Ali herself went through the house, sorting out what she wanted and what she didn't. Most of it she didn't. The art would go to an auction house. So would most of the furniture, dishes, and glassware, with the exception of the comfortable leather chair and sofa from the family room and the water-marred bird's-eye maple credenza from the entryway. Those and everything else Ali wanted, she stacked in the family room until such time as she was ready to call for a moving van. As for the wine cellar? Ali managed to locate a company that specialized in moving fine wines and made arrangements for Paul's entire collection, racks and all, to be moved to Sedona.
She talked to Dave on the phone from time to time during the course of that week and had offered to come over, but Dave said that wasn't necessary. He stayed on in Palm Springs at Easy's bedside, and since Ali wasn't Easy's friend, she thought it best not to intrude.
By Monday evening of the following week, Paul was buried and the house was more or less sorted out. Ali had blogged some but not much. She had done enough to let people know she was aliveenough to let them know she was okay. But everything that had happened had left her more traumatized than she would have thought possible, and she wasn't ready to talk about it just yetnot nearly.
She was sitting in the mostly packed family room, surveying the debris field and having a solo glass of wine, when the doorbell rang. Startled out of her solitude, Ali hurried to the front door, looked out through the peephole, and was delighted to find Dave Holman standing on her doorstep.
"Hello, stranger," she said, unlatching the security locks and opening the door wide. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm on my way back home to Sedona tomorrow," he said. "I wanted to stop by tonight and see how you were doing and if you needed anything."
"How's Easy?" Ali asked, leading Dave into and through the house.
Dave shrugged. "Out of the woods for now," he answered. "At least, he's out of the ICU. That's major progress."
"So he's going to make it?"
"His doctors seem to think so," Dave said. "And his wife thinks so, too. She says he's too damned stubborn to die, and maybe that's true."
Ali nodded.
"And I hear the grand jury has already started handing down indictments," Dave continued.
Ali nodded again, but without really knowing what was what. She had spent little time following the stories that had surfaced in the media in the aftermath of the Joaquin arrests at the Pink Swan and Amber's and Lucia's deaths in the Palm Springs shootout. Ali found she had scant interest and even less patience left over for people who had allowed themselves to be caught up in Lucia Joaquin's machinations.
Someone else might have been fooled by Ali's studied indifference to the subject at hand, but not Dave Holman. "What's going on with you?" he asked.
At the door of the cluttered family room, Dave paused long enough to survey the damage. Then he stepped forward and moved a stack of boxes off the leather couch, clearing himself a place to sit while Ali poured a glass of wine from one of Paul's most cherished bottles.
"According to Paul's complicated and computerized grading system," she said, handing him the glass, "this is a rare five-hundred-dollar-a-bottle Bordeaux. It's supposed to be top of the line."
Dave took a tentative sip and smacked his lips. "I don't think I've ever tasted five-hundred-dollar wine, but it's not bad. Not bad at all."
They sat for a minute or so in silence. "You still haven't answered my question," he reminded her.
"Have you ever read Ernest Hemingway?" Ali asked finally.
"Not my style of reading material," Dave said. "Why?"
You may not read Ernest Hemingway, Ali thought fondly, but if you're not a character straight out of Hemingway, I don't know who is.
"I keep remembering a story of his I read once," Ali continued aloud. "I'm not sure, but I think the title was something like The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.'"
Dave took another sip of his wine. "And?" he prodded.
"As I recall, Francis was a big-game hunter who took his bitch of a wife along with him on an African safari."
"Sounds like fun," Dave said. "Please tell me the story has a happy ending. Just say the bitchy wife dies."
"That's the whole problem," Ali said. "She doesn't die. She and her husband have a huge fightor several of them, more like it. He finally tells her to go piss up a rope. Then he walks out into the bush to shoot his buffalo and his wife kills him."
"So he was happy between the end of the fight and the time his wife kills him?" Dave asked. "That's it? That's his short happy life?"
"Pretty much," Ali answered.
Dave helped himself to another sip of wine. "Does this story have a point?" he asked.
"Sort of," Ali said. "Here I was just getting used to the idea that maybe I was wrong about Paul. I was beginning to think that if he was helping Easy catch the bad guys, maybe Paul wasn't as bad as I thought. Then whammo. Out of the blue I find out he has a brand-new baby, a baby no oneincluding April Gaddisknew anything about."
"All that means is what goes around comes around," Dave said. "I suppose that's fair."
"For everyone but the baby and her mother," Ali said.
"What are you going to do about it?"
Ali told him.
"You're doing all this without even the formality of a paternity test?"
"I don't need a paternity test," Ali said. "All you have to do is look at Angelina's eyes. She looks just like her daddy."
Dave shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "I never met the man. I guess I'll have to take your word for it."
Ali nodded. "I guess you will."
"And what are you going to do?" he asked.
Ali waved vaguely in the direction of the goods stacked haphazardly in the family room. "Call for a truck, have this stuff dragged back home to Sedona."
"You're not going to stay here?"
"Why would I?" Ali said. "I don't fit in here anymore."
"What are you going to do when you get home?"
"I don't know."
"What about cutloose?" Dave asked. "I've been checking your blog. There's nothing new on ithasn't been for days."
"I haven't had that much to say," Ali said quietly. "For the first time in my life, I'm at a loss for words. I don't have a clue what I should say about any of this."
It was true. She had tried to respond to the avalanche of e-mail that had poured in, but her heart hadn't been in it. Not even when she was writing to people she knew, like Velma T in Laguna.
"Maybe you could try talking about how lucky you are," Dave suggested.
"Lucky?" Ali asked in dismay. "I'm supposed to be lucky?"
"Sure," Dave said with a grin. "My ex is still alive and giving me hell. Yours is giving you hell, but at least he's dead. So no matter what Paul Grayson has done so far, he won't be doing it anymore." Dave raised his glass. "So here's to cutloose," he said, "because you are cut loosefinally. And here's to your going back home and going to work. People are waiting to hear from you, Ali, Dave Holman included."
"Thank you," Ali said, raising her own glass in return. "Thank you very much."