maggie,” Gresham said. “You can help explain things to him later, if what I say isn’t completely clear.”

“I’m not an idiot,” cut in Charlie. “I spent forty years as a cop. Just tell me the truth.”

The doctor gave an apologetic nod. “Of course. I wanted to tell you this in person because I’m afraid the news isn’t good. The MRI shows a number of osteolytic lesions in your thoracic spine. It explains the pain you’ve been having, and—”

“Osteo what?”

“Areas of bone destruction. There’s some danger of collapse and compression of T5 if it’s not treated with radiation, and fairly soon. As for the primary—”

“So it’s cancer.”

Dr. Gresham nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s what it appears to be.”

Charlie looked at Maggie, who’d been shocked into silence. Maggie, who understood every word and yet couldn’t produce any of her own.

“There are also multiple nodules in both the left upper lobe and right middle lobe of the lungs. Several of them are peripheral enough for a transthoracic needle biopsy. My best guess is adenocarcinoma. At this stage, with bone metastases—”

“How long?” Charlie cut in.

Maggie reached for his hand, tried to hold it, but Charlie pushed her away, asserting he was still in control. He was not about to play the meek patient just because he couldn’t understand what these doctors were saying about him.

“It’s, um, hard to say,” Dr. Gresham answered.

“Months? Years?”

“It’s not possible to predict these things. But some stage-four patients can live for a year or more.”

“Treatment?” Charlie asked. His voice was brusque and unemotional, while Maggie looked like she was about to crumble.

“At this stage,” Gresham said, “the treatment is palliative. Radiation for the bone lesions. Narcotics as needed for the pain. We’ll do everything we can to keep you comfortable and maximize your quality of life.”

“Dad,” Maggie whispered. Again she reached for his hand, and this time he let her take it. “Jack and I will be right beside you every step of the way.”

“Fine,” Charlie snorted, “but I’ll deal with it in my own way. If I have to go down, I’ll go down swinging. Screw cancer!”

He shoved himself out of the chair. Anger made him push past the pain, and suddenly he was the tough old Charlie that Jack knew, the Charlie who wasn’t afraid to face down thugs in a dark alley. As he strode out of the office, Maggie hustled after him. Jack heard the outer door slam shut.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m sorry about how he took the news.”

“No one takes this kind of news very well.” Dr. Gresham shook his head. “I’m sorry it couldn’t have been better. The next few months are going to be tough on you all. Let Maggie know she can call me anytime. She’ll need all the support she can get.”

When Jack walked out of the building, he found Charlie and Maggie standing beside his car. He was flushed and clearly angry as he waved her away.

“I can drive home on my own.”

“Dad, please. It’s no problem. You need to let us help.”

He shook his head. “I don’t need a babysitter! I’m going home to pour myself a double scotch.” With a grunt, he climbed into his car and slammed the door shut.

“Dad.” Maggie rapped at the car window as Charlie pulled out of the parking space. “Dad!”

Jack reached for her arm. “Let him go.”

“He can’t just take off like this. He needs—”

“Right now he needs his dignity. Let’s allow him that much.”

Maggie pressed her hand to her mouth, trying not to cry. He took her in his arms, and they held each other as the sound of Charlie’s car faded away.

CHAPTER 13

JACK

It was a little before ten a.m. when Jack arrived at the Museum of Fine Arts. Over the main entrance hung a giant banner announcing the new exhibit: ETERNAL LOVERS: ABELARD AND HELOISE, with an image of the iconic pair in a passionate embrace. His Star-Crossed students were already waiting on the front steps, and as he approached, Jessica and Caitlin fixed him with sullen looks. He spotted Taryn standing off to the side, and he wanted to thank her for defending him against the Title IX accusation, but he’d have to do it later, in private. Certainly not while Cody Atwood hovered nearby, as he was today. Instead, he gave Taryn a smile and a nod, and it was enough to make her face light up.

“Professor Dorian?” said a young woman standing near the entrance.

“Yes. You must be Jenny Iverson,” he said.

She nodded. “Assistant to the curator. I’ll be taking your class on a tour of the new exhibit. So welcome, everyone!”

As he followed the group up the marble steps to the second floor, he reminded himself not to reveal any grudge he might have against Jessica, even though he was certain she’d been the source of that Title IX complaint. Keep your cool, Jack. Just smile at the little jerks. They passed through the Rabb Gallery, past Maggie’s favorite painting in the entire museum: Renoir’s Dance at Bougival. He paused to admire the image of the two dancers, the woman in a red bonnet, the man in a straw hat, both so joyously in love. Twelve years ago, he’d proposed to Maggie before this very painting. Let that always be us, he’d said to her then.

How different their lives looked today.

They arrived at the Farago Gallery, where the walls were covered with a dizzying display of oil paintings and triptychs and engravings, all featuring Heloise and Abelard. In the center of the room were glass display cases with fourteenth-century illuminated manuscripts of the lovers’ letters. On the far wall hung movie posters and recent translations of their story—evidence that their tragic tale had become timeless.