Chapter 33

The next day was Monday, back to work for me. I wouldn't take any cases for a bit, but I'd need to catch up on business e-mail, on bills, on Marla's love life, on all the other things that I don't notice till I'm away from 'em for a month. Darlia wouldn't go back to school for a week – Calvin Academy starts later and gets out earlier than the government schools, due to having fewer days off during the school year. Darlia loves it, since it gives her a longer summer vacation than her friends who go to Albuquerque Public Schools.

Marla wasn't at the office, but I was, all day. It's ridiculous how long it takes to do fiddlin' little jobs that by themselves are nothing at all. But they add up, and before you know it you've spent a day doing pretty much nothing, and you've been mighty busy too.

I left Marla a note on her desk to let her know I was back. She's been working for me three years now, and next year she'll graduate from the University of New Mexico and apply for a job with the Albuquerque Police Department. I'll miss her. I might have had secretaries as good, but none better. And it's hard to find someone who's willing to work just here and there, and get the kind of pay that goes with those hours ... though I suppose it's equally hard to find an employer who'll let you come in whenever you want and go home when you want, as I do with Marla. Come to think of it, I'm probably the only employer in New Mexico who'll encourage that kind of thing, but since I only work when I feel like it, I don't need a full-time secretary.

Before I left for the day, I went back into my office and stood at the window. I've had the same office for 15 years, for one reason – the view. When I first looked out that window I knew I had to have that office, and I pay serious rent to keep it. The west face of the Sandia Mountains is magnificent, and it's the closest thing in Albuquerque to the desert. It's bare rock, craggy and steep, as uncompromising as anything in Lanfair Valley. It's not the New York Mountains, but it's worth looking at all the same.

And I'm not ready to move to the desert, as much as I'd love to live there. I do love the house we live in, our friends, our church, the life we have here in Albuquerque. I suspect that if I hadn't met Cecelia I'd have moved on by now. After I graduated from high school I lived, off and on, in Needles with Tina until I turned 21. Then I moved to Oklahoma and lived in Red Hawk for about three and a half years, and then in Dallas for just a couple of years. And by the time I met Cecelia I'd been in Albuquerque for over two years, and probably wouldn't have stayed more than another couple. But I did meet her, and married her, and moved into her house, and I've now lived in that house longer than I've lived anywhere since I was 18 ... and that's 24 years ago.

I shook my head. I'm not old, but I'm old enough that I'm beginning to look back with wonder at how long it's been. I've been gone from home longer than some adults have been alive. I've been a cop and a PI, I've gotten shot at and I've shot back, I've seen friends die and friends marry, I've seen children born and I've held my own newborn daughter and watched her grow, I've seen myself grow a little heavier and a little slower and a little physically softer, I've seen Albuquerque change, I've seen the world go on its way while I've stood still. Except I haven't. I've changed too, and when I look back I can see it clearly. I remember when I first started growing my mustache, the one my family's never seen me without. I remember when I thought I was going to get married, and I remember when I realized that living with a woman without marriage was wrong, and I remember when I committed a greater wrong to end the first one. I remember meeting Cecelia's parents for the first time, I remember Cecelia standing in her parents' kitchen with her water on the floor at her feet, I remember the drive to the hospital in Enterprise, I remember Cecelia crying out in the pain of her labor. I remember birthdays, holidays, anniversaries ... No, I'm not old, but the longer I live the further back the past gets.

I turned from the window. I've never cared for the part of the Lord of the Rings that brings in Tom Bombadil, but just then a phrase from that section crossed my mind: "Goldberry is waiting." I'm no Tom Bombadil, and Cecelia's not Goldberry, but one thing that's been certain for 12 years is that she's waiting for me. The Rock of Gibraltar isn't stronger or steadier than she is. I got my gun from the drawer, put on my hat, locked up my office, locked the outer door, and went home.

I parked the Blazer in front of the house as always, still getting used to seeing Cecelia's car in the driveway. She'd parked it in the garage as long as I'd known her, and I suspected it would be a while before I quit blinking when I saw it out in the open.

I went in the front door, hanging my hat on the rack that stands by the door. That was another of the presents Cecelia's given me over the years of our marriage. I'd be content with being her husband, but she's always giving me stuff – and I have to admit I'm always giving her stuff too. In fact, she was using the latest thing I'd given her; I could hear the sound of the new sewing machine as I sat on the sofa to pry off my boots.