We'll Meet Again

27

On Friday afternoon, Annamarie Scalli went straight home after taking care of her last patient. The weekend loomed ahead of her, and already she knew it was going to be a difficult one. Since Tuesday morning, when Molly Lasch’s release from prison had received so much television coverage, half of Annamarie’s patients had mentioned the case to her.

She understood that it was only coincidence, that they had no awareness of her connection to the case. Her patients were homebound, and they saw the same repetitious programs, mostly soap operas, all the time. Having a more-or-less-local crime like this was simply something new and different to mull over-a privileged young woman claiming that she didn’t believe she murdered her husband, even though she had plea-bargained to a lesser charge and had spent time in prison for his death.

The comments varied from crusty old Mrs. O’Brien saying that he got what any husband who cheated deserved, to Mr. Kunzman’s comment that if Molly Lasch had been black and poor, she’d be serving twenty years.

Gary Lasch wasn’t worth having her serve even one day in prison, Annamarie thought as she opened the door of her garden apartment. Too bad I was too much of a fool to realize it then.

Her kitchen was so tiny that she always said it made the galley of an airplane look roomy. But she had made the most of it by painting the ceiling a sky blue and sketching a lattice with flowers on the walls; as a result the meager space became her indoor garden.

This evening, however, it failed to raise her spirits. Having to revisit painful old memories had made her feel depressed and lonely, and she knew she had to get away. There was one place she could go that would help. Her older sister, Lucy, lived in Buffalo, in the home where they had been raised. Annamarie did not visit there regularly since her mother’s death, but this weekend she would make the trek. After she put away the last of the groceries she reached for the phone.

Forty-five minutes later she threw a hastily packed duffel bag in the backseat of her car and, with brightened spirits, turned on the ignition. It was a long trip, but she didn’t mind. Driving gave her a chance to think. Much of the time was spent regretting. Regretting not listening to her mother. Regretting being so foolish. Definitely despising herself for her affair with Gary Lasch. If only she could have willed herself into really loving Jack Morrow. If only she had realized how much she had begun to care for him.

She remembered with renewed shame the trust and love she had seen in his eyes. She had fooled Jack Morrow like everyone else, and he neither knew nor suspected that she was involved with Gary Lasch.

Even though it was past midnight when she arrived, her sister Lucy had heard the car when it drove up and was opening the door. With a rush of renewed joy, Annamarie reached into the back for her bag. A moment later she was hugging her sister, glad to be where, at least for the weekend, she would be able to force away the distressing thoughts of what might have been.