Public Secrets

were stacked drunkenly against the walls. Three paint smocks, their bright colors splattered with even brighter paint, were tossed over tables and chairs.
An easel still stood by the window, along with a cup of something Emma wasn’t sure she wanted to investigate. With a shake of her head Emma moved over to the bedroom area. It was hardly more than an alcove. As the years had passed, Marianne’s art had taken over. The big bed with its ornate rattan headboard was squeezed between two tables. A lamp with a shade fashioned like a lady’s straw bonnet sat on one, and half a dozen candles of various lengths stood on the other.

The bed was unmade. Marianne had refused to make her bed on principle since they’d left Saint Catherine’s. In the closet Emma found three items, all hers. The black cashmere suit hung between a red leather skirt she’d forgotten she owned, and an “I Love New York” sweatshirt torn at the sleeve.
Emma gathered them up, then sat on Marianne’s rumpled sheets.
Good God, she was going to miss her. They had shared everything—jokes, crises, arguments, tears. There were no secrets between them. Except one, Emma remembered. Even now it made her shudder.
She’d never told Marianne about Blackpool. She’d never told anyone. She had meant to, especially the night Marianne had come home drunk with the certainty that he was going to ask her to marry him.
“Look, he gave this to me.” Marianne had showed off the diamond heart that hung on a gold chain around her neck. “He said he didn’t want me to forget him while he was in Los Angeles working on his new album.” She had all but cartwheeled around the loft.
“It’s beautiful,” Emma had forced herself to say. “When does he leave?”
“Tonight. I took him to the airport.”
The relief had come in waves.
“I sat in the parking lot and cried like a baby for a half hour after his plane took off. Stupid. He’ll be back.” She had whirled then to throw her arms around Emma. “Emma, he’s going to ask me to marry him. I know it.”
“Marry him?” Relief had skidded into panic. She had remembered the feel of his hands on her, bruising her breasts. “But, Marianne, he’s—how—”
“It was the way he said goodbye, the way he looked at me when he gave me the necklace. Christ, Emma, it took everything not to beg him to take me with him. But I want him to send for me. I know he will. I know he will.”
Of course, he hadn’t.
Marianne had sat by the phone every night, had rushed home from classes day after day to check for messages. There hadn’t been a word from him.
Three weeks later, the first inkling of why had come in via the airwaves. There had been Blackpool, in his trademark black leather, escorting a young, sultry brunette backup singer to some Hollywood bash. The first clips ran on television. Then the tabloids dug in.

Marianne’s first reaction had been to laugh it off. Her next had been to try to reach him. He had never returned her calls. People ran a feature on him and his hot new love. Marianne was told that Mr. Blackpool was vacationing in Crete. He’d taken the brunette with him.
Emma rose and walked to the studio window. Before or since she’d never seen Marianne so devastated. It had been a relief, a great one, when Marianne had finally broken out of her weepy depression, had cursed Blackpool with an expertise that had warmed Emma’s heart. Then, ceremonially, she had tossed the diamond heart out of the window. Emma had always hoped some sharp-eyed bag lady had happened across it.
She’d gotten over it, Emma mused. She’d bounced back into her work with a crack that she’d owed Blackpool. No artist could be worth her salt if she hadn’t suffered.
Emma could only wish she herself had been able to forget it as easily. She would remember, always, everything he’d said to her, every name he’d called her. Her only revenge-had been to burn his prints and negatives.
That was the past, she thought briskly and rose. Her problem was she remembered things too clearly. It was both a blessing and a curse that she could see things that had happened a year before, twenty years before, as easily as she could see her own face in the mirror.
Except for one night in her life, she thought. And that only came in misty dreams.
With her recovered clothes over her arm, she started downstairs. The buzzer sounded, making her frown. Everyone knew Marianne was gone, and that she herself was practically out the door.
The