Judd had a ticklish spot midway between his lowest rib and his right hipbone. He had a birthmark on his left shoulder blade, and he'd grown misty-eyed when she traced every inch of the ugly, jagged scars on his leg with her loving lips.
This has always been an object of fantasy for me, he had confessed, tugging lightly on her long, single braid.
Really?
Really.
How? He had only smiled mysteriously and demurred from telling her. Then show me.
Her seductive suggestion had turned his eyes smoky. When he acted out his fantasy with her full cooperation, their harmonious cries of fulfillment had echoed off the walls of the house.
That was the instant she knew unequivocally that she loved him, and her decision had dawned crystal clear. The solution to her dilemma had unexpectedly risen out of the murky depths of confusion and despair.
Life, in its simplest, most basic form was far more precious than any amenities it could afford, such as prizes and fame, respect and riches, the acceptance of either peers or strangers.
While Judd was still dressing, she had gone downstairs, ostensibly to prepare them a light supper. Instead she had grabbed her purse, taken his car keys, and left the house at a dead run, not so much because she feared his wrath over her deception and desertion, but because she feared that given time to think about it, she would change her mind.
She had got as far as the edge of the clearing before he ran out onto the porch, shouting after her, "What the hell? Stevie, come back. Where are you going?" Then, when he realized that she was escaping in their only means of transportation, he'd become furious.
"Damn you, what kind of stunt is this? Ouch!
Hell!" Livid, he had cursed when he stepped on the stone. "When I catch up to you, I'll strangle you for this. Dammit," he had sworn, slamming one fist into his other palm.
Her condominium was dark. She was relieved to see that there was no one lurking about. Either the news hounds and merely curious had tired of their siege or had given up on Stevie Corbett altogether.
Her plants needed her immediate attention.
She chided herself for forgetting to call the service that took care of them in her absence and vowed to do so at her earliest convenience, though God knew when that would be.
Her first telephone call went to her gynecologist, who was so glad to hear from her that he was nearly incoherent with relief.
"If I don't do it now, I might change my mind." She spoke so quickly that the words stumbled over each other. "I can be there in an hour. Can you make the arrangements that soon?"
He promised he could and would. The next call she made was to her manager.
"Stevie, thank God. I've been frantic."
"I needed time alone to think." She hadn't been alone, but Judd was too complicated to explain, even to herself. "I'm checking into the hospital tonight. The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning."
A significant pause ensued. "It's your decision, of course," he said.
"Yes, it is. My life is in the balance. That's more important than a career."
"Hey, it's only Wimbledon," he said with false cheer. "They have it every year. Next year it belongs to you."
They both knew better, but Stevie tried to inject enthusiasm into her voice when she said,
"You'd better believe it."
He promised to notify everyone concerned and to issue a statement to the press, which had been having a field day speculating on her whereabouts.
"That's fine, but hold off until tomorrow after the surgery, okay? No matter what the outcome, we'd just as well tell them everything at once." He agreed before hanging up.
After the connection was broken, Stevie felt terribly alone. The silence in her house was depressing, so accustomed was she to hearing the pecking noise of Judd's typewriter in the background.
The framed photos on the walls, picturing her holding aloft trophies of victory, seemed to jeer at her. Memorabilia of her career mocked her from bookshelves and etageres. The prize from The French Open, so recently acquired, no longer seemed to belong to her.
"Too late to reconsider now," she reminded herself as she went into her bedroom and began packing a small suitcase. Then, like a prayer, she whispered, "Stevie, your life is in God's hands."
God had a lot of helpers.
At least there were innumerable people who got their hands on her before she ever made it to the operating room the following morning. By then she had been stripped of all dignity and privacy.
Leaving Judd's car locked in her garage-it wouldn't do to have it stolen twice in one day- she was conveyed to the hospital by taxi.
In Admittance, she had to attach her signature to an endless number of insurance forms, as well as to a note to Jennifer. "My twelve-year-old daughter wants to grow up and be exactly like you," the star-struck receptionist told her.
From there she was taken to be x-rayed.
Wearing nothing except a paper poncho, she was placed in a room as cold as a meat locker and instructed to wait, which she did for over an hour before an unapologetic technician came in to x-ray her lungs.
"There, that wasn't that bad, was it?" another technician asked as he slipped the syringe from her vein, from which he'd drawn what looked like a quart of blood. "You can relax now," he said, working her fingers out of the tight fist she'd formed. "Did I hurt you?"
"No," she replied gruffly. "I just don't like needles."
She was finally placed in a private room, but was granted little privacy. A stiff, no-nonsense nurse came swishing in with a sheaf of yet more forms to be signed. "They showed you the video tape downstairs?" she asked dispassionately.
"Did you understand it?"
"Yes." The tape had explained all the things that could go wrong during abdominal surgery, each possibility more terrifying, irreversible and deadly than the last.
"Sign here, here and here."
The hospital chaplain came in next. "You're the celebrity in our midst," he said, flashing a glorious smile. After discussing the best remedy for tennis elbow, they bowed their heads over their clasped hands. He prayed for the skilled surgeon and her full, rapid recovery.
Stevie prayed for Judd's stone-bruised heel, forgiveness for stealing his car, protection from strangulation when he caught up with her and for a lawsuit against the hospital on her behalf if she should die on the operating table. She thought somebody should hold the institution accountable even if she'd signed forms absolving it of responsibility.
Her gynecologist came in next and explained the surgical procedure. "If the tumors are be nign, and I have every reason to believe that they are, we'll remove them and you'll be as good as new." 'And if they're not?"
"Probably a complete hysterectomy, followed by treatment."
"What kind of treatment? Radiation?"
He patted her hand. "Let's get through the surgery first. Then if we have to discuss options, we will."
The anesthesiologist, who disturbingly reminded her of Count Dracula because of his steep widow's peak, came in and sat down on the edge of her bed. "First thing in the morning, you'll be given a sedative. We'll put in two IVs, one in your arm, the other on the back of your hand."
"I don't like needles," she said in a choked voice.
"I promise to send in my painless assistant. By the time you reach the operating room, you'll be drowsy. Sleep well tonight."
Sleep well? What a joke. She was cleansed from the inside out-a humiliating experience- and given a shot to make her sleepy. She refused anything to eat, even though it had been lunchtime that day since she'd had a bite.
Didn't any of these efficient ghouls realize that she couldn't possibly go to sleep without the distant and reassuring sound of Judd's typewriter?