The warm air was like the last gasp of summer, thought David, sitting next to Nicole in her living room. In two days autumn would arrive, a time when the leaves would reach maturity, then die with grace and beauty. His eyes traced the svelte lines of his dainty companion, who wore silk slacks and a sweater. The short puffed sleeves of her outfit accentuated the thinness of her arms. Nicole was in the summer of her life, and he would permit nothing to cause her decline. Mrs. Trimbell had retired to her room, exhausted from the trial that day. Nicole, resisting her own fatigue, turned on the television to scan the news stations, despite David’s protest. The trial was the major story of the day, and the likely topic of discussion on the evening talk shows and news broadcasts. “We proved our case today,” Nicole said with radiant innocence. “Surly everyone will agree.” “Don’t count on it.” She located a channel announcing the stories in the headlines: “Tomorrow Secretary of Medicine Warren Lang is expected to issue a decision in the case involving his son’s experimental surgery on dancer Nicole Hudson,”
