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ELEVEN

WE SPEND THE NIGHT at Ben’s. When we’re in bed he tells me that he’s known about my cancer all along.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask.

“Because you were the one who needed to say something.”

“Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?”

He leans over and kisses my hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

In the morning he follows me back to my house so he can pick up Rip the dog. Ben offers for about the tenth time to drive me to the airport. I tell him that Brigid has insisted. I’d finally told her about my cancer the night before, having waited as long as I could, aware that she had cancer problems of her own.

When we’re saying good-bye on my porch, he says, “Remember: You’re not allowed to fall for some mysterious stranger with an accent.”

“What if it’s a hunky male nurse feeding me good meds?”

“Well, that’s different,” Dr. Ben says.

“Get out of here before I start crying.”

“Because you’re already missing me?”

“Missing Rip,” I say.

I’m packed and ready to go when Brigid pulls up an hour or so later, after which we begin the two-hour ride to JFK.

Brigid could afford Switzerland because Rob Jacobson, her college friend from Duke and former lover, paid for it. And said he was willing to do it again if he had to. I can afford the Meier Clinic because of what Jacobson paid me for getting him acquitted. I’d called him by now at Nassau County Correctional in East Meadow to tell him that I was taking his case, but that he is sworn to secrecy until I get back.

Brigid and I are about ten minutes out from Kennedy when she says, “Rob is so pleased that you’ve agreed to represent him again.”

“So much for swearing him to secrecy,” I say.

“He says we’re all family.”

“The hell we are.”

She’s wearing her glasses. Hands at nine and three on the steering wheel. Even her driving posture is perfect.

“He’s still my friend, Jane.”

I angle myself to face her, so she can glimpse my smile. “Everybody makes mistakes.”

“You’re the one going back to work for him.”

Still smiling I say, “I worry sometimes that it’s spread to my brain.”

“He says he’s innocent.”

“Got it,” I say. “And I’m just heading off to Switzerland because I had a sudden urge to look at a bunch of Alps.”

Brigid finally pulls the car up in front of the United terminal. I get my carry-on from the back of her SUV. Since I don’t expect to do much socializing, or having the need to dress up in Switzerland, I’m traveling light.

After we’ve finished our hugging and kissing, Brigid says, “I want you to remember one thing while you’re away.”

“Not to lose my passport?”

“Just remember that you’re Jane Fucking Smith, and you do not lose.”

Not even “effing.”

And her the good girl.