might have been someone he’s ashamed of being involved with, maybe the wife of one of his friends, something like that.’
‘And she broke it off?’
‘Either that, or he couldn’t go on with it anymore. Can’t you just hear one of them saying it? “We’ll just pretend the other one died.” I can imagine Daddy taking that tack.’
‘Yeah, that flies.’
‘It’s a problem when you’ve always been perfect. You can’t even let your daughter see anything else. Even when I told him that whatever it was, I’d still love him.’
‘You told him that?’
‘Of course. I would.’
‘No, not that you would. You told him you suspected it was something he might be ashamed of?’
‘Not in so many words.’
Hardy was thinking Andy Fowler didn’t need so many words. He was a subtle and intelligent man, accustomed to dealing with nuance every day on the bench. He could imagine Jane’s forthright approach scaring him off, driving him back further within himself, if that’s where he was.
Hardy chewed on the delicious bread, filled his mouth with wine and sloshed it around. ‘Well, whatever it is, you think we can do anything to help him out? He talked about a vacation.’
Jane half smiled. ‘Sure. Daddy’s idea of a vacation is not bringing work home for the weekend. You know any women he might like?’ But she tossed the idea away. ‘No. I can hardly see Daddy allowing himself to be set up.’
‘Maybe it’s what he says — awareness of mortality. That can stop you.’
Jane scratched at the tablecloth with a perfect coral fingernail. She and Hardy didn’t need reminders of the lessons of mortality. Every time she thought of their son, Michael, who’d died in a crib accident ten years before, it stopped her again, as it had stopped her life, and Hardy’s, back then. A tear came from one eye and she turned away.
Seeing it, or simply knowing, he reached over and covered her hand. ‘Let’s leave it for now, Jane. Come back to it later,’ he said. ‘We’ll think of something.’
* * * * *
He missed the stud the first time and figured it must have been the wine.
After lunch, he’d stopped at a sporting goods store on Market and picked up the dart board he’d promised himself. Back at his office, he’d banged on the wall opposite his desk, listening for the hollow sound to give way to solid wood, locating the stud, or thinking he had.
The first stroke of the hammer drove the nail through drywall clear up to its head. Hardy was a good carpenter. Wood was one of his hobbies. It wasn’t like him to miss a stud. He banged on the wall, thought he’d found the stud again, and this time was right.
Measuring off eight feet with a ruler from his desk, he put some tape down on the floor just under where his chair would normally be. Then he moved the chair back up, took out his leather case and fitted the blue flights onto the shafts of his darts. He stood up at his tape line and threw two bull’s-eyes and a 20. Leaving the darts in place, he picked up his phone.
* * * * *
Judge Fowler had called in sick. That was odd. Judges never called in sick — their dockets were too full. A sick day inconvenienced too many people. Hardy tried his home, but no one was there either, not even an answering machine. He was tempted to call Jane again but why worry her?
Maybe Andy was simply taking a mental-health day. God knew, he worked hard enough to deserve it. Maybe after seeing Jane last night, he’d gotten drunk again and was hung over. In any case, if Andy Fowler wanted to take a day off, Hardy would not disturb him.
He looked at the still-large pile of case folders on the corner of his desk, wondering what unknown thrills lay in store for him in that mountain of paper. He considered going around to his darts and throwing a solo game of 301 to keep his eye up. He wondered if Jeff Elliot was back from the Marina or wherever he’d gone. He
‘And she broke it off?’
‘Either that, or he couldn’t go on with it anymore. Can’t you just hear one of them saying it? “We’ll just pretend the other one died.” I can imagine Daddy taking that tack.’
‘Yeah, that flies.’
‘It’s a problem when you’ve always been perfect. You can’t even let your daughter see anything else. Even when I told him that whatever it was, I’d still love him.’
‘You told him that?’
‘Of course. I would.’
‘No, not that you would. You told him you suspected it was something he might be ashamed of?’
‘Not in so many words.’
Hardy was thinking Andy Fowler didn’t need so many words. He was a subtle and intelligent man, accustomed to dealing with nuance every day on the bench. He could imagine Jane’s forthright approach scaring him off, driving him back further within himself, if that’s where he was.
Hardy chewed on the delicious bread, filled his mouth with wine and sloshed it around. ‘Well, whatever it is, you think we can do anything to help him out? He talked about a vacation.’
Jane half smiled. ‘Sure. Daddy’s idea of a vacation is not bringing work home for the weekend. You know any women he might like?’ But she tossed the idea away. ‘No. I can hardly see Daddy allowing himself to be set up.’
‘Maybe it’s what he says — awareness of mortality. That can stop you.’
Jane scratched at the tablecloth with a perfect coral fingernail. She and Hardy didn’t need reminders of the lessons of mortality. Every time she thought of their son, Michael, who’d died in a crib accident ten years before, it stopped her again, as it had stopped her life, and Hardy’s, back then. A tear came from one eye and she turned away.
Seeing it, or simply knowing, he reached over and covered her hand. ‘Let’s leave it for now, Jane. Come back to it later,’ he said. ‘We’ll think of something.’
* * * * *
He missed the stud the first time and figured it must have been the wine.
After lunch, he’d stopped at a sporting goods store on Market and picked up the dart board he’d promised himself. Back at his office, he’d banged on the wall opposite his desk, listening for the hollow sound to give way to solid wood, locating the stud, or thinking he had.
The first stroke of the hammer drove the nail through drywall clear up to its head. Hardy was a good carpenter. Wood was one of his hobbies. It wasn’t like him to miss a stud. He banged on the wall, thought he’d found the stud again, and this time was right.
Measuring off eight feet with a ruler from his desk, he put some tape down on the floor just under where his chair would normally be. Then he moved the chair back up, took out his leather case and fitted the blue flights onto the shafts of his darts. He stood up at his tape line and threw two bull’s-eyes and a 20. Leaving the darts in place, he picked up his phone.
* * * * *
Judge Fowler had called in sick. That was odd. Judges never called in sick — their dockets were too full. A sick day inconvenienced too many people. Hardy tried his home, but no one was there either, not even an answering machine. He was tempted to call Jane again but why worry her?
Maybe Andy was simply taking a mental-health day. God knew, he worked hard enough to deserve it. Maybe after seeing Jane last night, he’d gotten drunk again and was hung over. In any case, if Andy Fowler wanted to take a day off, Hardy would not disturb him.
He looked at the still-large pile of case folders on the corner of his desk, wondering what unknown thrills lay in store for him in that mountain of paper. He considered going around to his darts and throwing a solo game of 301 to keep his eye up. He wondered if Jeff Elliot was back from the Marina or wherever he’d gone. He
Similar Books
