they will try to use Grace's testimony to convict Wald of first-degree murder, offering a more lenient prosecution of my daughter. This means he must be willing to drop the conspiracy charge against Grace, which, if proven in court, would qualify both Erik and her for the gas chamber. The DA seems more intent on nailing Wald well than on trying to prove the always-difficult conspiracy to commit murder. A second-degree rap against Grace will land her a sentence of about fifteen years. It appears that Wald's lawyers will argue that their client was seduced by a vengeful daughter, blinded by love, and eventually tricked into being in Amber's house on July the Fourth. They have been predictably mum with regard to details.
Some portion of her inner life seems to have left Grace and she is more tender now and sweet, resigned to the truth and its consequences.
It took me almost a month to muster the courage to ask her the question that had been torturing me most since learned of her liaison with Erik Wald: Did Grace know that. 45 Wald ordered her to steal from my study would be used kill both me and her mother? It was the first time since arrest that Grace truly broke down, and the rush of her tears convinced me that Wald had convinced her that only Amber would be there the night that we had sprung the trap on him. I believe her, and it is what I want to believe.
She told me just the other day that she is almost ready to see her mother.
Amber has visited us twice at home. Needless to say, undercurrents prevailing during a visit from Amber Mae do not encourage comfort or intimacy between husband and wife. Amber knows this, and her second visit-at our invitation-was, believe, probably her last. She is off to New York next week. I walked her down the road to her car when she left that second time, an uneasy silence between us.
'Stay my friend, Russ. We're not getting any younger, you know.'
'I know. I will. I am.'
'Am I as bad a person as I seem, given certain standard of measure?'
'No. You made yourself and I love you for that.'
'Made myself, like a science project. Crude, bubbly, but to no particular effect.'
'You had a disadvantage.'
'What was that?'
'You were alone.'
She considered this. 'You know something? I was always happiest that way.'
'I know.'
'Do you think that somehow, in a different time or place, it might really have been good for us, together?'
'Yes.'
'That's a nice sentiment. Thank you.'
'Does it matter?'
'If we think it does, then it does. Take care in Mexico,
Russ.'
'Thank you, Amber.'
'Please know the offer is there, if you need money.'
'We'll make it. That wasn't what I meant.'
She smiled, actually blushing a little. I kissed her on the cheek, then held the car door open for her. The car is a red Maserati. It roared and echoed down the steep street. I could hear it all the way to Laguna Canyon Road. Amber Mae Wilson- surrounded by herself, and alone as always-guided her fast car around the bend of Our Lady of the Canyon and disappeared toward town.
Isabella greeted me back to the porch with a knowing look on her face. She had always been able to carry on a conversation without the words, and I wondered if, in the future, this subtle capacity might serve us well.
She was sitting in her wheelchair, with a cap on her head. I guided her over beside the patio bench, then sat next to her. Fall was approaching. A warm breeze filtered in from the desert and the shadows had begun to change. We looked out at the canyon, my hand in hers. She squeezed it.
'This is what we have, Russ.'
'Yes.'
'It isn't what we wanted, but it's what we have.'
'I’ll take it, Izzy.'
'No matter what happens, remember how I loved you. Please don't ever forget that.'
Next month, Isabella and I will leave for Mexico. Our destination is the unglamorous hamlet of Los Mochis, where Isabella's relations-a great many of whom she has never seen-live. She yearns to know the people from whom she came. They have prepared a home for us, cleaned and painted and furnished. It is reputed to have a nice view of a small valley. Joe and Corrine will arrive ahead of us.
There has been some assumption on the part of friends-unvoiced but nonetheless apparent-that we are going to Mexico for Isabella to die. When viewed from the outside, this idea is understandable. Three days ago, I received in the mail condolence card from a distant friend, comforting me in my great loss. I had the notion that Izzy would get a laugh out of this ill-timed gesture but then decided she might not. I chuck it, sent the friend a photograph of Izzy holding a current newspaper (date visible!) and a brief note of correction. Isabella pressed me for an explanation of the newspaper ploy, but I refused, good-naturedly, to give one. She has since lost interest in the incident. We are not a man and woman who live in terror of secrets. The known is terror enough.
Our secret, if we have one, is this: We are going away next month not for death, but for life.
