Final Option

Hexter’s safe-deposit box. “You’ve got to admit that it won’t look good for Pamela once the police find out.”
    “Pamela doesn’t look good for Pamela,” countered Elliott. “There’s something very unnatural in the woman’s composure. No wonder the cops think she did it.” We crossed the street and walked in silence for a ways.
    Finally I said: “When I was ten, my older brother, Teddy, committed suicide. He hanged himself in the garage so that my parents would find him when they came home from a party. I came downstairs when I heard my mother screaming. She was in the kitchen trying to get herself a glass of water, but her hand was shaking so badly she couldn’t keep the glass under the tap. Fifteen minutes later, when the police arrived, she was completely composed. Afterward, I remembered all my parents’ friends admiring her stoicism. It made no sense to me. I remembered thinking that if I had been the one who died, I would have wanted them to cry.”
    “And what about you, Kate? You talk about the people you come from as if you’re not a part of them. Do you cry in front of other people, or do you keep a stiff upper lip?”
    “When my husband died, I cried,” I said quietly. “It was very late at night, and I was sitting with him in the hospital. He had been in a coma for three days, and we knew he was near the end. I was holding his hand when he died. I called the nurse and told her. She came and took off his wedding ring. She handed it to me and closed his eyes. I don’t remember when I started crying, but I cried all the tears in the world that night. I don’t think anyone saw me cry after that. Not at the funeral, not afterward, not ever. My grief was too private to share. So I guess I’m not so different from the people I come from.”
    “I’m sorry,” whispered Elliott. “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”
    “It’s been three years. For a long time I couldn’t even talk about it. I couldn’t say his name out loud. I guess it’s true what they say about time.” We walked in silence for a while. “This is my building,” I said. The street was deserted, bathed in the pale light from the office windows high above us. The walking and the wine, and talking about Russell, had all brought things very close to the surface for me.
    “When are you meeting Torey Lloyd?”
    “Sunday afternoon.”
    “Do you want me to come with you?”
    “No. I think she’ll feel safer if it’s just me.”
    He was standing very close to me. I could feel the quiet rhythm of his breathing, and I realized, too late, what line had been crossed.
    “It’s a mistake to feel safe with you,” he said, drawing me to him without touching. My hands brushed the rough wool of his jacket as he kissed me. I felt the softness of his skin against my face, and desire welled up inside of me. He did not reach out for me, and still it took all of my strength to pull away.
     

CHAPTER 18
     
    Once I was inside the building, I came crashing down on myself. For a long time I had assumed that I was immune from the more obvious kinds of foolishness. I clung to my well-ordered life, so it frightened me that I could come so close to abandoning it on the strength of a spring night and an attractive man.
    My office seemed too bright and strangely unfamiliar. On my desk lay files in ramparts: stacked, unopened, mutely rebuking me for matters unattended. I found myself flitting from surface to surface, picking up and replacing the Lucite tombstones—the memorabilia of the dozen or so deals that I’d done since becoming a lawyer.
    When the phone rang, I jumped. I felt guilty and reassured to hear Stephen’s familiar voice at the other end of the line. He had just finished up at the office. Did I want a ride home?
    Did I want a ride home? Whatever for? My car was parked in the garage below me. Stephen knew that quite well. Why couldn’t we say what we really meant? Why these other words, this strange reluctance? Do you want me to come home with you? Do I want to go? For us there always seemed to be these bridges we could not cross.
    “Are you coming back downtown in the morning?” I asked.
    “I have a meeting at ten with Lars Berggren. We’re having dinner with him and his wife tomorrow night.” replied Stephen. He was calling from his car. I heard the faint honking of horns in the background. “I’ll take you back downtown whenever you want.”
    “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
     
    That night I