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can’t deal with these small minds attacking her. She’s in this for the money. I wrapped her in the flag, talked about the Constitution, but after talking with her afterward, I wondered why I even took the case."
    "It’s how you cover my paycheck each month," Sandy said. "How did you feel, being back in that courtroom?"
    "I had a couple of bad minutes. I found myself examining the floor for bloodstains. I felt eyes on my back. I was hunching my shoulders, waiting for the blast. Then Milne came in, and I forgot all about it."
    "That’s good," Sandy said, nodding.
    "I’m taking only civil cases, Sandy. I mean it. I don’t want that kind of fear haunting me ever again. But I’m starting to wonder if civil cases are any different. I had to fight just as hard, and we were all splashing around in a sea full of bad feeling, as usual."
    "Admit it. You enjoy the fight," Sandy said.
    "Yeah. I haven’t lost that."
    "My nephew got shot two years ago, cleaning his gun. It left a circular scar on his foot; looks a lot like the one on your chest. Know what he did?"
    "I can’t wait to hear."
    "He got a tattoo on top of it. A rose."
    "Why a rose?"
    "He doesn’t have much imagination. What I’m sayin’ is, his foot looks like an art object instead of a—"
    "I’m not going to get a tattoo, Sandy. You’re not going to decorate me too."
    "I was thinking for you, maybe, a smoking gun," Sandy said.
    "Which reminds me of why I asked you to come in here. I want you to put Time back in the magazine rack, and Ladies’ Home Journal, and Sports Illustrated. Nobody wants to read the stuff you have out there."
    "Reactionary drivel," Sandy said. "We have an obligation to bring people politically up to speed."
    "That’s not my business here. The magazines are to keep stressed-out people in a good mood until I can get to them. And reading about the evils of French nuclear testing is not going to relax them."
    Sandy considered, and saw Nina wasn’t going to back down. "Could we keep Native American Life?"
    "If we must."
    "Okay. Here’s Mr. Powell’s Client Interview Sheet. Divorce."
    "Send him in." The rest of the day began.
    Matt opened the door and grabbed the grocery bag from her arms. Nina’s brother wore his baseball cap and a 49ers sweatshirt, though the living room was warm from the fireplace. "Drop everything! Plan B!" was all he said as he made for the kitchen. He was two years younger than Nina, and, she usually thought, much wiser. He had straightened out early, married, fathered two kids, built himself a home, and stayed here. He’d grown up gracefully.
    When she and her son had moved to Tahoe last spring, Matt and his wife, Andrea, had invited them to stay with them. The partnership worked out well, so far. Nina had a home and backup for her son and herself, and she offered in return occasional child care along with some financial relief.
    "Where’s Bobby?" she called after him. "What’s going on?"
    She went to the door of the boys’ bedroom and looked in. Lying on the floor in the gloom of winter’s early darkness, her son pushed the buttons of his control unit with utter concentration, a video game on the TV, while his cousins Troy and Brianna watched, enthralled. "Hey, guys," she said. "Bobby, come say hi."
    "In a minute," Bob said, never taking his eyes from the screen. She backed away and went into the big extra room Matt had built, with its pine chest and yellow spread, and hung up her blazer, changing into jeans and an old flannel shirt.
    In the kitchen, Nina surprised Andrea and Matt in an embrace, their eyes closed and arms tight around each other. Andrea was the same height as Matt, and his face was buried in her curly hair. At the sight, a wave of longing washed over Nina.
    They broke apart as she came in. Matt looked sorry to see her, but Andrea smiled and said, "How’d your day go?" Two big rattan baskets sat on the table covered with red-and-white gingham cloths.
    "It’s improving," Nina said. "Aren’t we