Free The House on Fortune Street by Margot Livesey

time he had smelled her cooking. But there was no further sound, and he went back to checking his pages. He would knock on her door tomorrow.
    Two days later his knock was again met by silence; he thought about leaving a note but didn’t have a pen. Later he forgot. For one reason or another he did not try again. Ten days passed before, one rainy evening in late November, he ran into her, hurrying along the street.
    “Won’t you come in?” he urged as they reached the house. “All right,” she said in a muffled voice. “Just for a moment.”
    Inside he turned on the central heating, and went upstairs to change his sweater. When he came down again, he found the kitchen empty. Dara, still in her coat, was in the living room. She was standing in front
     
    of the fireplace, staring up at the painting. A pool of water circled her feet.
    “Dara? I brought you a sweater. It’s one of my favorites,” he added, meaning the painting. “You both look so happy.”
    She turned to him, her usually expressive face blank. Perhaps he should have praised the composition, the handling of the paint? But before he could make amends, she was heading for the kitchen. There she exchanged her wet coat for Abigail’s sweater. Although her hair clung darkly to her head, she insisted that she didn’t need a towel. As he opened a bottle of red wine, he asked how she was. “We haven’t seen you for weeks.”
    “Yes.” She wrapped her hands around her glass. He was wondering if he ought, in spite of her protests, to fetch a towel, or even a blanket when, almost as if a switch had turned, she began to speak. There had been a review at the women’s center, everything was in an uproar, and several of her colleagues had been ill. “I’m leading so many groups,” she said brightly, “I sometimes can’t remember if I’m doing substance abuse or taking control of your life. I have to wait for the introductions to give me a clue. And we’ve had a wave of dotty clients. One woman I work with has an obsession with fire extinguishers, another buys lottery tickets all the time. How are things with you and the euthanasia book?”
    He described the interviews and how powerfully people spoke. As always Dara asked just the right questions, the ones that made him want to tell her more. “And what about people who’ve attempted suicide and survived?” she said. “Are you interviewing anybody in that situation? Anybody who regrets the attempt?”
    She was watching him intently, and before he knew it he was holding forth again. The single biggest obstacle to euthanasia was the popu-lar belief that most failed suicides were happy to discover their inept-itude. The society’s position was that almost anyone who wanted to
     
    could commit suicide, from which it followed that failure was a sign of ambivalence, the famous cry for help. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to get on my soapbox. People seem to lose sight of the fact that the society is advocating euthanasia only for one particular group, those for whom the prognosis is nothing but pain.”
    He had coined the last phrase a few days ago and took particular pleasure in saying it. Dara seemed to appreciate it too.
    “Nothing but pain,” she repeated.
    “The reports I’ve read by doctors are particularly convincing, and of course there are places—Oregon, Belgium—where euthanasia is already legal.”
    “You’re an excellent advocate. I’m sure the book will be useful.”
    “It’s nice to think it might actually do some good. So how are you and—”
    Suddenly Dara’s glass was on the table, and she was on her feet. “Time to go.”
    “Oh, can’t you stay for supper? I’m sure we can rustle up something. It would be great to have company.” In his disappointment he almost took hold of her sleeve.
    “I have things to do,” she said, not looking at him, reaching for her coat.
    He was still saying that he hoped they would see her soon, that he knew Abigail missed her, as