Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [80]
Anne came in from the kitchen, untying the apron we had purchased that afternoon. Already it was soiled with a variety of culinary debris. Stuffed Cornish game hens had gone into the oven along with some scalloped potatoes. A complex salad lurked in the refrigerator. We had chosen an exotic Häagen-Dazs ice cream for dessert.
“Ready to go get Ralph?” she asked.
“Do we have to? Can’t I just have you all to myself?”
“Let’s go,” she said. “If I followed the directions right, the oven will turn off and the food will still be hot when we get back.”
“Slave driver,” I said, but we headed for the airport.
A magnificent sunset was in progress as we drove south along the Viaduct. The snowcapped Olympics reached skyward over a mirrored sound, while the sky ranged from lavender to orange above us. “I don’t know when I’ve been this happy, Anne. Not for years.”
“No second thoughts?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t have any either.”
I laughed. “Do you realize we’re getting married on our anniversary? We will have known one another for one whole week tomorrow.”
“I think I’ve known you forever,” Anne said softly.
I glanced across the front seat at her, took her hand in mine, and squeezed it. “I think maybe you’re right.”
I had the usual hassle with airport security over the .38 Smith and Wesson under my jacket. I stuck out like a sore thumb while they verified that I really did have a permit to carry it. Once that was squared away, Anne and I wandered the airport hand in hand, watching planes take off and land, eating caramel corn we bought from the airport candy shop, and griping at one another about ruining our dinner. The passage of time was magic. It seemed to lengthen, but without a sense of waiting. Happiness can do that to you. So can grief.
When Ralph got off the plane, he had a huge box under one arm. It contained long-stemmed red roses, two dozen of them to be exact. I looked at Ralph as a brother-in-law of sorts, which is to say somewhat critically. I watched Anne open the box and wondered crabbily where the hell we would put two dozen roses once we got them home. A mayonnaise jar? Masculine decor isn’t long on vases.
I need not have worried, however. In the car Ralph produced another box from a suitcase. He gave it to Anne, with orders that I was to open it when we got to the apartment. The flowers were from him to Anne, but the box was a wedding present to both of us from the firm.
Inside the box was a tall, slender crystal vase. Anne arranged the roses in it and set it on the stereo. Dinner was festive. Ralph was interested in our plans and, to all appearances, more than happy with Anne’s decision to marry me.
“She’s a wonderful lady,” he said to me later in the evening when we were alone in the living room for a few minutes. “She deserves a little happiness out of life, and I’ve never seen her happier than she is right now.”
I felt as though someone had just placed the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval square in the middle of my forehead. “Thanks, Ralph,” I said. “I’m pretty happy myself.”
Chapter 23
Some days are forever etched in your memory. Three of them come to mind right off the bat—the day my mother died, the day I married Karen, and the day I married Anne Corley. Anne had assured me there was no need to set an alarm, that she would be awake long before five o’clock, and she was. She kissed me and set a cup of coffee on the table beside my bed.
There was no question of fooling around. She was all business. She had finished in the bathroom, leaving it clear for me. I showered and shaved carefully, critically examining myself in the mirror. I hadn’t thought about my looks in years, but I was reasonably happy with what I saw. There was a sprinkle of gray around the temples. Anne liked it, said it gave me an air of authority, liked a seasoned anchorman. I managed to put aside my antimedia