Matters of the Heart

“I feel that way about my work too,” she agreed. “It’s all-consuming at times. My husband was very good about it, and very supportive. And he was busy too. Very busy, at the height of his career. Being a doctor’s wife can be lonely too. But it wasn’t for me.” She hesitated for a minute and looked away, and then smiled wist fully at Finn. “I had other things to do.” He assumed that she meant her work, which made sense to him. She had produced an enormous amount of work over the years.

“What did he do after he had to retire?”

“He taught, at Harvard. The academic world was familiar to me, because of my father, although Harvard was more competitive than Dartmouth, loftier maybe, and a little more cutthroat. Teaching wasn’t enough for Paul, so he helped to start two companies that made surgical equipment. He got very involved in that, and he did very well with it. I think it’s what saved him for the first few years, when he couldn’t practice anymore. It took some of the sting out of being sick, for a while anyway, to succeed at something else. And then he got worse. And a lot of things changed. It’s hard to see him so sick at his age. He’s still a relatively young man.” She looked sad as she said it, remembering how he had looked at lunch the day before, having trouble walking and feeding himself, and he was still so dignified and strong, even if he was frail.

“What does he do now? Do you miss him?”

“Yes. But he didn’t want me taking care of him. He’s very proud. And everything changed for us, after he was sick … and other things that happened. Life sweeps you away at times, and even if you love someone, you can’t find your way back again. He bought a sailboat three years ago, and lives on it a lot of the time now. The rest of the time, he’s in London, and he goes to Boston for treatment, and then to New York for a few days. It’s getting harder for him to get around on his own. Being on the boat is easier for him. His crew takes good care of him. He left for the Caribbean today.”

“How sad,” Finn said pensively. It was hard for him to understand why Paul had let Hope get away. And from the way she talked about him, Finn could tell that she still loved her ex-husband and cared about what happened to him. “I guess it wouldn’t be a bad life for a healthy man. I suppose if you’re sick, nothing is much fun anymore.”

“No, it’s not,” Hope said softly. “He’s part of an experimental program treating Parkinson’s at Harvard. He’s been doing fairly well until recently.”

“And now?”

“Not so well.” She didn’t offer the details, and Finn nodded.

“So what about you, when you’re not running off to Tibet and India and living in monasteries?” He smiled as he asked the question. They had both finished their drinks by then.

“I’m based in New York. I travel a lot for my work. And I go to Cape Cod when I have time, which isn’t often. Most of the time, I’m flying around taking photographs, or working on museum shows of my work.”

“Why Cape Cod?”

“My parents left me a house there. It’s where we spent summers when I was a child, and I love it. It’s in Wellfleet, which is a charming, sleepy little town. There’s nothing fancy or fashionable about it. The house is very simple, but it suits me, and I’m comfortable there. It has a beautiful view of the ocean. We used to go there for summers, when I was married. We lived in Boston then. I moved to New York two years ago. I have a very nice loft there, in SoHo.”

“And no one to share it with?”

She smiled as she shook her head. “I’m comfortable the way things are. Like you, it’s difficult being married to a photographer who’s never home. I can do things now that I never did when I was married. I float all over the world, and live out of a suitcase. It’s the opposite of what you do, locked in a room, writing, but it’s not very entertaining for someone else when I travel or even work. I never thought about it as selfish,” as he had said about his own work, “but maybe it is. I don’t answer to anyone now, and I don’t have to be anywhere.” He nodded as he listened, and they ordered dinner then. They were both having pasta, and decided to skip the first course. It was interesting to learn about each other’s lives, and he told her more about his house in Ireland then. It was easy to see how much he loved it and what it meant to him. It was part of his history and the tapestry of his life, woven into his being and dear to his heart.

“You have to come and see it sometime,” he offered, and she was curious about it.

“What sort of doctor was your father?” she asked him over their pasta, which was as delicious as he had promised, and as she remembered. The food there was better than ever.