Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [76]
When Anne emerged from the shower, I was tying my tie and humming a little tune. I was starting to feel as though the two of us might be on somewhat equal footing. I was conscious of being terrifically happy, and for right then, at least, I was wise enough not to question it.
I had dressed while she unpacked. Now it was my turn to lie on the bed and watch her. She stood indecisively at the closet door for a moment. “What should I wear?”
“We’re not going to the Doghouse,” I replied.
She chose a muted red dress of delicate silk. Red was her color on any occasion, in any light. Before I met her I had no idea red came in so many different shades. Maxwell Cole had been more correct than he knew when he called her the Lady in Red.
Carefully she selected underwear and put it on. It was a quiet, intimate time together, with her doing things she would usually do alone. She didn’t seem disturbed by my presence or by my watching her. In the short period we had been together a bonding had occurred. I had experienced that bonding only once before, with Karen, and then I’d lost it. I was grateful to have it back. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.
Anne came to me to zip the dress and to fasten the diamond pendant. “From Milton?” I asked, surprised that there was no pang of jealousy as I asked the question.
“Yes,” she said, turning to kiss me. “Thanks.”
“Where’s your car?” I asked. “Did you bring it along with your clothes?”
She nodded. “It’s down on the street.”
“We’ll have to move it to a lot in the morning, or we’ll spend all day feeding parking meters.”
“Would you like to take it?” she asked.
I tossed Peters’ Datsun keys into the air. “Not on a bet. I don’t think I’d better press my luck. I’m just barely qualified for a Datsun. A Porsche would be overkill.”
Of course we could have walked, but I drove up to the valet parking attendant. He opened the door with a slight bow in Anne’s direction, diplomatically concealing most of his disdain for the battered Datsun.
The old Anne Corley was back. She was delighted and delightful. Everything about the evening pleased her. As the restaurant rotated she asked questions about various landmarks. She ate like a famished puppy and joked with the waiter, who regarded her with a certain awe. We drank champagne and toasted our future. It was a festive, joyous occasion.
The conversation was light, fun-filled nonsense. It was only when the coffee came and we were working our way through two final glasses of wine that she turned serious on me. I knew enough to be wary by now, to tread softly and not force her beyond her own speed.
“Do you want me to tell you about Milton?” she asked softly.
“Only if you want to, only if you think I need to know.”
“It’s the same version they wrote years ago. He sounds like a monster who took advantage of a young female patient, doesn’t he?”
“That’s why he lost his job, isn’t it?”
“People were only interested in how things looked. No one cared how things really were. It’s too much trouble to look beneath the surface.”
“But he committed suicide.”
“He didn’t do it because of his job,” she said “He was dying of cancer. He didn’t want to go on. He didn’t want to face what was coming. I understand that a lot more now than I did then.” She paused. “How old are you, Beau?”
“Forty-two, going on sixty.”
“Milton was sixty-three when I married him.” She made the statement quietly and waited for my reaction.
“Sixty-three!” I choked on a sip of coffee.
Anne smiled. “I’ve always gone for older men,” she teased. The smile faded from her face, her eyes. “He was the first person who believed me.”
I struggled to follow her train of thought. “You mean about Patty?”
She nodded. “I had been locked up in that place for five years when I met him, and he was the very first person who believed