verdict?"
"After due deliberation. Which just began, so it might take a while. You never know with juries."
"How do I find out?"
That was as far as it went. She didn't have a chance to respond, because another voice said loudly, "Annalise, there you are," and a blue-eyed blond guy, half a head taller and a yard wider than me, came barreling up. He didn't even glance at me; as far as he was concerned, I wasn't even there. "I've been looking all over for you. Come on, there's somebody I want you to meet." He took hold of her arm and started tugging on it.
It cought me flatfooted. I didn't have a chance to say anything more. She smiled at me and shrugged as if to say "What can you do?" and let him drag her off into the crowd.
I felt a rush of anger at the blond guy. Asshole! Yanking on her like that, taking her away! But the anger didn't last long. The dull acceptance that had characterized so much of my life replaced it. So what's the big deal? I thought. She'd probably have said no anyway. Forget it. Forget her.
But I hung around the reception for another half hour, working my way through the crowd. Annalise was gone, or at least I didn't see her anywhere. Finally I left and drove home, feeling flat, putting the flatness down to the crush of strangers even though she was still on my mind. She stayed on my mind the rest of the day, and I dreamed about her that night.
Forget her? Even then, at some level, I knew I never would.
***
It took me nearly a week to work up the nerve to call her. I would've done it sooner if she'd had a listed phone number, but she didn't and nobody I knew who'd been at the reception knew her. I was reluctant to call her at her job. Amthor Associates frowned on personal calls on company time, and I thought Kleinfelt's Department Store would probably feel the same. But it was either that or give up without trying, so I rode the elevator to the lobby on my morning coffee break and called Kleinfelt's on one of the public phones.
She answered with her last name and a Miss in front of it. I identified myself and said that we'd met at the Sanderson reception on Saturday—"Lost and found, if you remember."
"I remember," she said. Not as if she were glad to hear from me, but friendly enough. "I didn't have that much champagne."
"I was wondering," I said, "if the jury has come in yet."
"Jury?" Then she got it and it made her laugh. "Oh, the jury. Bight. Well, let's see. Which case were you interested in?"
"Mainly the one involving me."
"Mmm. Just now, as a matter of fact."
"What's the verdict?"
"In favor of the plaintiff, I think. Why don't you call me again tonight to confirm it?"
She gave me her home number. And when I called her that night, she confirmed the favorable verdict. She was busy Friday and Saturday, but Sunday would be all right for dinner as long as it wasn't a late evening.
She lived in an eight-unit apartment building near Golden Gate Park and the University of California Medical Center. I picked her up there and we went to Castagnola's on Fisherman's Wharf for dinner and then to the Top of the Mark for drinks. Annalise wore white again—a white flared skirt and a pale-blue-and-white blouse under a white jacket. If white is a color, it was her favorite, with pale blue a close second. She drew a lot of male eyes. Being with her made me feel proud and privileged and a little possessive, feelings I'd never had with any other woman.
It wasn't like most first dates: there was no awkwardness between us. She was as easy to talk to as she had been at the wedding reception—naturally gregarious, so comfortable in her own skin she put you at ease right away. She talked freely about herself, but without the constant ego focus of a lot of attractive women. She was twenty-six. She'd grown up in Visalia, in the Central Valley. Her father, a career soldier, had been killed in Korea when she was a baby; her
"After due deliberation. Which just began, so it might take a while. You never know with juries."
"How do I find out?"
That was as far as it went. She didn't have a chance to respond, because another voice said loudly, "Annalise, there you are," and a blue-eyed blond guy, half a head taller and a yard wider than me, came barreling up. He didn't even glance at me; as far as he was concerned, I wasn't even there. "I've been looking all over for you. Come on, there's somebody I want you to meet." He took hold of her arm and started tugging on it.
It cought me flatfooted. I didn't have a chance to say anything more. She smiled at me and shrugged as if to say "What can you do?" and let him drag her off into the crowd.
I felt a rush of anger at the blond guy. Asshole! Yanking on her like that, taking her away! But the anger didn't last long. The dull acceptance that had characterized so much of my life replaced it. So what's the big deal? I thought. She'd probably have said no anyway. Forget it. Forget her.
But I hung around the reception for another half hour, working my way through the crowd. Annalise was gone, or at least I didn't see her anywhere. Finally I left and drove home, feeling flat, putting the flatness down to the crush of strangers even though she was still on my mind. She stayed on my mind the rest of the day, and I dreamed about her that night.
Forget her? Even then, at some level, I knew I never would.
***
It took me nearly a week to work up the nerve to call her. I would've done it sooner if she'd had a listed phone number, but she didn't and nobody I knew who'd been at the reception knew her. I was reluctant to call her at her job. Amthor Associates frowned on personal calls on company time, and I thought Kleinfelt's Department Store would probably feel the same. But it was either that or give up without trying, so I rode the elevator to the lobby on my morning coffee break and called Kleinfelt's on one of the public phones.
She answered with her last name and a Miss in front of it. I identified myself and said that we'd met at the Sanderson reception on Saturday—"Lost and found, if you remember."
"I remember," she said. Not as if she were glad to hear from me, but friendly enough. "I didn't have that much champagne."
"I was wondering," I said, "if the jury has come in yet."
"Jury?" Then she got it and it made her laugh. "Oh, the jury. Bight. Well, let's see. Which case were you interested in?"
"Mainly the one involving me."
"Mmm. Just now, as a matter of fact."
"What's the verdict?"
"In favor of the plaintiff, I think. Why don't you call me again tonight to confirm it?"
She gave me her home number. And when I called her that night, she confirmed the favorable verdict. She was busy Friday and Saturday, but Sunday would be all right for dinner as long as it wasn't a late evening.
She lived in an eight-unit apartment building near Golden Gate Park and the University of California Medical Center. I picked her up there and we went to Castagnola's on Fisherman's Wharf for dinner and then to the Top of the Mark for drinks. Annalise wore white again—a white flared skirt and a pale-blue-and-white blouse under a white jacket. If white is a color, it was her favorite, with pale blue a close second. She drew a lot of male eyes. Being with her made me feel proud and privileged and a little possessive, feelings I'd never had with any other woman.
It wasn't like most first dates: there was no awkwardness between us. She was as easy to talk to as she had been at the wedding reception—naturally gregarious, so comfortable in her own skin she put you at ease right away. She talked freely about herself, but without the constant ego focus of a lot of attractive women. She was twenty-six. She'd grown up in Visalia, in the Central Valley. Her father, a career soldier, had been killed in Korea when she was a baby; her
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