closed down--rolled over and went to sleep, as it were. In its extreme form, catatonia set in, isolating the person totally from the world. In its more pedestrian form, life became dull and the little daily tasks of taking care of oneself grew to monumental proportions. Louise Hill seemed right now on the verge of falling into the abyss.
"You don't have to give in to it, Louise," Corelli blurted out, his thoughts a non sequitur.
"What?" She looked puzzled.
"Letting this kill your spirit." Jesus, he was preaching at her. That wasn't why he'd come over. Was it?
"And what would you suggest, Detective Corelli?" Her voice was strident, full of anger and embarrassment. "What's your prescription for what ails me?"
"Fight it, Louise! Stand up against it. You're dealing with your own anger and it's dragging you down. For Christ's sake, if you're angry, yell, throw furniture, beat someone up...something!"
Louise listened impassively. Corelli had edged forward and now sat at the front of the couch, his coffee cup clasped tightly between the palms of his hands. The muscles of his neck were tensed. She mentally traced them from his collar to his jawline. He was right, but she didn't believe the answer to what she felt could be so simple. The weight of her helplessness had crushed her; getting out couldn't be as easy as he made it sound.
"Sounds like you're talking from experience," she finally said.
"I am." He fell back against the cushions and drank from his coffee. "But we're not here to talk about me, are we?"
"Just why are we here, Frank?"
And suddenly Corelli no longer knew why. The chances were that Louise wouldn't be able to remember anything new. She was an artist. She was used to observing, looking for details. Prodding her memory was probably useless. He really didn't need her help any longer. But maybe she might need his. That was it. That was why he'd telephoned her to invite himself over. Yesterday, in his arms, as the anguish of her loss won out, Louise Hill had needed him. She'd needed him there to tell her it was all right. For the first time since Jean's death, a woman had needed him. And that was why he'd come back--to let Louise know he was there for her.
"I want to help," he finally answered, simplifying the complex reasons and emotions.
"Thank you." She held his eyes for a moment, then stared into her coffee cup. "You're unique, you know that, Detective Corelli? You're a transit policeman who seems to spend most of his time aboveground helping ladies in distress, a man who works his off-duty hours. And a man who also happens to make a damned fine cup of coffee."
"You don't do so badly yourself." He drained the coffee. "Now, I want to admit something to you--I just stopped by to see that you're okay."
"And I appreciate it, Frank. Right about now I could use a friend."
"Then you've got one." There was a long, awkward silence. "Look, I've still got some things to do. I'd better get going." He stood up and followed her to the front door. "I know this might be the wrong place and the wrong time, but I never was much good at the social amenities. How about having dinner with me one night? It'll do you some good."
"I'd like that," she said without hesitation.
"When?"
She threw her head back and laughed, sending her hair swirling around her long, graceful neck. God, it felt good to laugh. "How about tonight? That is, if you're not too busy."
"I'll pick you up here, about eight?" She smiled in agreement. "See you then."
Corelli walked south on Columbus Avenue to give himself time to calm down. Jesus, he was feeling like a high-school kid about to go out on his first date. Louise Hill was a great-looking lady. And she had a head on her shoulders, to boot. There weren't many women he could say that about. At least not the women he'd spent time with since Jean's death. The truth was, he hadn't been looking too hard. Being in perpetual mourning had its advantages, after all. It kept life small and manageable.
"You don't have to give in to it, Louise," Corelli blurted out, his thoughts a non sequitur.
"What?" She looked puzzled.
"Letting this kill your spirit." Jesus, he was preaching at her. That wasn't why he'd come over. Was it?
"And what would you suggest, Detective Corelli?" Her voice was strident, full of anger and embarrassment. "What's your prescription for what ails me?"
"Fight it, Louise! Stand up against it. You're dealing with your own anger and it's dragging you down. For Christ's sake, if you're angry, yell, throw furniture, beat someone up...something!"
Louise listened impassively. Corelli had edged forward and now sat at the front of the couch, his coffee cup clasped tightly between the palms of his hands. The muscles of his neck were tensed. She mentally traced them from his collar to his jawline. He was right, but she didn't believe the answer to what she felt could be so simple. The weight of her helplessness had crushed her; getting out couldn't be as easy as he made it sound.
"Sounds like you're talking from experience," she finally said.
"I am." He fell back against the cushions and drank from his coffee. "But we're not here to talk about me, are we?"
"Just why are we here, Frank?"
And suddenly Corelli no longer knew why. The chances were that Louise wouldn't be able to remember anything new. She was an artist. She was used to observing, looking for details. Prodding her memory was probably useless. He really didn't need her help any longer. But maybe she might need his. That was it. That was why he'd telephoned her to invite himself over. Yesterday, in his arms, as the anguish of her loss won out, Louise Hill had needed him. She'd needed him there to tell her it was all right. For the first time since Jean's death, a woman had needed him. And that was why he'd come back--to let Louise know he was there for her.
"I want to help," he finally answered, simplifying the complex reasons and emotions.
"Thank you." She held his eyes for a moment, then stared into her coffee cup. "You're unique, you know that, Detective Corelli? You're a transit policeman who seems to spend most of his time aboveground helping ladies in distress, a man who works his off-duty hours. And a man who also happens to make a damned fine cup of coffee."
"You don't do so badly yourself." He drained the coffee. "Now, I want to admit something to you--I just stopped by to see that you're okay."
"And I appreciate it, Frank. Right about now I could use a friend."
"Then you've got one." There was a long, awkward silence. "Look, I've still got some things to do. I'd better get going." He stood up and followed her to the front door. "I know this might be the wrong place and the wrong time, but I never was much good at the social amenities. How about having dinner with me one night? It'll do you some good."
"I'd like that," she said without hesitation.
"When?"
She threw her head back and laughed, sending her hair swirling around her long, graceful neck. God, it felt good to laugh. "How about tonight? That is, if you're not too busy."
"I'll pick you up here, about eight?" She smiled in agreement. "See you then."
Corelli walked south on Columbus Avenue to give himself time to calm down. Jesus, he was feeling like a high-school kid about to go out on his first date. Louise Hill was a great-looking lady. And she had a head on her shoulders, to boot. There weren't many women he could say that about. At least not the women he'd spent time with since Jean's death. The truth was, he hadn't been looking too hard. Being in perpetual mourning had its advantages, after all. It kept life small and manageable.
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