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I should have said thanks, at least. He felt guilty about that. But then, Judith had a way of making him feel guilty about a lot of things.
If it wasn’t for the cats, maybe things could have been different. She owned so many. He’d counted five on that one visit. Judith was attractive. Intelligent. Obviously available. She had nice legs, too.
Not as nice as Sally’s, but then Sally was a bit of a phenomenon in that area.
He’d wondered how far he would get into his day before he thought of her. But this wasn’t even the first time. Visions of her had been in his head when he woke up this morning. And she’d come to mind a couple times during the drive to work, as well.
She wasn’t telling him the truth about Friday night. He knew that for sure. He could have bought a burned hand. But a fall against the granite counter, too? No way. Not unless she’d had a seizure of some sort.
He drew a question mark on the pad of paper by his phone. Could that be it? Was Sally ill?
He hated that possibility. But it was an option he had to consider, although Neil’s pen on the otherwise spotless counter suggested a second scenario. Perhaps Sally and her ex had argued. Then what? Colin knew their divorce had been far from amicable, but he couldn’t picture the sophisticated and courteous Neil resorting to physical violence.
Had someone else been in the house, then? After Neil left? One of Sally’s client’s disgruntled husbands?
The buzzer on the phone intercom sounded, cutting into his conjectures. “Mr. Foster? It’s time for you to go to court.”
Hell. He hadn’t even finished reviewing the files. Colin gathered them into a stack, then shoved them into his briefcase, promising himself he’d follow up on Sally’s “accident” later.
DURING THE DRIVE HOME, Colin’s speculations focused on the possibility that Sally might have suffered a seizure of some sort. But if so, why not admit the truth to him? Was she worried that if news of her illness became known, it might get in the way of her judicial aspirations?
He’d heard the scuttlebutt and knew she was a favored contender for Justice Willa Kendal’s position on the Queen’s Bench. Willa had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s a few months ago and was officially retiring at the beginning of June.
Her replacement would be announced shortly after that date and Sally was high on the committee’s list of potential candidates for several reasons. First, she was a woman, and given the current composition of the courts, that was an important factor. Although she was young, Sally had had a distinguished career. Her integrity was unquestioned. Her politics fortuitously aligned with the current reigning powers.
Colin pulled into his garage, surprised to find himself home already. His stomach felt a little off, and it only took a minute for him to realize why.
I don’t want Sally to be sick.
She didn’t look unwell, but then neither had Beth, at least not in the beginning.
Colin was suddenly so weary he could hardly get out of his vehicle. As his gaze skimmed by the Miata, his conscience pricked. He’d promised himself he was going to start doing the things that needed to be done.
And he would. But later.
In the house, he went straight to the kitchen, to the fridge, to the line of aluminum cans that filled the space that had once contained real food like milk and juice and carefully labeled Tupperware containers of leftovers.
He snagged a beer, was about to close the fridge door, when he noticed the plastic container behind the dozen ale. He’d seen it a hundred times before, and done his best to ignore it, but this time he made the effort to reach deep into the cold cavern and pull it out.
Low-fat cherry yogurt. Beth’s favorite kind.
The container felt heavy. Through the opaque white plastic, he imagined he could see the green froth of mold. Holding the container at arm’s length, he carried it to the trash, then let it drop.
It fell right on top of the aluminum pan containing Judith’s casserole.
ON TUESDAY SALLY MET Justice Kendal for lunch at a small bistro down from the courthouse. The judge was sixty-eight, unmarried, sharp of mind and tongue. She carried her short, rotund body with authority, and stress lines marred a face that would still be considered pretty if not for her stern visage.
Even though they’d been on a first-name basis for years, Sally always felt a little intimidated in her presence, as though Willa were somehow a species above the rest of humanity.
As Willa lifted her fork to her mouth, though, her hand betrayed her all too mortal origins. While Sally had noticed the tremors for almost a year, they’d only recently been diagnosed as Parkinson’s disease.
“I hope you’ve been whittling down your client load, as I’ve advised you.” Willa spoke with her usual authority, as if completely unfazed by the fact that she could barely feed herself.
Sally would have liked to lean over the table and offer a steady hand. But she knew Willa would prefer if she pretended nothing was wrong. So she did not offer to help, instead forking a strand of pasta into her own mouth.
As she did so, Willa’s attention went to the discolored skin on Sally’s hand. Sally waited for her to ask what had happened.
I burned myself cooking on the weekend. That was what she’d told everyone else who’d inquired. And each time, she thought to herself, I’m going to have to do something about Neil. But so far, she’d taken no action. She hadn’t even had her door fixed, though she was more careful about keeping it locked.
But Willa didn’t ask about her hand. “Well? Are you making all the appropriate arrangements?”
Sally pushed the remaining pasta to a corner of her plate. “I’m working on it.”
“When you get the call from the justice minister, you are no longer allowed to work as an attorney.”
When you get the call. Not if. Willa had so much confidence in her. Sally hoped it was justified. And she had been doing her best to sort out her clients in the event that she was lucky enough to get the appointment. She’d spoken to a couple of her fellow lawyers about sharing the load.
But some clients were harder to hand over than others. Pamela Moore, for instance. She was more of a friend than a client. Though it went against her usual office policy of requiring an up-front retainer, Sally had never sent the woman a single bill. Who was going to take on a client like that?
Willa reached across the table to pat her hand. “You’re an excellent attorney, Sally, but not the only excellent attorney in the city.”
Sally allowed a smile. “I suppose that’s true.” She stared out the window and saw fresh raindrops splatter on the sidewalks and streets. The dreary spring weather matched her mood today.
“I just wish it wasn’t happening this way.” She hated knowing that her judicial appointment, the highlight of her career, was only possible because Willa Kendal had a chronic, eventually fatal, condition.
“Don’t get maudlin, Sally. I can’t handle that sort of thing. If it wasn’t my retirement, it would be someone else’s.”
In Canada, where judges were appointed for life, not elected, openings occurred under two circumstances only—the retirement or the death of an existing judge.
“This is your chance. You’ve earned it.”
“Thanks, Willa. You’ve been such a supportive friend to me.” Willa had hired her out of law school. Sally had articled at Willa’s firm, then later, when Willa had been appointed to the bench, she had introduced Sally to Gerald Thornton, who had brought her in as a junior partner at Crane, Whyte and Thornton.
“You think you don’t give as good as you get?” Willa abandoned her efforts to eat and downed the rest of her cola. Since court was in session this afternoon, she wasn’t drinking wine, her preferred luncheon beverage. “Now, tell me about that girl of yours. Is she still skiing competitively?”
Sally nodded. “The last race of the season is this weekend.”
“She’s pretty serious?”
Again Sally nodded. “Her coach seems to think she has Olympic potential.”
“You have mixed feelings about that?”
Sally wasn’t surprised at her friend’s perceptiveness. You didn’t get to be a judge without developing the ability to read people accurately. Once again, Willa was on the mark.
“I can’t help but wonder if Olympic-level skiing—with all the pressure, demands and risk of injury—is the right course for Lara. She says, yes, but she’s only sixteen. Is that really old enough to be making such an important decision?”
“What does that charming ex-husband of yours think?”
Sally tried not to resent Willa speaking of Neil in such positive terms. She reminded herself that Neil did seem to hold a special appeal for older women. And Willa knew nothing about the reasons for their divorce. Sally had never taken her into her confidence on that particular subject.
“He’s thrilled. He wasn’t much of an athlete when he was younger. I think he’s living vicariously through our daughter.”
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