Zack beamed. “Clever.”
We’d doled out the chili and were just about to slip into the family room with Zack’s collection of
“Am I too late?” he asked.
“Of course not,” I said. “There’s some food left if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t feel like eating. But Taylor mentioned something about carving pumpkins, and I’d kind of like to do that.”
“Then you’re timing is perfect,” I said. “Because they’re just about to start.” I reached into my utensil drawer and pulled out my favourite paring knife. “Take this,” I said. “Good carving tools are in short supply tonight.”
“Thanks,” Ethan said. “I’ve got my own knife.” He sounded as if he was close to tears. I touched his hand. “Is everything okay?”
“Nothing’s ever okay for me,” he said bleakly, then he turned and walked into the party.
Zack and I were just nicely into our third episode when my daughter popped in with the ballot boxes for the winning pumpkins. Taylor had shown me sketches of the design she was planning. It was of a phoenix, and as she described how the flames would flicker behind the bird rising in flames, I figured she was a lock for the coolest, but Ethan’s mystical heraldic coat of arms with its glowing pentangle surrounded by a ring of flaming hearts won hands down. His prize was three hours of Phantom bowling at the Golden Mile Lanes, and whether it was Taylor’s genuine delight at his win or the fact that the other kids had voted for him, Ethan was ecstatic.
“Maybe it’ll work out for him, after all,” Zack said.
“I hope so,” I said. “No kid should think his life is over at thirteen.”
“No,” Zack said. “C’mon, enough gloom. Mr. Burns is just about to remove Homer’s brain.”
We looked at each other and recited Mr. Burns’s trenchant line. “ ‘Dammit, Smithers. This isn’t rocket science. It’s brain surgery.’ ”
Later, as he zipped his jacket and pulled out his car keys, Zack gave the pumpkins glowing in our living room a final glance. “Is it always this much fun around here?” he asked.
“Stick around,” I said. “The best is yet to be.”
The next morning when I walked into St. Paul’s Cathedral for the 10:30 service, Zack was at the back of the church waiting.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am pleased,” I said. “And surprised. You didn’t mention anything about this last night.”
“It was an impulse,” he said. His eyes took in the stained glass, the vaulting arches, and the oak pews. “Nice,” he said. “Is this where we’re getting married?”
“It’s my first choice,” I said.
“Then it’s my first choice,” Zack said.
The accessible area was at the front to the left of the altar. By the time we took our places, many members of the congregation had a chance to see Zack and me together. Zack was oblivious, but I wasn’t, and as our dean came forward to give us communion, a lot of necks were craned. The recessional hymn was “Let Streams of Living Justice.” Zack had a sonorous bass and a musician’s ability to pick up tunes, and as he belted out the line “abolish ancient vengeance: proclaim your people’s hour” more than a few heads turned our way. I had spent my entire life going quietly about my business. Being married to a head-turner was going to take some getting used to. When we were leaving, our dean, a generous and open-minded man, seemed startled when Zack offered his hand, and he hesitated for a split second before taking it. I was going to have to get used to that too.
As we walked to our car, Zack gazed towards the park. “Hey, look at that,” he said. “You can see my apartment from here. Want to see the view from my balcony?”
“I’ve seen the view from your balcony,” I said.
“I’ll throw in lunch. We can order in from Peking House. Think about it – almond prawns, those silky sheets you like, and me. Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
It was a fine afternoon. We ate, made love, napped, went down to the fitness centre in Zack’s building to work out, came back to the apartment, showered, and crawled back between the silky sheets. We were lying there, discussing how to spend the evening, when Glenda Parker called. In an instant, Zack’s mood shifted.
The news was not good. After he’d rung off, Zack rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Glenda’s worried about Sam,” he said. “The tension’s getting to him. No surprise there. I’ve spent my share of time in hotel rooms when a jury was out. All you do is stare at the wall and imagine the worst.”
I put my arms around him. “Anything we can do to help?”
“Have you got a magic wand?”
“No, but I do have a fireplace and a quiet house. Taylor’s having supper at Gracie’s. Why don’t you invite Sam and Glenda to come over for a couple of hours tonight? We could light a fire and have a drink. You said they like to play cribbage – it might be fun to play a few hands.”
The Parkers arrived at a little after seven. They brought some very good wine and some very good chocolate. Thoughtful guests, but it wasn’t the gifts that made me glad I’d invited them. The trial had clearly taken its toll on them both and their relief at being in a private home was poignant. As strained as he was, Sam was gracious. “This means a great deal to us, Joanne. I know you and Zack don’t have much time together.”
