Guilt

'I'm sorry.'

She stood looking at him through the crack in the door. Finally, she closed it, undid the chain, and pulled it open. He came forward into her, wet and smelling of wool. She leaned into him, gradually bringing her arms up to encircle him. They remained that way a long moment before Joe let go of her, backed up a step, and theatrically went down on one knee.

'Joe…'

'No. This isn't a joke. I want to know if you want to marry me.'

'Hypothetically, or what?' She didn't mean it to come out so harshly, but this hadn't exactly been the way she'd dreamed it (if in fact she ever had dreamed it about Joe Avery).

He wasn't going to be side-tracked by semantics. 'No, not hypothetically. If I asked it wrong I'm sorry. I'm talking real life here. Will you marry me, Christina?' His hand grasped at the fall of her robe as his desperate eyes came up to her. 'Will you please say you'll marry me? I don't think I could live without you.'

It surprised her that it was not at all pathetic, as it might have been. He'd finally woken up, realizing he was going to lose her. She saw it in his face. He thought, at this moment, that he loved her. Maybe she could work on that, make it last. It struck her that this was the best she was going to do, and it wasn't that bad, not really.

At last, she nodded. 'Yes,' she whispered. 'Okay.'

She reached down and pulled his head close up against her. His arms came around her, clutched her to him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

On the morning of St Patrick's Day, Mark Dooher stood at the door to Wes's apartment and shook his head in disbelief.

'How do you live like this?'

Farrell surveyed his living room, which he persisted in calling his salon. It looked about how it always had since he'd moved in half a year ago, with the books and old newspapers piled on the floor, the television astride the folding chair, the forlorn futon in its unfinished oak frame.

Well, all right, this morning there were a few additions to which the fastidious – such as Dooher here – might object. His boxer Bart had spent a few delirious moments savoring the aromas of one of the used bath towels and had strewn its remains across the rug. And last night, Wes had ordered Chinese food and hadn't quite gotten around to putting away all the little cartons. And, come to think of it, there was the pizza delivery container from two – three? – nights ago on the brick and board bookcase. The paper plate on which Wes had served himself the reheated spaghetti he'd had for breakfast decorated the floor next to the futon, near his coffee mug.

And, of course, there was Bart himself- sixty-five pounds of salivating dog, lending a certain aroma to the digs, sprawling over half of the futon, chewing a nylon bone.

'Hey, do I make fun of your house when I come over?'

'I'm not making fun. I am truly appalled.'

Farrell gave the place another once-over. 'I think it's homey. It's got that lived-in feel. Realtors actually pay people to fix their houses up like this…'

Dooher was crossing the darkened yellow rug, negotiating some ambiguous stains. 'I'm getting some coffee.'

'So, Mr Dooher, tell me again how you found all this out about divorce, one of which you are not getting.'

They were in the kitchen, drinking their coffee by the window that looked out over the early-morning traffic on Junipero Serra Boulevard. The old metal-legged table was pocked with cigarette burns at the edges of the Formica. Bart had come in to join them, settled on the floor under Wes's feet.

'Gabe Stockman.'

'Who is?'

'Who is the official attorney for the Archdiocese.'

'And this just came up in conversation?'

'More or less. Actually, we were on the golf course last week and he started talking about annulment. In the Church.'

'Maybe I could get an annulment,' Wes said. 'Is there alimony with annulment? But why do you care about annulment? When last we spoke, you and Sheila were in a state of bliss.'

'We are.'

'That's not what Lydia says.'

Dooher had his mug nearly to his mouth when his hand stopped with it, turning it around slowly. 'Lydia?'

'We still do speak, you know. Mostly she's digging to find out the secret location where I've squirreled away my last two coins so that she can take them to rub together, but occasionally she does mention something human. And she told me that Sheila thinks the two of you are in trouble, that you in fact might be nearly suicidal which, if that were the case, would make me sad.'

Farrell put aside the wise-guy pose, rested his own mug on the table, his hands encircling it. This was his best friend and Lydia's information had worried him. It was why he'd asked Dooher over this morning to pick him up so they could drive downtown together for a game of squash and get a chance to talk. He wanted to find out if Lydia's information were true, and if so, if there was anything he could do to help. 'Are you all right?'

'I can't say I'm in a state of bliss, but I'm fine.'

'Which is why you're getting all the facts on annulment?'

'I don't want an annulment. I don't want a divorce. And I'm not suicidal.' He pointed a finger. 'Annulment came up and I thought since you and Lydia… I thought you'd be fascinated. I thought maybe it could help you somehow.'

'How?'

'Well, the short answer is it can't.'

'Great. That is fascinating.'

Dooher was smiling. 'Nevertheless, I thought there might be something in it for you, so since Stockman brought it up, I asked. But the bad news is that there's no annulment without a civil divorce. Which of course puts you back where you are.'

'That's okay. Bart and I are happy here, starving and all.' But Farrell the lawyer couldn't let it go, even if it didn't affect him directly. 'I thought the only way you could get an annulment was if you never consummated the marriage, and somehow the existence of my children would cost me credibility there.'

'The other way to get an annulment is if one of the spouses isn't psychologically capable of making a real commitment.'

Farrell sat back in his chair, his hands outstretched. 'Well, there you are! You have just described my soon-to-be-ex-wife. Psychologically, possibly pathologically, incapable of commitment, that's her all over.'

'Wes, you were married for twenty-seven years.'

'Twenty-nine, actually, but-'

'However many, that's going to count as a commitment.'

'A mere twenty-nine years? Where I come from, that's barely going steady. My parents were together fifty-six years. Now that's a commitment.'

'It's beautiful,' Dooher said, 'but twenty-nine years is going to count.'

'Damn.'

They had their three games of squash. Dooher won two, letting Wes take the second, 11-9, before creaming him 11- 3 in the third. When they'd been younger, both had been roughly equal as athletes; they had, in fact, remained a double-play threat through high school. But in the past few years, and especially in the six months since Farrell had been living alone, Wes had put on about ten pounds and, no surprise, it slowed him down.

They walked together down to the Hall of Justice, where Wes was having a meeting with Art Drysdale, the Chief Assistant District Attorney, about a client of his, Levon Copes, who'd been charged in a rape/murder.

Farrell had originally thought the case had a chance to go to trial and, since the defendant was a middle-aged white guy who owned an apartment building, he had money to pay his lawyer. The initial retainer had been $45,000, the check had cleared, and Wes had hoped, if he played it right, that the trial could carry him financially for a couple of years, even with Lydia chipping away at whatever she could.

Since his client's arrest, though, he'd read the discovery – the prosecution's evidence – and concluded that there must have been some mistake. There wasn't nearly enough, in his opinion, to go to trial at all, much less get a conviction. So Wes was going to try to talk Drysdale into dropping the charges altogether. It would be extremely unusual in a case like this, but, he thought, possible.