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as it mere friendship that compelled Doug Pierce to look the other way, exactly as Roxanne had predicted? Somehow, I find it hard to believe that just because we're pals of the sheriff, Neil was entitled to one free “Get Out of Jail” card. Or was it the love bug that prompted Doug, freshly bitten, to ignore the unsavory entanglements of police work so he could focus on recreational entanglements with Todd Draper? I find it equally hard to believe that Doug's commitment to duty was that shallow.
A more likely answer is that I had simply been blind to an aspect of Doug Pierce that was more flexible, more human, than I was willing to acknowledge. Had I been projecting my own inflexibility upon a man I admired, assuming he was like me in every respect? Somedayâmaybe, I'm not sure whenâI'll have to ask him about that.
One thing's for sure. I'm grateful that Doug did what he did. And I'm ashamed that both he and Roxanne were able to grasp “the big picture” with such expediency, while I myself struggled to find a foothold in a miasma of doubts, a whirlpool of technicalities, and a quicksand of conflicting ethics. I'm all the more ashamed that this pothering brought me to the brink of a betrayal cloaked in rectitude.
With the distance of time, I'm now able to look back at what happened and to understand that the main issue was always clear to meâ
Neil did not murder Gillian Reece. While he was involved in the circumstances that led to her death, his conscience was clean, and I should have accepted the logic of his determination that he had not been responsible for the tragedy.
Ultimately, that responsibility traced back to Gillian herself. She had plotted against many people, deceiving business associates as well as the entire town, and she did not hesitate to resort to physical abuse when her scheming and her verbal bullying failed. As Neil wrote in his letter, she deserved not only her fall from power, but her fall to deathâsimply because it was she who had instigated each vicious volley in a chain of events that led to inevitable reactions and a fatal conclusion.
If Neil was able to grasp so succinctly the significance of what had happened, why couldn't I as well? Why did my conscientiousness stray into obstinacy? Because, as Gillian herself had informed me in no uncertain terms, I was a tight-ass. What's more, she had taken no small pleasure in informing me of my reputation as a prissy snob. Though it stung to hear such blunt assessments, I now understand that I had needed to hear them. So it's ironic that I owe Gillian a debt of gratitude for confronting me with observations that my friends wouldn't voice, but apparently felt.
Have I changed? I hope so. I'm trying. Not only have I learned a valuable lesson regarding my own rigid views, but I've also felt a measure of liberation in adopting this previously foreign mind-set. If I feel like biting my nails, I bite them. If a friend finds some latitude in the speed limit, I keep my mouth shut. I've even learned to stand naked in my own bathroom. These concessions, while admittedly shallow, are an encouraging sign of deeper roots. How successfully I nurture them, only time will tell.
Time has already brought developments on other fronts.
Our friend Doug Pierce did indeed find love with Todd Draper. The small-town sheriff and the big-city curtain designer discovered, after spending their first night together, that they were not only physically compatible, but true soul mates, the real deal. Working so far apart, they came to find their long weekend drives increasingly taxing, so they've now bought a little place in Lake Geneva, near the Illinois state line, which allows them less time on the road and more time together.
Todd is even talking about opening a workroom in Milwaukee, which would further close the gap.
When I saw that Doug and Todd were truly in love, my lingering designs on Doug at last ceased, and I happily abandoned the fleeting erotic interest I'd had in Todd. With those distractions aside, I have confirmed my contentment to be alone with Neil. We look forward to growing old together.
As for Thad Quatrain, our inherited son, he looks forward to a promising career in theater while continuing his study in California with the noted director Claire Gray. (Contrary to the instincts of someâand the wishful thinking of othersâI'm quite sure Thad is not latently gay.)
As for Roxanne Exner, also known as Mrs. Carl Creighton, she and her husband have permanently retreated from the political arena and are solidly focused on their roles as two of the most influential attorneys in Chicago. We don't see them as often as we once did, but friendships like that are not threatened by time or distance. Roxanne and I know we can always count on each other, lean on each other, depend on each other. We're only a phone call away.
As for cell phones, I use mine all the time now and never think twice about it.
As for Esmond Reece, the man who helped make cell phones possible, he and Tamra Thaine discovered that the good people of Dumont had little interest in Eastern studiesâin fact, noneâso the two of them rolled up their sticky-mats and moved to Sedona, where the harmonic convergence is said to be lovely this season.
As for Perry Schield, the Quatro Press executive retired shortly after the fateful merger with Ashton Mills was averted. Perry's decision to leave the company surprised no one. His younger clone, Tyler Pennell, surprised everyone, however, when he abandoned forensic accounting and moved away with Perry to a secluded cabin in the wooded northern region of the state. Neil and I received a single Christmas card signed by both of them, but we haven't heard a peep from either of them since.
As for Glee Savage, now in her later fifties, she shows no sign of slowing down, and her eventual retirement from the
Register
has never
been discussed. She still carries big purses, still wears big hats, and still drives the fuchsia hatchback. She has not again slapped another woman, at least not publicly, at least not to my knowledge. At an editorial meeting one afternoon, Glee noted my relaxed attitudes with a cautious measure of approval, wondering aloud, “What's next, Mark? Don't tell me you'll now allow us to occasionally split an infinitive.” I was forced to remind her that there are certain lines one simply does not cross.
As for Lucille Haring, she is still my second-in-command at the paper, and I'm glad, as always, to have her. She still wears her hair too short, and while it's still carrot red, it's beginning to show some gray at the temples. Though she may still pine for Roxanne, she rarely speaks of her, for she has begun keeping company with Nancy Sanderson, the widow restaurateur, who is some twenty years Lucy's senior. Tongues, most assuredly, are wagging.
As for mysterious deathâenough. My days at the Register have seen far too much of it, certainly for a town of this size. It's inevitable, I suppose, that deadly mischief will again visit Dumont. Sooner or later, it's bound to happen. But when it does, I'll resist the temptation to pull rank with my staff and pluck those prime assignments. From now on, I'll leave to other writers the task of untangling riddles of devilry and untimely demise.
Sorry. I've had my fill. At least for a while.
One last detail. As for that amethyst ear stud, Neil and I took Doug's advice and put it in a drawer. Specifically, we keep it in a little box, a jewel box we stow in a dresser in our bedroomâlike hidden treasure. Neil has never, ever worn it again in public. But now and then, in the privacy of our bed, he wears it for me.
When he does, its purple fire never fails to work its magic.
Sparks always fly.