Free Love Has The Best Intentions by Christine Arness Page A

its cold marble floor and hard chairs.
Following an ancient tradition, we, as plaintiffs, chose the
right-hand side of the room while the defendants seated themselves
on the left.
    During the wait to appear, I reflected back
over my relationship with the man sitting across the room.
Introduced at a Bar Association meeting through the happy accident
of his spilling coffee on my skirt (to this day he refused to admit
that it had been on purpose), our warm friendship gradually began
to change into something deeper, more personal.
    Our date Sunday evening had been spent
viewing some of the Christmas lighting displays that were still in
place. Over the last two weeks, Andrew had been attempting to
intrude plans for the future into the relationship while I
struggled to hold him at arm’s length. The intoxication of Andrew’s
presence, however, was beginning to bulldoze through my defenses. A
kiss could make me dangerously agreeable.
    At the bailiff’s direction, the assembled
gathering rose with a rustling of coats and files to honor the
entrance of the judge. I followed suit automatically, my mind still
on our last meeting.
    Parked on a hill overlooking the city, with
the twinkling lights below and the stars gleaming above, Andrew had
conjured up a thermos of hot chocolate from under the front seat of
his car. We toasted each other with steaming mugs before we kissed
deeply, delightfully. Andrew then displayed the ring as it nestled
on a bed of velvet, refracting the light of a thousand stars, his
declaration of love falling on my ears with the sweet ring of
truth. I felt a deep surge of love in return for this bear-sized
man and had actually parted my lips to speak—to accept the proposal
offered so beautifully.
    Suddenly harsh echoes of the past few weeks
clambered in my head, the tears, the vanished love, the broken
marriages. Wincing away from the ring cradled in his hands, I had
pleaded for time. Time to consider, time to gain the courage to
reject or accept him.
    The first case was going forward swiftly; it
was a “civilized” divorce. Mrs. Chapin was following the
proceedings with breathless interest, lips parted; her mask of
tense withdrawal had been stripped away. I glanced over at Andrew.
His head was bent over some papers removed from his briefcase,
reassuring his client with his tranquil confidence.
    Could I refuse when a man offered me his
heart? Did I love him enough to take a gamble on marriage? I wanted
someone to assure me that divorce wouldn’t rear its ugly head to
shatter my happiness. I’d seen it happen often to my friends; the
very thought was devastating. Other brides had taken this important
step with confidence shining in their eyes. Why did I hesitate?
    The next case was called. The couple glared
at each other around their respective counsel, bitter lines evident
around the husband’s mouth. I shuddered. Would the flame of love
and passion turn into ashes for me as well?
    Images from the past rose up to offer
evidence in Andrew’s favor. There was the night spent at the
hospital while my mother underwent emergency surgery. Desperately
afraid and alone, I dialed his number with shaking hands. When he
answered in a haze of sleep, I blurted out my fears in a torrent of
words. Ignoring the time factor of 2:00 a.m., he had responded by
padding into the lobby within minutes, pajamas concealed under a
trench coat and eased the endless hours of waiting with a strong
arm around my shoulders. Throughout the long, agonizing minutes,
the impression of drafty corridors and starched, rustling staff
workers was overshadowed by the warmth and power of his hand in
mine.
    Another slide clicked into the viewer of
memory. Early last spring, I had been stricken with a mild case of
bronchitis. Unable to gather the strength to fix a meal, wash
dishes or pour a glass of orange juice, I huddled in bed and
wondered with despair who I could call for assistance. The
impersonal, modern apartment building in which I lived