Guilt

'Chris…' He sat on the far end of the couch.

'I mean it, Joe. Okay, you're moving up, maybe, and I'm glad for you, but where are we going? Are we getting engaged? Are we getting married? I mean, what is all this? I don't get to apply to your firm because we might be an item someday?'

'We are.. .'

'No, we're not.' She held out her left hand. 'You see a ring there? I don't. We're still trying to decide, Joe, aren't we? We're still looking at the facts.'

He went silent. 'How am I supposed to respond to that, Chris? You know it's-'

'No! You're just getting to where you think that after all the time you've put in on our relationship, it would be nice if it worked out, after all.' She swiped at the angry tears that had broken. 'But the truth is that you don't like how I act, how I am. You certainly don't want me working around you, that's obvious.'

'But I do!'

'Which is why you didn't want me to apply?'

'That's not true. You know there's a rule about-'

'Stop lying to me! That's not it and you know it! We are, in fact, not actually engaged, you realize that? So there's no reason-'

'But we were going to be!'

She laughed. 'Here's how that happens, Joe. Listen up careful now. One person asks and the other says, "Yes." Not too difficult. So how about it -do you want to marry me?'

'Chris, you know-'

'Goddamn it, Joe! It's a yes or no question.'

'But it isn't! You keep saying you don't want kids, ever, and I don't think-'

Suddenly, she bolted upright on the sofa, kicking out at him. 'Get out of here! I mean it, get the hell out of here!'

The lifebuoy in Santa Barbara Bay had a deep-toned bell and it didn't seem to be far off, although the fog was so heavy she couldn't see it. She was trying to save her baby from drowning. And she couldn't see it, either. Didn't even remember if it was a boy or girl, though of course she knew. It just wasn't in her consciousness at that exact moment.

The tolling of the lifebuoy wouldn't stop, though. It was pulling her forward, toward it, through the water, which seemed to be thickening as she moved.

There was the baby, so close, just out of her reach, disappearing into the brine. 'Wait! Wait! Don't…' Sitting up, now, in a sweat. Her eyes opened on the clock next to her bed: 2:15.

The tolling continued – her doorbell. She tossed off the covers and pulled her robe around herself again.

'Who is it?'

'It's me, Joe.'

Still groggy, too tired for any more anger, she sighed, flicked on the overhead, and opened the door, leaving the chain in place. Hangdog, he stood there, his hair damp as the coat of the suit he wore, hands at his sides. He'd been out walking around for a while, perhaps since he'd left earlier. 'I'm a total jerk,' he said.

'That's a good start.'

'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?'