She shook her head. “Not really. Maybe a half second before it was obvious.”

Pierre leaned back against the couch again. “It changes things,” he said.

“It doesn’t have to, Pierre. It only changes them if you let it.”

Pierre nodded. “I—”

And Molly heard the words in his mind, the words she had been longing to hear but that had yet to be spoken aloud, the words that meant so much.

She snuggled against Pierre. “I love you, too,” she said.

Pierre held her tight.

After several moments, he said, “So what happens now?”

“We go on,” said Molly. “We try to build a future together.”

Pierre exhaled noisily.

“I’m sorry,” said Molly at once, sitting up again and looking at Pierre.

“I’m pushing again, aren’t I?”

“No,” said Pierre. “It’s not that. It’s just…” He fell silent, but then thought about what Shari Cohen had said to him that afternoon. Howard never told me. You shouldn’t keep secrets from someone you love. Pierre took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Damn,” he said at last, “this is a night for great revelations, isn’t it? You’re not pushing, Molly. I do want to build a future with you. But, well, it’s just that I may not have much of a future.”

Molly looked at him and blinked. “Pardon?”

Pierre kept his eyes on hers, watching for her reaction. “I may have Huntington’s disease.”

Molly sagged backward a bit. “Really?”

“You know it?”

“Sort of. A man who lived down the street from my mother’s house had it. My God, Pierre. I’m so sorry.”

Pierre bristled slightly. Molly, although dazed, had enough presence of mind to recognize the reaction. Pierre wanted no pity. She squeezed his hand. “I saw what happened to Mr. DeWitt — my mother’s neighbor. But I don’t really know the details. Huntington’s is inherited, right? One of your parents must have had it, too, no?”

Pierre nodded. “My father.”

“I know it causes muscular difficulties.”

“It’s more than that. It also causes mental deterioration.”

Molly looked away. “Oh.”

“Symptoms can appear anytime — in one’s thirties, or forties, or even later. I could have another twenty good years, or I might start to show signs tomorrow. Or, if I’m lucky, I don’t have the gene and won’t get the disease at all.”

Molly felt a stinging in her eyes. The polite thing to do might have been to turn away, to not let Pierre know that she was crying — but it would not have been the honest thing. It wasn’t pity, after all. She looked him full in the face, then leaned in and kissed him.

Once she’d pulled away, there was an extended silence between them.

Finally, Molly reached a hand up to wipe her own cheek, and then used the back of her hand to gently wipe Pierre’s cheek, which was also damp. “My parents,” said Molly slowly, “divorced when I was five.” She blew air out, as if ancient pain were being expelled with it. “These days, five or ten good years together is as much as most people get.”

“You deserve more,” said Pierre. “You deserve better.”

Molly shook her head. “I’ve never had better than this. I — I haven’t had much success with men. Being able to read their thoughts… You’re different.”

“You don’t know that,” said Pierre. “I could be just as bad as the rest of them.”

Molly smiled. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen the way you listen to me, the way you care about my opinions. You’re not a macho ape.”

Pierre smiled slightly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Molly laughed, but then immediately sobered. “Look, I know this sounds like I’m full of myself, but I know I’m pretty—”

“In point of fact, you are drop-dead gorgeous.”

“I’m not fishing for compliments here. Let me finish. I know I’m pretty — people have told me that ever since I was a little girl. My sister Jessica has done a lot of modeling; my mother still turns heads, too. She used to say the biggest problem with her first marriage was that her husband had only been interested in her looks. Dad is an executive; he’d — wanted a trophy wife — and Mom was not content to be just that. You’re the only man I’ve ever known who has looked beyond my outer appearance to what’s inside. You like me for my mind, for… for…”

“For the content of your character,” said Pierre.

“What?”

“Martin Luther King. Nobel laureates are a hobby of mine, and I’ve always had a fondness for great oratory — even when it’s in English.” Pierre closed his eyes, remembering. ‘“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.’”

He looked at Molly, then shrugged slightly. “Maybe it’s because I might have Huntington’s, but I do try to look beyond simple genetic traits, such as beauty.” He smiled. “Not to say that your beauty doesn’t move me.”

Molly smiled back at him. “I have to ask. What does ‘ joli petit cul’ mean?”

Pierre cleared his throat. “It’s, ah, a bit crude. ‘Nice ass’ is a close approximation. Where did you hear that?”

“In Doe Library, the night we met. It was the first thought of yours I picked up.”

“Oh.”

Molly laughed. “Don’t worry.” She smiled mischievously. “I’m glad you find me physically attractive, so long as it’s not the only thing you care about.”

Pierre smiled. “It’s not.” But then his face grew sad. “But I still don’t see what kind of future we can have.”

“I have no idea, either,” said Molly. “But let’s find out together. I do love you, Pierre Tardivel.” She hugged him.

“I love you, too,” he said, at last giving the words voice.

Still embracing each other, with her head resting on his shoulder, Molly said, “I think we should get married.”

“What? Molly, we’ve only known each other a few months.”

“I know that. But I love you, and you love me. And we may not have a lot of time to waste.”

“I can’t marry you,” said Pierre.

“Why not? Is it because I’m not Catholic?”

Pierre laughed out loud. “No, sweetheart, no.” He hugged her again.

“God, I do love you. But I can’t ask you to get into a relationship with me.”

“You’re not asking me. I’m asking you.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I’m going into this with my eyes wide open.”

“But surely—”

“That argument won’t work.”

“What about—”

“I don’t care about that, either.”

“Still, I’d—”

“Oh, come on! You don’t believe that yourself.”

Pierre laughed. “Are all our arguments going to be like this?”

“Of course. We don’t have time to waste on fighting.”

He was silent for several moments, chewing on his lower lip. “There is a test,” he said at last.

“Whatever it is, I’ll try,” said Molly.

Pierre laughed. “No, no, no. I mean, there’s a test for Huntington’s disease. There’s been one for a while now; they discovered the Huntington’s gene in March 1993.”

“And you haven’t taken the test?”

“No… I— no.”

“Why not?” Her tone was one of curiosity, not confrontation.

Pierre exhaled and looked at the ceiling. “There’s no cure for Huntington’s. It’s not like anything could be done to help me if I knew. And— and—” He sighed. “I don’t know how to explain this. My assistant Shari said something to me today — she said, ‘You’re not Jewish,’ meaning there were parts of her that I could never understand because I hadn’t walked in her shoes. Most people at risk for Huntington’s haven’t had the test.”

“Why? Is it painful?”

“No. All that’s needed is a drop of blood.”

“Is it expensive?”

“No. Hell, I could do it myself, using the equipment in my lab.”

“Then why?”

“Do you know who Arlo Guthrie is?”

“Sure.”

Pierre lifted his eyebrows; he’d expected her ignorance to be the same as his had been all those years ago. “Well,” he went on, “his father Woody died of Huntington’s, but Arlo still hasn’t had the test.” A pause. “Do you know who Nancy Wexler is?”