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.'
'I know,' he said. 'It's my fault, too. I suppose I let your depression get to me. I shouldn't have done
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.'
'I know,' he said. 'It's my fault, too. I suppose I let your depression get to me. I shouldn't have done
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