“I haven't agreed yet,” she said, looking mischievous but loving.

“You will,” he said confidently, and he was right. By the end of the week, she had agreed. She was going to ask Sam for a divorce, and marry Brock as soon as it was final.

“I must be crazy,” she said distractedly, “I'm twice your age.”

“You're ten years older, that doesn't even count, and you look younger than I do.” She did actually, she had dropped years since they had moved to Long Island. The effects of the chemo were falling away, her hair was thicker than it ever had been, and she had lost the bloat from the chemo. She looked the same as she had before the cancer, maybe better. And they were like kids as they played on the beach on the weekends. She was very relaxed when she and Brock drove in on Monday mornings. Carmen came out late on Sunday nights, so they could go back to the city on Monday in time to get to work. And they left work as early as they could on Thursdays and drove out to Long Island. Most of the lawyers took Fridays off in the summer, and the firm closed at noon, like many New York corporations.

And when they got back to their house at the beach, Annabelle was always waiting for them, happy and excited. During the week, Alex and Brock stayed at his place, or hers, whichever seemed the most convenient. It was the perfect summer.

Annabelle had heard from her father several times. He was in Cap d'Antibes by then. He had called her, and sent her a dozen postcards. But Alex hadn't talked to him, he never called when she was there. She didn't want to ask him for the divorce over the phone anyway. She had no doubts anymore. Brock had convinced her. He had done more than any man ever could to prove himself to her. And as long as he knew what he was doing, and what he wanted, she had no reason to question him any further. She knew that she loved him. She felt very lucky to be with him.

And she was surprised when they were lying on the beach in mid-July, and she saw him looking at her bathing suit, and then he leaned over and kissed her.

“You're beautiful,” he said warmly, and she smiled at him. Annabelle was nearby, but the prospect of a little “nap” after lunch was very appealing.

“You're blind,” she responded, squinting at him in the sun, and then he gently touched her breast with one hand, and she could feel her whole body tingle.

“I think we should see a plastic surgeon sometime soon.”

“Why?” She tried to sound casual, but she didn't like talking about it. In spite of his gentleness with her, she was still self-conscious about the way she looked. And most of the time she wore a prosthesis.

“I just think you should,” he said kindly.

“Want me to get a new nose, or a face-lift?”

“Don't be such a twit. You're too young to spend the rest of your life hiding. You should be parading around naked all the time.” He was actually fairly circumspect, but she knew he was trying to make her feel better about her missing breast.

“You mean you want me to run around naked like Sam's little English girl? I don't think so.” The thought of Daphne still annoyed her.

“Never mind that. You know what I mean. At least talk to a doctor, find out what's involved. You could do it this summer and get it over with, and then you'd have two boobs forever.”

“It sounds awful, and it hurts a lot.”

“How do you know?”

“I've talked to other women in my support group, and Dr. Webber told me. It sounded disgusting.”

“Don't be such a wimp.” They both knew she was anything but a wimp. But he also wanted her to feel self-confident, and whole again. He nagged her about it, and even gave her the name of a well-known reconstructive plastic surgeon he'd found through a surgeon friend. Brock was always very resourceful.

“I made an appointment for you,” he said bluntly, one afternoon at work, and she stared up at him in amazement.

“That's a pushy thing to do.” She didn't want to go, and she argued with him about it for half an hour. “I'm not going.”

“Yes you are, I'm taking you. Just talk to the guy. It can't hurt you.”

She was still fuming about it when the day of the appointment came, but in the end, she went with him, and she was surprised how different this doctor was from her other surgeon. Where the other one was cold and methodical and dealing with hard facts and undeniable dangers, this one was dealing with improving things, and making people feel better about themselves. He was round and short, and gentle, and he had a good sense of humor. He had her laughing after a few minutes, and gently worked the conversation around to the procedure that had brought them to see him. He examined Alex's breast, or where it had been, and looked at the other one too, and told her he thought they could do a good job for her. They could either put an implant in or do a tissue expansion, which would require two months of weekly injections of saline solution to obtain the desired form. If anything, Alex preferred the immediacy of the implant. But in any case, she wasn't convinced yet. He explained that the surgery would be costly, of course, and not without pain, but they could take care of most of that for her, and at her age, he told her he thought it was well worth it.

