Where Echoes Live Read Free Page A

that darkness had fallen, the flashing red-and-gold neon sign atop its roof had been turned on and the parking area was rapidly filling with cars and jeeps and pickup trucks. I’d noticed no other restaurant in town, so I assumed this had to be Vernon’s official hangout.
    Inside, the building was cavernous and noisy, with exposed rafters, plate glass overlooking the lake, and illuminated beer-sign decor. To the left was a dining room with a dance floor and covered instruments on the bandstand; to the right was a lounge where people stood three deep around the bar. I found Anne-Marie there, defending the second chair at her table from would-be takers. Her willowy body was clad in jeans and a denim jacket; her long legs were propped on the ledge below the wide window. She’d already gotten me a glass of white wine.
    â€œHey,” she called as I approached, “I’d about given up on you.”
    â€œSorry.” I slipped into the empty chair. “I was playing tourist and got carried away.”
    â€œI figured as much. How are you?”
    â€œNot bad. You?”
    â€œTired, but otherwise I feel great. I’m on a crusade, and you know what that does for me.”
    Anne-Marie is a veteran of both the fledgling women’s movement and the poverty law wars of the seventies; she’s happiest when plotting to overthrow the status quo. In recent years, however, she’d languished as All Souls’ tax attorney—an area of specialization she undertook more because of the co-op’s needs than her own desire. This leave of absence had visibly done her good: tonight her pert blond hair was windblown; her elegant, finely sculpted face was flushed with good health; her blue eyes shone. In the past year or so she’d grown gaunt and hollow-eyed; now she’d fleshed out some, and the extra poundage became her. Seeing her this way made me realize that Anne-Marie had been a very depressed woman before taking her leave. Of course, there had been problems early on in her marriage with Hank, but they’d ironed them out, and after he’d been shot and almost died the previous summer, they’d developed a closeness that was rare even among happily married couples.
    I said, “So tell me about the crusade. I stopped by the Coalition trailer and met one of the people this afternoon; he made it sound quite mysterious.”
    â€œOh? Who?”
    â€œHeino Ripinsky.”
    â€œAh, Hy. He would.” I was about to ask more about Ripinsky, but she added, “We’ll talk about all that over dinner. Right now I want to hear how you’ve been, what’s going on at home.” Prior to coming to Tufa Lake, Anne-Marie had spent a month at the Coalition’s Sacramento headquarters and had only gotten to The City, as we San Franciscans egocentrically call it, for one weekend.
    â€œWell, there’s not a great deal to tell,” I said. “Hank, of course, has been a grouch with you out of town. We all humor him. Rae—”
    â€œI know what’s going on at All Souls; I speak with Hank every other night. What I want to know is what’s going on with you.”
    â€œYou mean with George and me.”
    She nodded, smiling conspiratorially.
    I had been seeing George Kostakos, professor of psychology at Stanford and very possibly love-of-my-life, since July, when he’d returned to me after six months of coping with his estranged—now former—wife’s mental breakdown and recovery. The half year before that had been a very bad one: not only had I begun to doubt George’s stated intention to come back to me after he put his life in order, but I’d also begun to doubt my willingness to allow him back into mine. But with the resumption of our relationship, my reservations had vanished; I was happier now than I’d been in years. Not that a few dark clouds didn’t remain on the horizon….
    â€œWell?” Anne-Marie