I somehow- don't ask me how, exactly- managed to go through the rest of the afternoon on auto-pilot, my mind far away from my work. It's bad, I know; I can't afford to space out in this line of work. Nevertheless, my personal life sometimes comes in ahead of my career.
This is one of those times.
I would never tell my boss that, though. He's such a workaholic that he tries so hard to keep his career ahead of his personal life, and expects his colleagues to do the same. You goofed this time, Bobby.
Besides, when your boss is your personal life, I like to think allowances can be made.
This case has Bobby weary to the bone and it's starting to show. In a way, I'm relieved it's over although I am not satisfied with the outcome.
How could they find him guilty?
I hate that Bobby and Helen were the ones on this case. It cut them both too deep and I am torn between them-my best friend and my fiancé. I would never in a million years tell Helen this, but my opinion takes the same form as Bobby's. Still, maybe I shouldn't have talked with Stephen. NoI'm fairly confident that I did the right thing. This I was certain of when I saw Stephen sitting in the back of the courtroom this morning.
He and Bobby are probably talking right now. It will do Bobby some good, to be confronted with this, with his past. It won't hurt Stephen, either. The poor guy probably didn't realize what effect his own grief had on his son-an impressionable kid of fifteen who still looked to Dad for the answers to life.
With this thought, I realize that I have no idea when Bobby will be home, much less what we'll do for dinner. Maybe we can just go over to the Salty Dog for seafood or something. Or maybe...
Maybe he's home early, I discover, pulling my car in next to his Audi. What a day. Any day that sees Bobby home early from work is one for the books.
Entering the apartment, I see him curled up at one end of the couch, gazing sightlessly out the huge picture window that overlooks the harbor. He has a glass of Chardonnay in his hand but it looks untouched. "Bobby?" I speak quietly so he isn't startled. It doesn't work. He gives a small jump and a bit of the wine splashes onto the carpet. Oh, well. At least it's white wine. It isn't important right now.
"Hi," he says, "I didn't hear you come in." He glances at the clock. I kick off my pumps and join him on the couch. Give him time to talk when he's ready, my brain reminds me. It's fine, I am content to just wrap my arms around him in the silence, signaling that I am ready whenever he is. It's a while before he speaks, but his hand moves to my stomach, where he is tracing my scars through the suit jacket and shirt I'm wearing.
"I'm sorry, Linds-" his voice cracks when he finally speaks. There is no need to ask what he is talking about. I hold him tighter. His arms come up around me and he rocks me like a baby. "I'm sorry," he says again, and somehow, that's all we need. I can see it in his eyes; some kind of inner calm has reached him at long last.
And it's enough.
THE END