Free Betrayal by John Lescroart Page B

stairs. Unlocking her door, she pushed it open and turned on the inside light. “Safe,” she said. “Thank you.”
    “You’re very welcome.” He executed a small bow. “I had a great time,” he said. “You sleep tight.”

[5]
     
    S ATURDAY HE TOOK HER up to San Francisco. This one was a nondate, he told her, because it was in the daytime and a real date by definition had to be at night. He picked her up at ten-thirty in the morning and with the top down on his Corvette, they took Highway 280 up to the city, the beautiful green back way, Crystal Springs reservoir on their left, and then, farther on, the great expanse of the glittering Bay down to their right.
    She didn’t know the city as well as he did. She’d told him that at dinner, and he’d used it as his excuse to ask her out again: She couldn’t live as close as she did to one of the world’s great cities and not know very much about it. It was morally wrong.
    So they hit the Palace of the Legion of Honor, then swung back through Golden Gate Park, stopping for tea at the Japanese Tea Garden after an hour inside the De Young Museum. The fine August weather was holding up, and parking at Ghirardelli Square, they walked back up Polk Street and ate baguettes and pâté and drank red wine at one of the outdoor tables of a French bistro. Taking a walk afterward, idly sightseeing, they essayed the descent of Lombard, the “crookedest street in the world”—although it wasn’t in fact even the crookedest street in the city, Nolan told her. That distinction belonged to Vermont Street down in Potrero Hill. Nevertheless, Lombard was crooked and steep enough, and he told her that she might want to put her hand on his arm for balance, and she did.
    In North Beach, at Caffe Trieste, Nolan brought their cappuccinos over and put them down on the tiny table in front of her. “Okay,” he said, “risky-question time again.”
    This time, more comfortable with him by now, she smiled and said, “Uh-oh.”
    “Think you can handle it?”
    “You never know, but I’ll try.”
    “Evan’s letters.”
    “What about them?”
    “Have you read them?”
    She looked down at her coffee, lifted the cup and took a sip, then put it down carefully. “Why don’t you just tell me I’m pretty again and we’ll run with that instead?”
    “Okay. You’re pretty again. After that ugly time you had back there for a while.”
    “Yeah, that was terrible.” But the gag wasn’t working. Her mouth went tight and she closed her eyes, sighing, then opened them and looked him full in the face. “Not yet. I tried starting to read them the other night, but I’m still too emotional about him. I haven’t changed my mind about what he’s doing, so there’s really nothing he can say…”
    Nolan took a long moment before he sipped his coffee, another one before he spoke. “You don’t see anything noble or glorious or even good in the warrior, do you?”
    She briefly met his eyes. “The warrior ,” she said in a derisive tone.
    “The warrior, that’s right.”
    She shook her head. “Evan’s not a warrior, Ron. Evan’s a simple soldier, a grunt who’s taking orders from men he doesn’t respect, fighting in a country that doesn’t want us there, risking his life for a cause he doesn’t believe in. I have a hard time with words like noble and glorious and good coming into that equation when I keep seeing waste and stupidity and ignorance.”
    “Okay,” Nolan said. “We could maybe get in a good fight about this particular war. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the philosophical concept of the warrior.”
    Her face was still set in stone. “I never think about the warrior, Ron. War is what’s wrong with the world, and always has been.”
    Again, Nolan let a silence accumulate. “With all respect, Tara,” he said quietly, “you owe it to yourself to think about this.”
    “To myself?”
    “If you’re dumping the guy you’re in love with