The Right Wrong Thing

by Ellen Kirschman

  “Not to me.” She looks at her watch and walks to the front door. “You’d better leave before my daughter comes home from work. She is still very angry.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I lost my granddaughter. You’re the psychologist. You tell me.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  By the time I get back to Frank’s house, the sky is dark. A cold breeze bends the bare branches on the trees lining his street. It’s been nearly two weeks since our big fight. He was very angry with me then and I expect he still is.

  I ring the bell even though I have a key. He opens the door and looks surprised that it’s me.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d show up,” he says. “Come in, make yourself at home.” He has a fire going and there’s a bottle of wine on the coffee table with one glass, half-full. He gets another and pours me a drink.

  “So,” I say. “This morning you said you wanted to talk about something.”

  He frowns. A tense line spreads across his forehead. He stares into his glass for two, maybe three minutes before he looks up.

  “Sure,” he says. “Let’s do it.” He rearranges himself in the chair. “The only reason I knew you were in the hospital was because I heard on the evening news that an off-duty KPD officer had been shot and the department psychologist was kidnapped and wounded. Would you have called me if I hadn’t shown up?”

  “You were very angry with me just before that happened. Remember? Would you have come if I’d called?”

  “You didn’t call and I came anyway. What do you think?”

  Now it’s my turn to stare into my wine. A cracking noise in the fireplace startles me as the pyramid of logs fall into an ashy heap. Frank excuses himself and goes outside to get another log. My heart is banging against my ribs, and I have an urge to run out of the room before he comes back. It’s now or never, I say to myself. And then I tell myself not to be such a drama queen. He comes back into the room, fixes the fire, and sits down again. His face is a neutral screen.

  I take a deep breath. “When I thought that I was going to die, that Rich Spelling would kill me, a lot of things went through my mind.” The memory rushes me, stinging my eyes with tears. “But the worst thing, the thing that broke my heart, was the thought that I had squandered your love and would never see you again.” I take a deep breath and let the tears roll freely down my face.

  Frank doesn’t move for a very long minute. Just sits there, watching me digging in my sleeve, hunting for a tissue. “Then marry me,” he says.

  I don’t think I’ve heard him right.

  “Marry me. I’m tired of waiting to ask you.”

  “Two weeks ago you told me that I’m stubborn, self-involved, headstrong, a workaholic, plus I talk back to the TV, and I’m too damn old to change.”

  “I didn’t tell you about the 85 percent rule though, did I?” He smiles.

  I shake my head. “Never heard of it.”

  “After my divorce, I figured that if I ever again found a woman I could love, it would be foolish to expect perfection, so I’d just have to settle for 85 percent and ignore the 15 percent I don’t like, because I can’t change it and it would annoy you if I tried.” He takes a sip of wine, his eyes on my face. “So I’m just going to ignore the 15 percent. Although with you, it won’t be easy. What do you think? Deal or no deal?”

  The chief’s words float up in front of me. About no one dying without remorse for something they did or didn’t do. I’m going to die, like everyone else, with a duffel bag of regrets. But this is one regret I can stop before it starts. “Deal,” I say, “but at 85 percent I think your standards are too low.”