“Uh-oh. Past tense?”
“Apparently somebody broke in to the place and shot her,” Ben says. “Cops say it looks like a robbery.”
“At aflorist?”
“Just reporting the facts, ma’am.”
“How many times do I have to tell you not to ‘ma’am’ me?”
Ben finally arrives right before eight. Pasta tonight for us, my homemade marinara sauce, big turkey meatballs because small meatballs make me crazy, and a salad chock full of veggies I picked up at Balsam Farms. I’m even feeling well enough that I am going to allow myself a glass of Quilt, one of Ben’s favorite cabernets and one of mine.
Jimmy is in the city. I asked him why and he said, “A fool’s errand, most likely.”
“No one better for work like that than you,” I said, before he told me to do something totally inappropriate, at least for a lady.
I pointed that out to him.
“What lady?” he said.
Jury selection is well concluded by now. Opening statements will be on Monday. I am in the early stages of writing the first draft of mine. I explain to Ben over dinner that I’ve decided to make it shorter than what have occasionally turned into epic poems in the past.
“So as not to lose their attention by going on too long?” he asks.
“So as to keep from falling over if I go on too long.”
He smiles. “Marry me,” he says.
“No!”I say, quickly and emphatically enough that he laughs.
I drink some wine. It’s going down without incident. So far, so good.
“You look beautiful tonight,” Ben says.
“The witness is reminded that he is still under oath.”
“When it comes to you,” he says, “I only tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. Or something along those lines.”
“But those lines can blur, as you know.”
“Because love is blind?” he asks, still smiling.
“Obviously!” I say, and then lean across the table and kiss him, the force of it surprising both of us.
“Be careful,” Ben says, “or we might not be able to eat in this restaurant ever again.”
“Who gives a shit?” I say. “The food here sucks.”
We’re in bed later, Rip having been banished to the living room, but with a bone, as I’m not a monster. The windows are open. In the distance, more than a mile from the water, I can hear the faint and familiar sound of the waves, even over the traffic on Route 27.
If I do make it to heaven—and being the lawyer I am, I’m confident I’ll be able to talk my way right past Saint Peter—I still want to be near the ocean.
“Are you absolutely certain you’re ready for this trial?” Ben asks now.
“Even the district attorney is asking me that now,” I say. “Pretty soon the checkout woman at the IGA is going to want to know.”
I turn slightly. “Doyouthink I’m not ready for this?”
We lit one of my favorite candles before the festivities in here, a wood sage scent from Jo Malone, so I can see him smile again in the flickering light.
