One week in 1989, Rosemary Breslin got a headache that wouldn't go away. After countless tests and treatments, doctors knew little about her strange disease except that it wasn't AIDS or cancer. Two years later, out of a job, in debt, and worried about insurance, Rosemary was invited out by friends--not knowing this would be the night she met her future husband. This is one woman's story about having a real life while facing the question of how long she might live. Serialized in Self magazine. 208 pp. National ads. Author tour. 40,000 print. 1989, Rosemary Breslin got a headache that wouldn't go away. After countless tests and treatments, doctors knew little about her strange disease except that it wasn't AIDS or cancer. Two years later, out of a job, in debt, and worried about insurance, Rosemary was invited out by friends--not knowing this would be the night she met her future husband. This is one woman's story about having a real life while facing the question of how long she might live. Serialized in Self magazine. 208 pp. National ads. Author tour. 40,000 print. From the Hardcover edition. One week in 1989, Rosemary Breslin got a headache that wouldn't go away. After countless tests and treatments, doctors knew little about her strange disease except that it wasn't AIDS or cancer. Two years later, out of a job, in debt, and worried about insurance, Rosemary was invited out by friends--not knowing this would be the night she met her future husband. This is one woman's story about having a real life while facing the question of how long she might live. Serialized in Self magazine. 208 pp. National ads. Author tour. 40,000 print. "From the Hardcover edition. Rosemary Breslin  was a journalist and screenwriter. She worked at  The New York Times ,  Newsday , and the New York  Daily News . Her articles appeared in  Elle ,  New York  magazine,  Rolling Stone , and  New Republic . The author of  Not Exactly What I Had in Mind: An Incurable Love Story,  Breslin died in 2004. The Present   I think I found my husband’s next wife. Since we bought this tiny cottage in the country a few months back I’d been in search of a good breakfast place that opens early. Much as I love diners and beat-up coffee shops, the coffee never has a good kick and the muffins almost always have the consistency of paperweights. I found a great one that serves thick, strong coffee and light, fresh muffins. As I stood on line to order, I immediately turned my eye to the women who run the place. Standing together, they were good-looking, hardworking, hip. They could handle things.   Of the two, Ann’s the one I chose on the spot. I first saw her at the grill, in the early morning rush of farmers and truckers and laborers and newcomers like me, second-home owners from the big city, and she was great to watch. Thin, muscular, hair loosely pulled back, up before four but still looking great as she fills the orders with great efficiency, cutting off slabs of fresh cinnamon bread or flipping orders of thick hash browns.   Ann and I hit it off immediately. We started out the usual way. A smile. A nod of recognition. A wave good-bye after I paid for my papers and order. Then we got to talking. I told her I’d just bought my house and she told me she had been a biochemist in Washington, D.C., who had been lured back to her hometown by her sister, who had taken over a convenience store and turned it into this breakfast place.   Soon I started bringing Tony, my husband, Ann’s future husband, with me. He didn’t come along at first because I get up so much earlier, but I lured him out the door with the image of frying bacon and pancakes so large and light that when they’re placed in front of you, you feel as if you’re a kid in a fairy tale.   Ann already dug me by the time I introduced her to Tony. We’d been checking each other out and romancing each other the way women do, so when Ann saw the way I feel about Tony, he was right in there. Then the other morning, as Tony and I were leaving, Ann said that once in a while she and her sister throw dinner parties at night after they close and she took our number to call us. It was nice because we don’t know anybody yet, unless you count the Terminix guy. But it was long before the dinner invitation that I had chosen Ann for Tony, although I hadn’t mentioned it to him until we were on our way home last Sunday morning.   “You could marry her,” I said, as I shut the Jeep door. “She’d be good for you.”   Tony tried to pretend he didn’t know what I was talking about, but since we’ve had this conversation on a couple of occasions he caught on pretty quickly.   “Will you shut up,” he responded.   “I’m serious. I can see her.” What I meant was he’d be OK with her, she’d understand him, appreciate both him and the love and work I’d put into him. Tony was a good guy when I met him, but I made him great. So I’m not giving him up to just any old tramp.   “You’re not going anywhere,” Tony said.