I have called her; we will meet at Chez Forget, one of my former haunts. I expect she will be relieved to learn I am planning a flight back to Garibaldi this afternoon.
Patricia Blueman bustles in, purposeful but smiling.
“That was very good, Arthur. She’s literally terrified of you. Of course, she’s heard of your reputation”
“All those wasted hours preparing her for cross, eh, Pat?” says Gowan. “Arthur decided not to give her a free dress rehearsal.”
“Frankly, I thought she sounded very fresh and convincing,” Patricia says. “But I wanted to talk to you gentlemen about the trial date. Normally we’d be looking at mid-winter, right in the middle of her school year.”
“Oh, and you want to put it off until what, spring break?” says Gowan.
“No, I don’t think it would be fair to either party to make them wait too long. I’m thinking about the beginning of September, two months from now. There’s a hole in the fall calendar, some kind of skid-road murder has fallen through.”
“No, that’s pushing it,” says Gowan. “We have a hell of a lot of prep, and anyway I’m booked all through September. She’ll just have to muck through and do it during her classes.”
“And who would the judge be this September?” I ask. “Mr. Justice C. Walter Sprogue. He’s handling the first two weeks of the fall assize.”
“Mr. JusticeSprogue?”
“You’re not keeping up, Arthur. He was appointed two weeks ago.”
The elevation ofWally Sprogue to the trial court bench had not made the notices in theIsland Echo. Whenhe was in practice I shared many courtrooms with him. Though surpassingly vain, he is a fellow of liberal temperament, a firm believer in the concept of a reasonable doubt. I cannot let this chance slip away.
“The first of September will be fine,” I say.
“Wally Sprogue,” says Gowan. “You’re not going to throw a ringer at us — we show up and it’s suddenly Attila the Hun.”
“I can live with Justice Sprogue,” says Patricia. “It’ll be the jury who’ll decide. He’s away until August. Can we do a pre-trial with him then?”
“Most happy to oblige,” I say. “Gowan, a minute of your time?” This awkward moment cannot be avoided. As we walk together to the parking lot, I struggle to think of a way to let him down gently.
“September trial,” Gowan grumbles. “Means I’m going to have to adjourn a couple of things.”
“I don’t think you should, Gowan. In fact, I’m wondering if I might ask you to step aside for this one. For, ah, political reasons, I feel I ought to be assisted by a female barrister. Any problems with that?”
The disappointment works through his face, but he comes through bravely. “Excellent idea, Arthur. In fact, I was thinking of suggesting that very thing. Solves a lot of problems, and you won’t have O’Donnell and me going at each other’s throats.”
“I’ll consult with you, of course. I’ll need the benefit of your keen mind.”
He makes the effort of a smile. I feel for him. It is an important trial for an ambitious lawyer.
As I enter Chez Forget, its owner, Pierre, a small, vigorous man, swarms around me before I have a chance to wave to Annabelle, who sits in the back, playing with one of the roses in the vase that decorates her table.
“How do you not visit me any more? You do not like the food? You do not like the service? Try the McDonald’s, they have slides and ladders for the children. Madame is here. She is starving, you can see, she is so thin. You will have the lamb pate, and the baby asparagus salad followed bysaumon fume,and then I give you the choice, either the tenderloin Avignon or the duck. Both are perfect.”
He propels me to my chair opposite Annabelle. She is dressed with her usual flair, bare-shouldered in something silky. Her smile is soft and distant, and I have the sense that she is distant, too. In another place.
“Something wet, Monsieur Beauchamp?” Pierre extends a bottle of mineral water and I nod my agreement. Then he tops up Annabelle’s half-empty glass of red wine and flies off to the kitchen.
She is still toying with the rose. She casts me a look and a shy, un-Annabellic smile.
“I love the beard. You look sort of Hemingwayish in it.”
“Hides the jowls.”
“Oh, but you’ve lost some weight.”
I beam. “Yes, the belt tightens at a speed of one notch per month. Well, as I told you on the phone, my workday has concluded somewhat earlier than expected. We can relax”
“Yes. I’ve taken the afternoon off.”
“I am flattered.”
“But you’re going back this evening?”
“I think that best.” Don’t you, Annabelle? But I hear no protests. Why does she seem so far away? She keeps running a finger along the surface of those rose petals, studying them, not looking much at me.
“Are you happy with the way it went?”
“I’d rather have been weeding my garden, frankly. But it went well enough, I suppose. Jonathan seemed oddly relieved that I didn’t cross-examine Kimberley.”
“You’re getting along with him?”
“Of course.”
“You seemed a little miffed that I was pushing his cause so hard.”
“Not at all.” I have the sense she is about to confess to something, and I become busy, lighting a cigarette, perusing the menu. What secret is she about to share: is she about to tell me of her love for Jonathan? Impossible. The absurdity of it would render me stuporous.
She reads my mind. “There was never anything between Jon and me — I hope you didn’t get that impression.” She muses, “There could have been. He’s quite attractive in his dark, surly way. But there wasn’t.”
Should I presume she offered? I drag hard on the cigarette. I can’t think of anything to say. I feel relief, of course, though I have wronged Jonathan in my thoughts, and must seek his forgiveness. I shall try to do this by proving his innocence.
Pierre bustles in with his plates of appetizers, refilling glasses.
“The tenderloin,” I say.
“I can’t, Pierre,” says Annabelle. “No entrees.”
“Madame will shrivel to nothing.”
“The salad is beautiful.”
“You are beautiful. The salad is only pretty.”
“You’re awful, Pierre.”
After he leaves, Annabelle pokes at her salad a bit, then says, “Well, it’s now or never. I have something to tell you.”
Her fingers touch the back of my hand. They feel cool and soft, fingers that have been caressing rose petals.
“I’ve met someone else.”
The phrase seems banal, a cliche of Gothic scope. I am having trouble breathing. I have a flash of memory of mowing the lawn in the front of my house. I was gasping. My lungs felt as if they were caught in a vice.
“We’re in love.”
Love. That word seems too abstract. I cannot fathom its meaning. But I decide, no, I am not having another stroke. I am probably surviving this.
“Arthur, you knew something like this would happen. I think we stopped pretending long ago. I can tell you’re in shock, but there’s some relief there, too, there has to be.”
“I’m. . I’m sorry, I’m caught a little aback.”
“I sort of felt. . well, that you were giving me permission, Arthur. Moving off to your island as you did. I think you needed freedom from me. I was hurting you.”
“I cannot find apt words, Annabelle.” I fumble for a cigarette, though smoke curls from another in the ashtray.
“Then don’t say anything. It’s been going on I guess for a couple of months, Arthur. He’s a very good man, awfully dashing and, well, gaudy. I suppose you’d find him pretentious, but he has a gooey centre.”
I grind this information through the mills of my mind. Gaudy? Gooey centre? I picture someone gilded, ornate, superficially sentimental.
“It’s Francois Roehlig, Arthur. The new permanent conductor? You’ve heard of him. I think you have some of his recordings from when he was with the Dusseldorf Symphony.”
I hardly hear this. I am listening to my heart. But I am doing fine. Just fine. No reason to worry.