“It’s ironic,” he was saying. “No, it’s … cruel. The things we’re research- ing now, recombinant DNA, we’re learning something new about the immune system every day. In five years, I believe, maybe less, we’ll have something that could have saved her.”

Then it was Jenna’s turn to tell something about herself. When she mentioned the Sanctuary, she saw a flicker of interest in the blue eyes.

“You might want to get in touch with the Pierce Foundation,” Brad said. “We fund a lot of charities and causes.”

“Thank you. We depend on donations and grants to keep afloat—but somehow, there’s never enough to help everyone who needs it.”

He nodded, as if he’d heard the story before. “The foundation was really Pat’s idea,” he explained. “She’s been far more active in it than I have. This is the kind of thing she’d support one hundred percent.” He sighed wearily. “I need to get back upstairs. It was nice meeting you. I’m serious about contacting the foundation.”

“Thanks. It was nice meeting you, too.”

His interest seemed so genuine that the next night, Jenna brought along some public relations material on the Sanctuary, as well as a few newspaper stories on the work they did. But, to her disappointment, Brad Pierce was not at his usual spot in the cafeteria. Odd how she had come to expect him, almost as if it were a rendezvous. Something must have happened, she thought, but feeling it would be intrusive to inquire, she simply went home.

O

The Boston Globe devoted a half page to Patricia Bowman Pierce’s obituary, listing all her charitable works and noting her many awards from phil- anthropic organizations. The accompanying photograph showed an attractive woman with an open, friendly expression and a trusting smile. “Mrs. Pierce is survived by her husband, Bradford, the obituary concluded, her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Colin Bowman, a sister, Karen, and a brother, Dexter.” No children, Jenna noted. How sad that must be for Brad.

Though her appointment book was crammed with obligations, Jenna took the time to write him a note. “We don’t really know each other,” she began, “but my thoughts and my sympathy are with you today. I know what it’s like to lose some- one very precious and very dear. If there’s anything I can do to ease your pain, please let me know. Sincerely, …”

In the days that followed, she thought often of Brad, wondering how he was coping with his loss, remembering the tenderness with which he spoke of his wife, the love that was there in his face for all the world to see. When a white vellum envelope from “B. Pierce” arrived, she was oddly disappointed that it contained only a conventional thank-you note—polite but brief; the kind of acknowledgment Brad must have sent to hundreds of people.