X. McRory’s on Occidental Street. Peters got off on the right foot by buying a bottle of champagne. “All right, you closemouthed bastard,” he said, raising his glass, “now that I’m a party to this little romance, you’d better tell me about her.” I didn’t need to be asked twice. I hadn’t had a chance to tell anyone about Anne. I’m afraid I waxed eloquent. I told him how she had looked at the funeral and about our first dinner at Snoqualmie Falls afterward. I told him about the Porsche and the fur jacket and the Doghouse and the depth and the laughter and the wit and the sudden darknesses, all the things that seemed so contradictory in Anne, and all the things that made me love her. About that time Captain Powell showed up and, uninvited, took a chair at our table. “What’s this I hear about you getting married?” I looked to Peters for help, but he stared off into space, as innocent as the day is long. “Who is she?” Powell continued. Taking a deep breath, I said, “her name’s Anne Corley.
