Conduct in Question

Chapter 9

After speaking with Katharine, Harry looked about his empty kitchen. From the hollow sounds of the house, he knew Laura had not yet been home. Her absence disoriented him.

Later that evening, with sleep eluding him, he lay still in the darkness of his empty bed. He saw the placid face of Mudhali regarding him as a deadbeat. Jesus! As if refusing to shoulder his deceased partner’s personal debts were a serious crime. Turning onto his back, he stared at the ceiling. He saw his hand scrawl the check in anger. Never mind; he could fix it in the morning. He just needed to give the client the accounting, and all would be well. Dorothy Crawford would just have to pay Richard’s debt to the bank.

Then Laura’s face floated up. Beset with different worries, he tortured himself with visions of the charming Dr. Stover. Harry had never met the man, but now Stover leered at him and stroked a pretentious beard. In his thrall, he thought.

No longer could he drive out recollections of his Sunday afternoon walk in the ravine with Laura. Together, they had strolled down the dirt road past the formal gardens of Alexander Muir Park. Holding hands was the public pretence of intimacy. Up ahead lay the sun-filled tennis courts and the neat white-and-green clubhouse.

“What do you want to do this summer?” asked Harry, testing the waters.

“I’m not sure I can get away.”

“You always have.”

She shrugged and poked a stick at a muddy patch of dead leaves. “Work schedules.”

In the distance, a small boy was reeling after flocks of birds.

Harry’s shoulders slumped.

“You’re thinking we should have had children.”

“No. Why?”

“You’d make a lousy poker player, Harry.”

Saddened at being so intimately known by someone drifting out of reach, he admitted, “Yes, actually, I was.”

“You know it wouldn’t have worked.”

“I would have helped.” Harry  heard his own wistfulness.

“Sure, Harry. But that would have made it my responsibility.”

They walked on underneath the ancient, gnarled trees. “Let’s talk about it next month,” she  said.

Nothing resolved. Everything postponed.

At last, exhaustion swept over him, and he slept straight through the night.

To his surprise, he woke almost an hour early. Laura lay beside him. He drew her close and gazed at the line of her shoulder, smooth and still in the early rays of sun.

“What is it?” she mumbled into the pillow.

He dismissed her grumpy tone, and contemplated the pleasures of their early morning lovemaking—years ago. He slid his hand under the covers, reaching down until it rested on her thigh.

“What are you doing, Harry?” She clutched the blankets around her. “It’s not seven, is it? I’ve got a meeting at the museum at eight-thirty.” Pulling her robe on, she headed for her bathroom.

Harry sighed. Reality clashed with fantasy. But good Lord…what about the Chin offers and the Deighton funeral arrangements? In the bathroom, he began shaving. With determination, he looked beyond his puffy eyelids to concentrate on the intense blue eyes. He rinsed and patted his face dry.

He took stock. Time to cultivate a new image: shed a few pounds and cut down on the smoking. With the new business, he could afford a squash-club membership.