"My lips are sealed."

"How can your fucking lips be sealed, Parker? You know what your friend wanted. Did he get it done? That's all I'm asking."

"You're not eating your salad," Parker said.

"It's a yes-or-no question. You could even nod or shake your head. What's the big deal?" The tears welled into puddles, and Parker looked away. He was not one who responded well to emotion. "Parker, please."

"I know how upset you are, Mona," he said softly, squirming for that drink.

"We were getting married. We were having a family together. You know this, Parker. I may be pregnant already. I need you on my side. Don't let this wonderful man go," she cried. "I love him so much. He's my whole life. What do I care about anything else? Puh, I spit on everything else."

"Mona, please, it's not in my hands."

"Don't give me that shit, Parker. A man's life is in your hands."

"Mona!"

"Sorry, sorry. You know I think the world of you." She controlled herself. She brought the sweetness back, leaned over the table so he could see her lovely breasts. "Parker?"

He was too busy thinking about death to look at them.

"Parker, speak to me."

"I think the world of you, too, Mona. You know that." But where were those drinks? "Ah, thank you."

The two Bloody Marys finally arrived. One was placed in front of Mona. Parker raised his glass to her, clinked the ice, and downed the drink in a few greedy swallows.

Mona pushed hers across the table toward him.

"Thanks, I'll just have a sip," he said. This one he drank more slowly.

"Parker, you know I'll keep you as my attorney. You stand to keep Sales as a client-you know what I mean. Help me out, and I'll help you out." She watched him chew on celery, this man who all his life had despised vegetables.

"What about the power of attorney? Surely you can tell me that," she wheedled.

Parker finished the second Bloody. "Okay, Mona, he didn't sign it."

Mona gasped. "He didn't sign it?"

Parker shook his head.

"There's no power of attorney?"

"Nope."

"Well, who's in charge, then?"

"He is."

"He's in a coma, Parker."

"Yes."

Mona gasped again. For sure she was going to die with her beloved. "Why didn't he sign the fucking power?" she wailed.

"You know Mitch. Superstitious. He'd planned to when he got back." Parker shrugged.

"Oh shit. So he didn't sign the will, either, did he?"

Parker shook his head "no" to the will.

Mona's blood pounded in her ears. The love of her life just couldn't let go. The story of her fucking life. She had to get a handle on this, couldn't let Mitch die. How could she save him? She watched Parker point at the empty glass for another drink. The waiter nodded. Alcohol might help. Mona knew about the girl in the massage parlor, and there were a few other things Parker wouldn't want his wife to know. He was a weak man, putty in her hands. She thought of Mitch hooked up to life support. What had his last will provided? They'd been together twelve years, but she had no idea.

Parker shook his head, waiting for his third Mary.

"What about a living will? What about a health care proxy?" Mona demanded.

He shook his head again.

Mona perked up. "Well, that's good. If he has no living will, doesn't that mean Cassie can't kill him? You are aware Cassie intends to kill him, aren't you, Parker?"

"No, Mona. She's not like that."

"Yes, Parker, she is. She's been stalking me. She tried to kill me just yesterday. You know my loyalty to the family. I love the woman to pieces, but let's face it, she's over the edge. And quite frankly, if she hurts Mitch, I'll have your ass."

"Oh, Mona, don't talk like that. You know you're no toughy."

"Of course not, but I love him so much. He's my whole life. Except for you, he's all I've got. Is the power prepared?"

"Huh?" The lawyer blinked in confusion.

"The document giving the power of attorney to me, Parker. Remember?"

"No." Now Parker shook his head firmly. He wasn't going there.

"You remember, Parker. I was here when we discussed it. We can sign it now."

Parker rolled his eyes and called for the check. "I have a meeting at two." Typical male fade away. It made her want to puke. This kind of thing might work with other people, but it wouldn't work with her.

"Of course, no problem," she said graciously, and reached for her purse. She'd let it go now, but it wasn't over, not by a long shot. As soon as Parker was reminded that Cassie could cause him a good deal of trouble if Mitch died, he'd fall into line, she was sure he would.

CHAPTER 30

EVERY DAY, wearing a scarf and her daughter's huge sunglasses, Cassie went to th e hospital during the visiting hours of eleven to four to visit her husband in intensive care. On days five, six, and seven after his event he was no better and no worse than he had been on days one through four. He was stable and as uncommunicative as ever. As she stood by his side watching the machine breathe for him, she chewed on the inside of her mouth until it was raw. She wished she could make contact and have it out with him just once.

Then on Friday, a full week after Mitch had his stroke, Cassie received a letter from Carl Flauber, a lawyer whose name she had never seen before. Carl Flauber wrote to inform her that he was representing Ms. Mona Whitman in the case of Whitman versus Sales. He had obtained an Order of Protection from a judge in Nassau County against Mrs. Cassandra Sales to keep her more than five hundred yards away from Ms. Whitman. In addition, he was preparing a civil suit against Mrs. Sales for harassing Ms. Whitman in her home Monday, June 3rd, and for kidnapping and driving Ms. Whitman around for two hours while she was having an acute asthma attack, thus recklessly endangering her life. Ms. Whitman was seeking ten million dollars in damages for injuries incurred during the incident. In addition, Carl Flauber advised Cassie that if the life support for Mitchell Sales was terminated prematurely, Ms. Whitman would sue the hospital and doctors for malpractice and Cassie for wrongful death.

Cassie read and reread this letter and chewed some more on the inside of her lips. She folded and unfolded the single sheet so many times in the next few hours that the creases wore thin. It was both absurd and masterful and felt a little like being checkmated in the game of life. The situation reminded her of Nino Palucci's case. A year ago, Rosa Palucci's son, Nino, hired a limo to take him and some friends into the city for an evening of safe drinking. The driver followed them into a friend's apartment where a party was in progress and attacked Nino, knocking him down. While attempting to get the man out of the apartment, Nino punched him in the nose. The limo driver called 911. When the cops arrived, they arrested Nino for assault. The limo driver pressed charges, and when Nino refused to plead guilty to a misdemeanor, the judge and jury convicted him. At his sentencing the judge changed his mind about sending Nino to jail for a year. He got a suspended sentence, but had to pay a fine of five thousand dollars to the complainant. Defending the case cost the Paluccis twenty-five thousand dollars, and the limo driver, flushed with success, filed a civil suit for an additional hundred thousand dollars in damages for post-traumatic stress disorder. Nino was twenty-three, white, and had never been in trouble before.

Cassie Sales was fifty and had never been in trouble before, except unknowingly as a wronged wife. Now she was in the wrong in every respect. She had been wrong to drive to Mona's house and scream at her. She had been wrong to let Mona get in her car. She had been wrong to engage with the enemy in any way. She had learned a lot since then. She did not answer the letter.