He walked me through the glass doors, and I thanked him for his time.
“For what it was worth. I’m sure all this melodrama will fizzle to nothing.” He rolled his shoulders. “Thought you and Big Guy were stuck in court for the rest of the century.”
“The case closed this morning. Surprise guilty plea.”
His beeper went off again. “Maybe that’s Himself giving me the good news…nope, more data from the ambulance…eighty-six-year-old male with subterranean pulse…at least we’re talking a full life span.”
He stashed the beeper. “Not that anyone makes those value judgments, of course.”
“Of course.”
We shook hands again.
He said, “The primary ‘terrible thing’ is Patty’s gone. I’m certain it’ll all boil down to Tanya being stressed out. You’ll help her come to grips with that.”
As I turned to leave, he said, “Patty was a great nurse. She should have attended some of those parties.”
CHAPTER 3
My house sits high above Beverly Glen, paper-white and sharp-edged, a pale wound in the green. Sometimes as I approach, it seems a foreign place, fashioned for someone with cold sensibilities. Inside, it’s high walls, big windows, hard floors, soft furniture to gentle the edges. An assertive silence I can live with because Robin’s back.
This week she was away, at a luthiers’ convention up in Healdsburg, showing two guitars and a mandolin. But for the trial, I might’ve gone with her.
We’re back together after two breakups, seem to be getting it right. When I start wondering about the future, I stop myself. If you want to get fancy, that’s cognitive behavior therapy.
Along with her clothes and her books and her drawing pencils, she brought a ten-week-old, fawn-colored French bulldog pup and offered me naming honors. The dog flourished in the company of strangers so I christened her Blanche.