Guilt

'I love your shirt,' she said. Then, 'This is my oldest brother, Larry. He was fun when he was younger.' She patted the arm of the couch and Wes moved up a step and sat where she'd been. 'Wes,' he said, sticking out his hand, which she took and shook. Over her head, he asked, 'How you doin', Larry?'

'Larry's loaded. Sally's taking him home. Sally's his wife. She just went

to the bathroom. I'm Sam. I'm staying.'

As it turned out, she didn't stay all that long. Sam had apparently been waiting at the Shamrock for someone who looked just like Wes to walk through the door and save her from a night of aimless drinking. So another beer later for each of them, they were arm-in-arm outside, and there was Ahmal, parked on 9th where Wes had left him. This made an impression on Sam.

He paid Ahmal fifty more at her place, a downstairs flat on Upper Ashbury, and while Sam was getting out, told his good buddy the cab driver to wait an hour more and if Wes didn't come back out, he could take off, and thanks for the memories.

The door closed behind them on a cosy space – a large open room with a low ceiling, old-fashioned brick walls, built-in and seemingly organized bookshelves, a wood-burning stove.

'You have a dog,' he said.

A cocker spaniel was waking up, stretching in a padded basket next to the stove. 'You're not allergic or anything, are you?'

'As a matter of fact, I myself own a dog.'

'I knew there was something about you…'

'His name's Bart. He's a boxer.'

She leaned over to pet her little darling. 'This is Quayle,' Sam said, 'with a "y", just like Dan. You know, the brains of a cocker spaniel, so I thought, why not? Do you want another drink?'

'Not really. Would you like to come over here?' He held out his arms, and she gave Quayle one last pet, hesitated a moment, smiled, then walked to him.

She came naked through the door of the bedroom, a glass of Irish whiskey in each hand. The funny thing,' she said, 'is I don't normally do this.'

There was a blue liquid lava lamp from the 1960s or 1970s next to the bed. The windows were horizontal, high in the brick wall, at ground-level outdoors.

Wes was under a thick down comforter, hands behind his head. He reached out for one of the glasses. 'I don't, either.'

She handed him his glass and sat on his side of the bed. He thought she was as comfortable with her nakedness as it was possible to be, and also thought that was as it should be. Her body was toned and lush, nice breasts with tiny pink nipples. He rested his hand on her thigh. 'You can tell me the truth,' she said. 'It won't hurt my feelings. I can take it.'

'That is the truth. I was married for almost thirty years. Now this.'

You mean, this is the first time since you were married?'

'That was it. Am I blowing my cover here as man of the world?'

'No, I'm just surprised.'

'Why? It seemed natural enough to me. Pretty great, actually.'

She gave him her smile again.'That, too. Me, too, I mean. It's supposed to be such a hassle to get it right, especially the first time.'

'Maybe not.'

She put her whiskey glass on the side table and slid in next to him, snuggling into his chest. After a minute, he could feel her begin to laugh.

'What's funny?'

'Well, the name thing…'

He thought a moment. 'Your name isn't Sam?'

This made her laugh. 'No, my name's Sam. I'm talking last names. You are at least Wes, aren't you?'

'Full disclosure coming up.' He patted her back reassuringly. 'Wes Farrell, Attorney at Law, at your service.'

She groaned. 'Oh, you're not a lawyer, not really?'

'Realler than a heart attack. We're everywhere.'

'Wes Farrell…' she said quietly. 'I feel like I…' She stiffened and sat up abruptly.

'What?' he asked.

'Wes Farrell!?'

'Au personne, which means something in French, I think.'

But the good humor seemed to have left her. 'You're Wes Farrell? Oh my God, I can't believe this.'

'This what? What are you-?'

'What am I? What are you?'

'What am I what? Come on, Sam, don't-'

'Don't you don't me.' She was up now, grabbing a robe from a hook behind her on the wall. Pulling it around her – covering up – she turned and faced him. 'You're the Wes Farrell who's defending that scumbag Levon Copes, aren't you?'

'How do you know?'

'Don't worry, I know him.' She was fully engaged now, slamming her fists against her thighs, the bed, whatever was handy. 'I knew it, I just fucking knew it. God, my luck. I should have known.'

'Sam…'

'Don't Sam me either!' Walking around in little circles now. 'I'm sorry, but this just isn't going to work. I want you to go now. Would you please just leave?'

'Just leave?' But he was already sitting up, grabbing his pants from the floor.

''Yes. Just leave. Please.'

'Okay, okay. But I don't know why…'

'Because I can't believe you'd do what you're doing with Levon Copes, that's why – trying to get him off. I can't believe this is you. Oh shit!'

'It's my job,' he said. 'I'm a lawyer, it's what I do.'

That reply stopped her dead. Suddenly, the energy left her. She let out a frustrated sigh and whirled around one last time. 'Just go, all right?'

He had his shoes in his hands, his shirt untucked. 'Don't worry, I'm gone.'

It had been more than an hour, and Ahmal had gone, too.

Mark and Sheila Dooher had said no more than a hundred words to each other all night. She had made the traditional New England boiled dinner which he normally loved, but he'd only picked at the food. At dinner, he'd been polite and distracted and then he'd excused himself, saying he felt like hitting a few balls at the driving range – he'd been playing more golf lately, an excuse to stay away from home longer, go out more often. He'd even asked her if she wanted to accompany him, but he really didn't want her to – she could tell – so she said no.

Now, near midnight, he was still up, reading in the downstairs library, a circular room in the turret, under her own office. When he got home from the driving range, he'd come in to say good night, kissed her like a sister, saying he had work to do. Would she mind if he went to the library and got some reading in, some research?

She couldn't take it anymore.

She stood in the doorway in her bathrobe. He'd lit a fire and it crackled faintly. He wasn't reading. He was sitting in his green leather chair, staring at the flames.

'Mark?'

'Yo.' He looked over at her. 'You all right? What's up?'

'You're still up.'

'The old brain just doesn't seem to want to slow down tonight. So I thought I'd just let it purr awhile.'

She took a tentative step or two into the room.

'What's it thinking about?'

'Oh, just things.'

Another step, two more, then she sat sideways on the ottoman near his feet. 'You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is.'

He took a moment. 'I played squash with Wes this morning. Went over and picked him up at the hovel he calls home. You know what he told me? That you'd told Lydia you thought I was suicidal. That our marriage was on the rocks.' He leveled his gaze at her. 'Imagine my surprise to get it from Wes.'

He was being a good listener, leaning forward now, holding both her hands. He couldn't help but notice the hands. They really did age quicker than everything else – you couldn't fake hands. The hands gave her away.

He really wished she wouldn't cry, but she was. Not sobbing, but quiet tears. '… no looking ahead, no laughs.'