She couldn't sit any longer, simply couldn't, and pushed away from the table to roam the room.

"That was how long it took her to swirl into my dressing room and read me her version of the riot act. I was behaving like a spoiled child, an insufferable artist, a prima donna. I tried to tell her that I felt betrayed that she'd brought him along, but she just ran right over me-I was rude, foolish, ungrateful… Luis was ready to forgive me for being willful and overly sensitive and mindlessly jealous, and here I was turning up my nose. Of course, I apologized."

"For what?"

"For whatever she wanted me to apologize for," Caroline said with a wave of her hand. "After all, she wanted only the best for me. She'd seen that I had the best. She'd worked and sacrificed so that I could have a brilliant career."

"I guess your talent didn't count."

Caroline let out a deep breath, trying to expel some of the bitterness along with the air. "She can't help it, Tucker. I'm still working on accepting that, and I'm almost there. There was a time I couldn't help it either. Luis came to my hotel suite that evening. He was charming, sweet, full of regrets and explanations. It had been the strain of being without me for so long-not that that was an excuse for his unfaithfulness, he assured me. But he'd been so lonely, so vulnerable, and my doubts and questions had only added to the strain. The other women, they had only been substitutes for me."

She snatched her glass off the table. "Can you imagine a woman with a single working brain cell falling for that?"

Tucker took a chance and smiled at her. "Yeah."

She stopped, stared at him, then began to laugh. "Of course you would. And, of course I did. He was still the only man who'd ever made love to me. Maybe if I'd had a few flings myself, I wouldn't have been so ready to fall back into the pattern. Maybe if I'd had the same confidence in myself as a woman that I had as a musician, I'd have shown him the door. But I agreed to put all the mistakes behind us, to start fresh. We even talked about marriage. Oh, in a very distant, diluted sort of way. When the time was right, he would say. When things fell into place. And because he asked me, I committed to another tour."

A little surprised, she looked down at her wine. "I'm getting drunk."

"That's all right, I'll drive. Tell me the rest."

She leaned back against the counter. "Luis would be the conductor, I the featured artist. It would be grueling, of course, but we'd be together. And wasn't that the important thing? Dr. Palamo-I had just started to see him-advised against it. What I needed was rest and quiet. I had this nasty little ulcer, you see. And the headaches, insomnia, fatigue. It was all stress, and he made it quite clear that going right back on the road would only make matters worse. I didn't listen."

"He should have tossed you into a hospital and chained you to a bed."

"He'd like you." Amused, she sipped more wine.

"My mother threw a party the night before we left. She was in her element and had a grand time, hinting that it was really an engagement party. Luis responded to that with a lot of winking and hearty laughter. And off we went. As I said, Luis is a brilliant conductor, demanding, moody, but absolutely brilliant. We started in Europe, triumphant. After the first week he moved into his own suite-my insomnia made it difficult for him to get much rest."

"Slimy bastard."

"Not slimy," Caroline corrected him meticulously. "Slick. Very slick. The rest I'll go along with. On a professional level he was a tremendous asset to me. He pushed me musically. He said I was the finest artist he'd ever worked with, but I could be better. He would mold me, sculpt me."

"Why didn't he buy himself some Play-Doh?"

She chuckled. "I wish I'd asked. To give him his due, he never once stinted on his dedication to improving my performance. He did start to slide when it came to treating me like a woman. I started to feel like an instrument, something he would tune and polish and restring. I was so tired, and sick, and unsure. It annoyed the hell out of him when I'd turn up for rehearsal looking exhausted and frail. It annoyed me, too. It annoyed me to see those pitying glances from the other musicians, the road crew.

"I performed well, really well. Most of the tour is just a haze of theaters and hotel rooms, but I know I performed as well as I ever had, perhaps better than I ever will again. I picked up some sort of infection along the way and lived on antibiotics and fruit juice and music. We stopped sleeping together completely. He said I was simply not giving him my best. And he was right. Then he assured me that when the tour was over, we'd go away. So I lived on that. The end of the tour, the two of us lying on some warm beach together.

"But I didn't make it to the end of the tour. We were in Toronto, three-quarters done. I was awfully sick, and I was afraid I wouldn't get through the night's performance. I'd fainted in my dressing room. It scared me to wake up and find myself lying on the floor."

"Jesus Christ, Caroline." He started to get up, but she shook her head.

"It sounds worse than it was. I wasn't an invalid, I was just so tired. And I had one of those vicious headaches that make you want to curl up in a ball and cry. I kept thinking it was only one performance, only one, and if I went to him, if I explained, he'd understand. So I went to him, but he was also lying on his dressing room floor. Only he was lying on top of the flutist. They never even saw me," she said half to herself, then shrugged. "Just as well. I wasn't strong enough to face a confrontation. Anyway, I went on that night. A stellar performance. Three encores, standing ovations, six curtain calls. There might have been more, but when the curtain came down the last time, so did I. The next thing I remember, I was waking up in the hospital."

"Someone should have put him in the hospital."

"It wasn't him. He was just one more symptom. It was me. Me and my pitiful need to do what was expected of me. Luis hadn't made me sick. I had done it. Diagnosis-exhaustion." With a restless movement of her shoulders she walked back to the table to pour more wine, carefully shaking out the last drops. "I found that humiliating. Somehow it wouldn't have been as bad if I'd had a tumor or some rare exotic disease. They ran scads of tests, poked and prodded and scanned, but it all came down to plain old exhaustion complicated by stress. Dr. Palamo flew up to treat me himself. No 'I-told-you-so's' from him. Just competent, compassionate care. He actually booted Luis out of the room once." Tucker lifted his glass. "Here's to Dr. Palamo."

"He was good to me, good for me. If I needed to cry, he just let me cry. And when I needed to talk, he listened. He isn't a psychiatrist, and though he recommended one, I felt so comfortable talking just to him. When he felt the time was right, he had me transferred to a hospital in Philadelphia. It was really more like what they used to call a rest home. My mother told everyone I was recuperating at a villa on the Riviera. So much more sophisticated."

"Caroline, I have to tell you, I don't think I like your mother."

"That's all right, she wouldn't like you either. She did her duty, though. She came to see me three times a week. My father would call every night, even if he'd been to visit. The tour went on without me, and the press played up the collapse, and the fact that Luis was now snuggled up tight with the flutist. He did send flowers, along with romantic little notes. He didn't have any idea I'd seen him with her.

"It took about three months before I was well enough to go home. I guess I was still a little wobbly, but I felt stronger than I ever had in my life. I began to understand that I'd allowed myself to be treated like a victim. That I'd permitted the exploitation of what should have been cherished as a gift. My talent was mine, my life was mine. My feelings were mine. God, I can't tell you what an epiphany that was. When the lawyers contacted me about my grandmother, I knew what I wanted to do. What I was going to do.