“You don't want to look like that for the rest of your life, Mrs. Parker. We can give you a beautiful breast.” He had suggested nipple sharing and a tattoo to complete the picture. And in spite of everything he said to encourage her, Alex still thought it sounded awful.

But after they made love that night, she asked Brock if it mattered to him if she didn't do it.

“Of course not,” he said honestly. “I just thought you should. For you. But it's up to you. I'd love you with no boobs. God forbid.” Once was enough for a lifetime.

But without saying anything to him, she thought about it for two weeks, and at the end of July, she surprised him one morning in East Hampton.

“I'm doing it,” she said, sitting down at the table with him after finishing the dishes. He was deep in the Sunday paper.

“Doing what?” he asked, looking up at her, confused, but always interested in what she had to tell him. “Are we doing something today?”

“Not today. I'm going to call on Monday.”

“Call who?” He felt as though he had already missed an important part of the conversation.

“Greenspan.”

“Who's that?” His mind was blank. He was half asleep. Maybe a new client.

“The doctor you took me to. The plastic surgeon.” She looked very determined, and kind of nervous.

“You are?” He beamed, he was happy for her. He thought she'd be pleased afterwards. “Good for you!” He kissed her, and on Monday, true to her word, she called him and told him she had decided on the implant. She was terrified, about the surgery, and more pain, but once she decided to go ahead with it, she was determined to do it. He had had a cancellation at the end of the week, and he told her to expect to spend four days in the hospital, but after that she could go back to work. It would be painful for a while, more painful than her previous surgery, he confessed, but nothing like the discomfort she had experienced with chemo.

She took Thursday off that week, and Carmen agreed to stay in East Hampton with Annabelle. Alex told Annabelle that she had to go away on business. She didn't want to worry her with telling her about the hospital. The only one she told was Carmen, who was concerned at first, but then relieved when Alex told her why she was going. She thought it was a good idea too, and so did Liz. Everyone was excited about it, except Alex, who was terrified, and had second thoughts at the last minute.

On Wednesday night, she lay awake all night, next to Brock, wishing she hadn't said she would do it.

Brock took her to Lenox Hill at seven a.m. the next day, and a nurse and an anesthesiologist explained all the procedures to them. They gave Alex a hospital gown, and the nurse started an IV, and as soon as she did, Alex started to cry uncontrollably. All she could think of was having chemo, and her last surgery, and she felt utterly stupid.

Dr. Greenspan arrived and ordered a shot of Valium for her. “We believe in keeping everyone happy around here,” he smiled, and then looked at Brock with amusement, “would you like one too?”

“I'd love it.”

She was already half asleep when they wheeled her toward surgery, and Brock waited nervously in her room, and paced the halls, until five hours later when Dr. Greenspan came and told him she had done well. He was very pleased. It was a complicated procedure but everything had gone smoothly.

“I think she'll be very happy with the results.” He had put an implant in, and as her original breast had been small, it did not require extensive tissue expansion although of course there had been some to obtain the desired form. There had been other options as well, but Alex preferred the immediacy of the implant, although she understood that it had to be carefully monitored in case of leakage, and she would have to be part of a control group, to provide data on silicone implants. “She'll have to come back in a month or two for some final adjustments.” They had told her that the final nipple reconstruction and tattoos could be done with a local. “But I think she'll do fine,” Greenspan reassured him.

It was another two hours before she came down from the recovery room, and when she did, she was still very woozy.

“Hi,” she whispered to him, “how did it go?”

“It looks great,” he reassured her, although of course he hadn't seen it.

The next four days in the hospital were uncomfortable for her, more than she'd expected, and she was still in a fair amount of pain when she went back to the office on Monday. But it had none of the implications of her earlier surgery, and none of the dangers.