Free Trial of Passion by William Deverell Page B

vast, wide world.
    Annabelle seems spellbound.
    â€œThat’s Vancouver.” I point to the brown haze to the north. “Behind us are the Olympic Mountains.” To the south, in the State ofWashington, a towering barricade, cloud-capped. ” ‘Many-peaked Olympus, the abode of the gods, ever unchanging.’ That’s from Homer.”
    I wonder why I have such an unwavering compunction to be so patronizing and pedantic. I know she finds it tiresome. But she smiles.
    â€ ‘Abode of the gods’ . . . Makes you wonder, Arthur, doesn’t it, if the things that seem important really are. Oh, God, I’m getting contemplative. It must be the clean air.”
    â€œYou ought to come up here with an easel. You’ve always wanted to get back to the palette.”
    â€œYou’re such a dear, Arthur. We should . . . well, I think we are getting along a bit better, aren’t we?”
    â€œAh, I remember when we used to go for walks like this.”
    â€œStanley Park. Prospect Point. Every Sunday. And you with your poetry. I remember thinking you were trying so hard to be romantic. In your way.”
    â€œIn my own stuffy way, I suppose you mean.”
    â€œWell, you were always a little . . . not pompous. Donnish.”
    â€œPompous.”
    â€œYou don’t mean to be.” “Surely you can stay the night.”
    â€œNo, I have to get back tonight. Dress rehearsal tomorrow.”
    â€œOh, I regret that.”
    â€œI’m going to take along a friend.”
    From a distant copse a woodpecker shrieks and laughs at me.
    â€œLittle Nicky. It’ll mean a day out of school, but I think we should expose him to some of the good things, don’t you?”
    I fear she sees how flustered I am.
    â€œIt’s the last production, then I’m off to Seattle.
Salomé.”
    â€œOh, he may enjoy that. Suitably bloody.”
    â€œIt’ll keep him away from the idiot box for a few hours.”
    â€œHave a chocolate chip cookie. I made a batch.” I have brought along a bag of them.
    â€œArthur, you astonish me.”
    She munches it daintily, afraid for her figure.
    â€œSo, Arthur, are you going to take Jon O’Donnell’s case?”
    An odd turn in the conversation — this seems to be the major topic of our times. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”
    â€œOh, I talked to Hubbell. He flew over here to try to strong-arm you, didn’t he?”
    â€œYes. Tell him he can have his files back.”
    â€œArthur, you know Jon O’Donnell.”
    â€œAs do you.” I had given guest lectures to his classes. We had shared the odd martini. Annabelle knows him from a few dinner parties we attended — once at his house. I have nothing against him, although I remember being mildly put out by Annabelle’s tendency to act the coquette when he was about. And he seemed to be heeding her siren’s song. . . .
    Nonsense. My years with Annabelle have filled me with suspicious imaginings. He is an engaging fellow, not without wit, though gallingly sardonic when in his cups. I suspect he drinks too much: I see something darkly hidden in haunted eyes that tells me he is a prospective member of my tribe.
    â€œArthur, you know he couldn’t do a thing like that.”
    â€œDo I, indeed?”
    â€œWell,
I
know . . .”
    She hesitates, and now I am suffering a vague unease.
    â€œI mean — you know him as well as I do: tying a girl up, raping her — those allegations will always be a terrible slander to his reputation. He . . . called the house a couple of times, asking for you. I didn’t give him your number, because I promised you. Well, actually, I bumped into him. Downtown. We had coffee.”
    â€œI see.” I clear a throat that is suddenly tight. “Did he ask you to speak to me on his behalf?”
    â€œHe … asked about you. Well, Hubbell is very insistent. He really wants you to do