He took her up on it. Then for six weeks he disappeared again. At least this time she knew where he was—in his apartment working. It's okay, she told herself. I have to be patient, that's all.

THE GOOD NEWS was, Bobby finished his musical on schedule.

“The timing couldn't be better,” Rose told him on the phone when he gave her the news. “Mother just finished decorating her getaway. She doesn't have anything to do.”

“So she's ready for my show?” Bobby's voice sounded weary and hoarse.

“She hasn't worked in almost a year. And it's autumn, which is when she's usually going into rehearsal. In about another week, the way I figure it, she'll be getting antsy. In two weeks she'll be climbing the walls. By the time she's so desperate she'd be willing to read a script from her doorman, I will put your masterpiece in her hands.”

There was only one thing that could go wrong with that scenario—if for some impossible, unforeseen reason Bobby's musical wasn't a masterpiece. Rose banished the idea from her mind as soon as it popped in. “I can't wait to read it,” she added. “I could come over …”

“I need to do a couple of rewrites. Give me a day or two.”

“Fine,” she said. “Take all the time you need.” She didn't even mention how long it had been since she'd seen him. Tristesse would have been proud of her.

BOBBY HAD SUGGESTED that they meet the next morning at Lindy's. Rose showed up ten minutes early, but he was already there, sitting at a table, with a slice of cherry cheesecake in front of him. Rose started toward him, but he turned and smiled at her and she stopped short. His smile was the old Bobby smile—boyish and vulnerable and just a little bit wicked, but…

“Are you all right?” she demanded. His face wasn't just pale; it was the kind of grayish white you saw in hospitals. Bobby's eyes were red rimmed and he hadn't shaved. She remembered what he'd said about using bennies—which, she'd since learned, were a form of speed—to keep himself awake.

“I'm fine,” he said. He stood up and held out his arms to her, and she saw that he'd lost weight—enough to make a difference in the way his suit fit. How could that have happened in six short weeks? He must have seen the shock in her eyes, because he dropped his arms and said, “I'm sorry I'm such a mess.”

Rose moved to him and hugged him hard, pulling his head to her shoulder so she could stroke his hair. It was an instinctive move, and if she'd thought about it, she never would have done it. But he looked so sick and weary, she couldn't help it. Surprisingly, he didn't back away.

“Bobby, what have you done to yourself?” she whispered.