“Yes, I do. It’s what I do. What’s the alternative, being kept by you?”

“You know, we are so lucky to be in the rare situation of not having to do too many unpleasant things for the money, and I would call it supported, not kept, though of course I do plan to keep you. I mean I plan for you to keep me. I want us to keep each other.”

“I would have a hard time with that. I know you don’t get it, but the money thing is hard for me. It’s important. I have always supported myself. It’s thrilling to be giving away Esther’s money, but it really isn’t a life-changing amount—Hold it, wait, what’s this?” Rebecca had been rummaging deeper through George’s old material.

“What?” The score in front of him had caught George’s attention again, and he was examining it critically, making new pencil notations and talking to himself. “Can it be any more obvious? Oh shit, yes, it can,” he muttered to himself under his breath.

“This. Oh my god.” Rebecca dropped the folder in her hands, and the sheets of Huntington’s Concerto charts spilled onto the floor.

“What?” said George, engrossed, leaning in closer and frowning, then vigorously erasing all that he had just written, scattering erasure crumbs across the pages. “Crap. Crap crap crap. Who wrote this crapulosity? Hm?”

“A Huntington’s piece? A concerto? Pay attention! How could you work on something like this without telling me? Especially after that lymphosarcoma disaster.”

He swiveled on the bench to face her. “Oh, that, hey. No, no. It’s very old, for one thing. Give it here.” He took the empty folder and a few sheets she had started to pick up from her hand and laid it on the piano bench beside him. “Rebecca, listen to me. I haven’t even seen it in years, and I am not working on it. For another thing, I haven’t touched it since long before Stark got sick, and for a third thing, since we’re on the subject, you have never asked me once in all these years why I haven’t ever considered writing something connected to Huntington’s. I don’t know why you’re so surprised that I would think of it.” He got up from the piano and brushed his eraser crumbs into a neat pile, then knelt down to gather all the pages together.

“Promise you won’t do it. Promise!” She pummeled him on his shoulder for emphasis.

“Won’t do what? Ow. What are you so frantic about?” He sorted the sheets into their proper order and stood, holding the bundle of pages defensively.

“You won’t work on this piece ever again, will you?”

“Hey, Rebecca, you make it sound like I have to promise you I won’t get Huntington’s. Do you think I could get Huntington’s if I finish this piece? Which is, by the way, an ugly juvenile botch for all kinds of reasons not remotely connected to the disease. Not that I was planning to work on it, but you know, you’re kind of pissing me off.”