Consigned To Death Part 37

Talking to Wes was exhausting. He poked and prodded and seemed insatiable. The only thing that helped me endure his picayune questioning were the ice cold martinis.

At 9:00, we walked together to the parking lot. As I stood beside his car saying good-bye, I spotted a familiar object amidst the tangle of papers and discarded fast-food containers that littered the back floor-Alverez's card.

I tilted my head, and thought for a moment. Hmmm, I said to myself, I wonder if I've just identified Alverez's leak. I pictured him yelling at me, his righteous indignation seemingly sincere. Yet maybe, I thought, he used anger to camouflage a clever strategy. What better way to control the flow of information to the press than to be the one to talk? Alverez, I said to myself, you're a sly dog.

I spent the evening puttering and thinking. I cleaned the bathroom, changed the linen, and made a huge salad. I thought about the love Martha had for Barney, and wondered if I'd ever feel that level of devotion. Not a love that led to murder, obviously, but a pa.s.sion so complete, so compelling, that striving to satisfy my lover's needs transcended effort and became a source of contentment and a way of life. Could I find such a love without losing my sense of self or changing my values? For the first time in eons, I felt hopeful that I would.

My outrage and anxiety had pa.s.sed, and was replaced, it seemed, by exhilaration. I was excited about the future. I had plans for expanding my company with Prescott's Instant Appraisals and by finally connecting with Britt Epps, an important player in the greater Portsmouth area, a potentially powerful ally in winning new business. I smiled, allowing myself a private "atta girl."

When I arrived at work the next morning, Alverez was waiting for me, leaning against his SUV. It was a bright, sunny day, warmer by twenty degrees from the day before. I was wearing a blue sleeveless tank top with an oversized denim s.h.i.+rt and jeans.

"Hey," he said.

He looked more rested than he had yesterday.

I smiled. "It looks like you got some sleep."

"Like someone shot me."

"How you doing?"

"Good. You?"

"Good."

"So, I want to change my answer."

"To what?"

"You remember when I drove you home? You asked me in. I said no."

I looked at him. He wore a gray-gold tweed jacket, a tan s.h.i.+rt and brown tie, and khakis. He looked great. His eyes were on me, watchful and kind. He was tall and strong-looking and competent. I'd always found competence s.e.xy.

"I remember. I asked you in during a weak moment. The moment has pa.s.sed. It was a onetime offer."

"Too bad. I'm changing my answer to yes, anyway."

"just like that?"

"Well, I was planning on buying you dinner first."

I started laughing, and I couldn't stop. For whatever reason, his comment, delivered with such seeming sincerity, tickled my funny bone, and sent me into paroxysms of delight. Finally, I wound down, and when I could speak, I said, "Don't look at me that way, or you'll set me off again."

"So, is that a yes?" he asked earnestly.

I paused and looked at him. I memorized the moment, filing it away in my head for review whenever I wanted. And I was willing to bet that I'd want to remember this event often. I smiled, and told him, "h.e.l.l, yes."

end.