The plans for the charity ball the first week of June were her priority. Food, wine, music, decorations. Entertainment, acceptances, regrets, requests. Even though she seemed to enjoy the preparations, they weren’t easy. When someone paid a good sum of money to attend an affair, charitable or not, he expected and deserved the best. She’d spent three long, testy hours with the florist just that morning to guarantee the finest.

“Your pressure is good.” Franco tucked the gauge back into his bag. “And your pulse, your color. Physically, there seem to be no complications. My complaint would be that you’re still a bit thin. Five pounds wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Five pounds would throw my dressmaker into a frenzy,” she returned with a half smile. “She’s thrilled with me at the moment.”

“Bah.” Franco rubbed a hand over his trim white beard. “She looks for a coat hanger to drape her material on. You need some flesh, Gabriella. Your family has always tended to be just a bit too slim. Are you taking the vitamins I prescribed?”

“Every morning.”

“Good. Good.” He pulled off his stethoscope, dropping that into the bag, as well. “Your father tells me you haven’t cut back on your schedule.”

Her defenses came up immediately. “I like being busy.”

“That hasn’t changed. My dear …” Setting his bag aside, he sat down on the bed next to her. The informality surprised her only because she’d become accustomed to the rules she was bound by. Yet Franco seemed so at ease she decided they must have sat just this casually dozens of times. “As I said, physically, you’re recovering perfectly. I have great respect for Dr. Kijinsky’s talents, or I wouldn’t have recommended him. Still, I’d like you to tell me how you feel.”

Brie folded her hands in her lap. “Dr. Franco—”

“You’re weary of doctors,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You’re annoyed by the prodding, the poking, the sessions. Questions, you think, too many questions. You want to get on with your life.”

She smiled, more amused than disconcerted. “It doesn’t seem you need me to tell you how I feel. Do you always read your patient’s mind, Dr. Franco?”

He didn’t smile, but his eyes remained kind, tolerant. All at once, she felt petty and rude. “I’m sorry.” She touched him because it was her nature to do so when she apologized, and meant it. “That sounded sarcastic. I didn’t mean it to be. The truth is, Dr. Franco, I feel so many things—too many things. Everyone I know seems to understand them before I do.”

“Do you feel we’re simplifying your amnesia?”

“No …” Unsure, she shook her head. “It just seems as though it’s taken for granted that it’s a small problem that should resolve itself. Politically, I suppose it’s necessary to think that.”

The resentment, ever so slightly, was there. Franco, who knew what her father was going through, refrained from commenting directly. “No one, especially your doctor, makes light of what you’re going through. Yet it’s difficult for those around you, those close to you, to fully understand and accept. It’s because of this that I’d like you to talk to me.”