Joel Goldman - Final judgment

Blues had once asked him if he wished that Abby was the only woman he’d ever loved. He wasn’t certain how to answer, not regretting all his past relationships, just the ones of which he wasn’t proud. Finally he answered, telling Blues no, but he hoped she was the last woman he would ever love.

They wedged through the crowd, joining hands as people swirled around them. She looked up at him, her eyes expectant, the corners of her mouth crinkled in a sly grin. She let go of one hand, brushing her dark bangs off her forehead, giving her head a shake and thumping him lightly on the chest.

“It’s okay. You can kiss me.”

He leaned down, their lips brushing, her mouth slightly parted. “You look terrific. I’m glad you called,” he said, still holding her hand.

“And why not? You’re cheaper than a cab,” she teased. “Let’s get my bag.”

He waited until they pulled out of the parking garage to ask if she had more in mind than a free ride.

“How long will you be in town?”

“A week. I’m meeting with people in the senator’s Kansas City office and a number of locals-contributors, politicians, that kind of thing. Plus I’m doing some advance work. Josh is the guest of honor at a civic award dinner next Saturday night.”

Mason noted that she referred to Josh Seeley both as “the senator” and by his first name, blurring their professional and personal relationships. Senator Seeley was married and Abby was no home wrecker. Still, Mason hadn’t been able to shake his own jealousy when he’d seen them together. Real or imagined, their relationship bothered him. He hadn’t made an issue of it, realizing that Abby’s refusal to live with the violence that surrounded his cases posed the biggest threat to their future. He was surprised by her phone call and thrilled by her warm greeting, but he hesitated to read too much into either.

“Sounds like a busy week.”

“All in the service of our constituents,” she added with a laugh. “The Missouri Republican Party is having its annual Lincoln Day fund-raiser tonight at the Westin in honor of Abe’s birthday. The senator will be shaking hands until his fingers fall off. I could use a date.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled at him as if to apologize for the past. “I know this is short notice and it’s okay if you’ve got plans.”

“You’re in luck,” he said, tucking his smile into his cheek in a failed effort to play it cool. “I’m fresh out of plans.”

“Great. It’s black-tie and cocktails are at six. Pick me up at five-thirty. I’m warning you, though. My job means that I show up early and stay late.”

“I can do that. What are you doing the rest of the day? Are you going to write speeches, mend fences with the voters, or clean your apartment?”

Abby turned in her seat, her back against the door. The light in her eyes gave the sun a run for its money. “Whatever you want.”

Abby’s apartment was in a high-rise north of the Plaza. She had rented it before she moved to Washington, telling Mason that politics was too temporary an existence to give up her home address. Besides, she liked the view from her tenth-floor balcony. The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art lay at her feet, its expansive grounds populated with sculptures by Henry Moore mounted in the shadows of giant shuttlecocks deposited on the lawn.

She closed the door to her apartment and wrapped her arms around him, pulling his face to hers. She eased back, her eyes moist, and then laid her head against his chest. They slow danced through the small living room to the bedroom, twirling and falling onto her bed, fumbling with each other’s clothes, laughing at their clumsiness. They soon found a familiar rhythm, their lovemaking easy and urgent.

Afterward, she lay on her side molded to him, her hand drawn as it always was to the scar on his chest. She traced the raised line of flesh with her fingertip like it was the missing piece to a treasure map. He hoped she wouldn’t ask if the knife wound still hurt, not wanting to ruin the moment with memories he knew still woke her in the middle of the night.

He draped his arm across her shoulder, avoiding the scar on her neck, remembering how she shivered whenever he touched it. The same man had stabbed them both, leaving wounds that bound them together and drove them apart. She raised her head and pulled herself to his chest, kissing his scar, leaving a tear behind.

“Whew,” she said, sitting up and pressing her back against the headboard. “That’s what I call a ride home from the airport.”

He propped himself up next to her. “No point in asking for a tip, huh?”

She grinned at him. “Not unless you’re ready for a roundtrip.”

“I left the meter running.”

“Save your strength. I’ll be here all week. I’m going to clean up.”

He lay in bed trying not to overanalyze the last two hours. He didn’t want to know whether it was love or lust or whether she missed him or was just lonely. They were adults with a history and, he hoped, lovers with a future. He heard the shower come on and joined her.

Winter always took a few days off in Kansas City, sprinkling the city with occasional days of unseasonable warmth. This was such a day, the afternoon warming into an imposter of summer. Abby and Mason had lunch on the Plaza, picked up Tuffy, and went on a long walk in Loose Park. People flew kites and picnicked. Some true believers spread blankets and sunblock, stealing a winter tan.

They walked the perimeter of the park, sat on benches in the Rose Garden, and guessed at the color of the blooms that would surface in the spring. He watched her, delighting in the way she chased the dog, and then laughed at him for trailing behind, teasing him about middle age. He was forty-three and she was thirty-seven.

“If you split the difference, we’re the same age,” he told her.

“Yeah, right,” she said, poking him in the arm and whistling at Tuffy. The dog crouched, tossed her head at Abby, and took off toward the pond that lay along Wornall Road on the east side of the park. Abby chased her again.

Mason caught up to them on the arched bridge spanning the south end of the pond. Tuffy sat between them, her tail thumping on the wooden slats. Abby leaned over the rail, watching geese stroke through the water, the sun painting gold the ripples they left on the surface.

Mason brought her up to date about the other people in his life. Harry’s eyesight was worse, not better. They called it macular degeneration for a reason. He’d given up driving and had gotten used to audiobooks, but that didn’t ease the frustration of a shrinking world. Claire was still waging war against the rich and powerful, filing lawsuits and serving subpoenas on behalf of her disadvantaged clients. Blues played piano at the bar on Wednesday and Friday and wasn’t seeing anyone special. Rachel Firestone was chasing the ghost of Woodward and Bernstein, and she wasn’t seeing anyone special either since breaking up with her girlfriend. Neither was he, he would have told Abby had she asked.

Washington, she said, was exciting and boring, though nothing about it bored Mickey Shanahan. The Senate was too clubby, almost calcified, but the aroma of power was intoxicating and everywhere. Josh Seeley was a freshman senator, meaning that he was in the outermost of inner circles. They were doing important work, but it was impossible to get anything important done. Politicians needed both hands, one to take the money and the other to scratch the backs of those who gave it. And, it was all about the money.

Her hours were too long for any real fun. She’d been to the White House but not the Smithsonian. She’d gone to parties at embassies but rarely to dinner with friends, of whom she’d made a few but no one special. “Sorry to hear it,” he said, not meaning it at all.