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No, probably a guest’s. Her parents had sat only on the matching chairs in the library, her father on the right with his pipe and his newspaper, her mother on the left with a square of petit point on her lap. The two had been like something out of Madame Tussands wax museum, part of an exhibit on affluent husbands and wives who never spoke to each other.

Jane thought of the parties they’d thrown, all those people milling around that big Colonial house with uniformed waiters passing crepes and things stuffed with mushroom paste. It had been the same crowd and the same conversation and the same kind of little black dresses and Brooks Brothers suits every time. The only difference had been the seasons, and the only break in the rhythm occurred after Hannah’s death. Following her burial, the soirees had stopped for about six months on her father’s orders, but then it was right back on the bandwagon. Ready or not, those parties started up again, and even though her mother had seemed brittle enough to crack, she’d put on her makeup and her little black dress and stood by the front door, all fake-smiled-and-pearled-up.

God, Hannah had loved those parties.

Jane frowned and put a hand over her heart, realizing when she’d felt this kind of chest pain before. Not having Hannah anymore had created the same kind of achy pressure.

Odd that she would wake up out of the blue and be in mourning. She hadn’t lost anyone.

Taking a sip of the coffee, she wished she’d made hot chocolate—

A blurry image of a man holding out a mug came to her. There was hot cocoa in the thing, and he’d made it for her because he was…he was leaving her. Oh…God, he was leaving—

A sharp pain shot through her head, cutting off the tumbling vision—just as her doorbell went off. As she rubbed the bridge of her nose, she shot a glare down the hall. She was so not feeling social right now.

The thing went off again.

Forcing herself to her feet, she shuffled to the front door. As she flipped the lock free, she thought, man, if this was a missionary, she was going to give them a communion with—

“Manello?”

Her chief of surgery was standing on her front stoop with his typical bravado, like he belonged on her welcome mat just because he said so. Dressed in surgical scrubs and crocs, he was also sporting a fine suede coat that was the rich brown color of his eyes. His Porsche took up half of her driveway.

“I came to see if you were dead.”

Jane had to smile. “Jesus, Manello, don’t be such a romantic.”

“You look like shit.”

“And now with the compliments. Stop. You’re making me blush.”

“I’m coming in now.”

“Of course you are,” she muttered, stepping aside.

He looked around while he shucked his coat. “You know, every time I come in here, I always think this place is so not you.”

“You expect something pink and frilly then?” She shut the door. Locked it.

“No, when I first came in, I expected it to be empty. Like my place.”

Manello lived over in the Commodore, that ritzy high-rise of condos, but his home was just an expensive locker, really, decor by Nike. He had his sports equipment, a bed, and a coffeepot.

“True,” she said. “You’re not exactly House Beautiful material.”

“So tell me how you are, Whitcomb.” As Manello stared at her, his face showed no emotion, but his eyes burned, and she thought back to the last conversation she’d had with him, the one where he’d told her he felt something for her. The details of what had been said were kind of hazy and she had some vague impression it had been up in a SICU room over a patient—

Her head started to hurt again, and as she winced Manello said, “Sit down. Now.”

Maybe that was a good idea. She headed back for the couch. “You want coffee?”

“In the kitchen, right?”

“I’ll get—”

“I can pour my own. Had years of training. You couch it.”

Jane sat back down on the sofa and pulled the lapels of her robe closer as she rubbed her temples. Shit, was she ever going to feel like herself again?

Manello came in just as she leaned forward and put her head in her hands. Which naturally sent