Philip shook his head. “It’s no use.” He looked at his bandaged hand. “I’m a cripple.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Lara said fiercely. “There are a thousand things you can still do. I blame myself. If I hadn’t gone to Reno that day, if I had been with you at the concert, this never would have happened. If…”
Philip smiled wryly. “You wanted me to stay home more. Well, now I have nowhere else to go.”
Lara said huskily, “Someone said, ‘Be careful what you wish for, because you might get it.’ I did want you to stay home, but not like this. I can’t stand to see you in pain.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Philip said. “I just have to work a few things out in my mind. It’s all happened so suddenly. I…I don’t think I’ve quite realized it, yet.”
Howard Keller came to the penthouse with some contracts. “Hello, Philip. How do you feel?”
“Wonderful,” Philip snapped. “I feel just wonderful.”
“It was a stupid question. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t mind me,” Philip apologized. “I haven’t been myself lately.” He pounded his right hand against the chair. “If the bastard had only cut my right hand. There are a dozen left-handed concertos I could have played.”
And Keller remembered the conversation at the party. “Half a dozen composers wrote concertos for the left hand. There’s one by Demuth, Franz Schmidt, Korngold, and a beautiful concerto by Ravel.”
And Paul Martin had been there and heard it.
Dr. Stanton came to the penthouse to see Philip.
Carefully, he removed the bandage, exposing a long angry scar.
“Can you flex your hand at all?”
Philip tried. It was impossible.
“How’s the pain?” Dr. Stanton asked.
“It’s bad, but I don’t want to take any more of those damned pain pills.”
“I’ll leave another prescription anyway. You can take them if you have to. Believe me, the pain will stop in the next few weeks.” He rose to leave. “I really am sorry. I happen to be a big fan of yours.”
“Buy my records,” Philip said curtly.
Marian Bell made a suggestion to Lara. “Do you think it might help Mr. Adler if a therapist came to work on his hand?”
Lara thought about it. “We can try. Let’s see what happens.”
When Lara suggested it to Philip, he shook his head.
“No. What’s the point? The doctor said…”
“Doctors can be wrong,” Lara said firmly. “We’re going to try everything.”
The next day a young therapist appeared at the apartment. Lara brought him in to Philip. “This is Mr. Rossman. He works at Columbia Hospital. He’s going to try to help you, Philip.”
“Good luck,” Philip said bitterly.
“Let’s take a look at that hand, Mr. Adler.”
Philip held out his hand. Rossman examined it carefully. “Looks as though there’s been quite a bit of muscle damage, but we’ll see what we can do. Can you move your fingers?”
Philip tried.
“There’s not much motion, is there? Let’s try to exercise it.”
It was unbelievably painful.
They worked for half an hour, and at the end of that time Rossman said, “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“No,” Philip said. “Don’t bother.”
Lara had come into the room. “Philip, won’t you try?”
“I tried,” he snarled. “Don’t you understand? My hand is dead. Nothing’s going to bring it back to life.”
“Philip…” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry,” Philip said. “I just…Give me time.”
That night Lara was awakened by the sound of the piano. She got out of bed and quietly walked over to the entrance of the drawing room. Philip was in his robe, seated at the piano, his right hand softly playing. He looked up when he saw Lara.
“Sorry if I woke you up.”
Lara moved toward him. “Darling…”
“It’s a big joke, isn’t it? You married a concert pianist and you wound up with a cripple.”
She put her arms around him and held him close. “You’re not a cripple. There are so many things you can do.”
“Stop being a goddamn Pollyanna!”
“I’m sorry. I just meant…”
“I know. Forgive me, I”—he held up his mutilated hand—“I just can’t get used to this.”
“Come back to bed.”