Justice. Faye Kellerman

a violin case. He took out the instrument, tuned it, then motioned me up from the stool.

      “Play for me.”

      He offered me the fiddle. I regarded it as if it were an evil talisman. “I don’t have the sheet music.”

      He sat on his leather couch and sipped his drink. “Play what you know by heart.”

      “I don’t know anything by heart.”

      “So just draw the bow across the strings. Get a sound from it, all right?”

      I sighed. I got As in orchestra only because I showed up on time and took all the tests. It was no reflection of my skill as a musician. Red-faced, I started bowing open strings. My hands were shaking. I made sounds akin to a strangling cat’s. I stopped and giggled, but Chris kept his expression flat.

      “Keep going.”

      “I know how sensitive your ear is. How can you stand it?”

      “Keep going.”

      I played the test piece as best I could by heart. I made mistakes. I sounded terrible. I was almost in tears. I kept waiting for him to grimace, but he sat stoically.

      “Play it again.”

      “Chris—”

      “Play it again.”

      “This is torture—”

      “Play it again.”

      I did. I sounded a bit better and Chris gave me a compliment to that effect. “Can I please stop now?” I asked.

      Chris got up from the couch, took the violin.

      “It’s a beautiful-sounding instrument,” I said. “I wish I could do it more justice. Why don’t you play the piece?”

      He shrugged, tucked the violin under his chin, and came up with a concerto that was note-perfect as well as sound-perfect. I told him I hated him.

      He smiled, put the violin away, then patted his jacket pockets. “Where’d I put … ah, here we go.” He pulled out a small wrapped package. “Maybe this’ll make you hate me less.” He handed it to me.

      I looked at it, then at him.

      “For me?”

      “Yes, for you. Open it.”

      I ripped open the paper. The box held a set of pearl studs for pierced ears. My eyes went from him, to the earrings, then back to him. “I don’t know what to say.”

      “Thank you is fine. Try them on.”

      I replaced my gold hoops with milk-white orbs. “How do they look?”

      “They look beautiful. Rather, you look beautiful in them.”

      “I don’t understand …” I lowered my eyes, then raised them to his face.

      “What can I say, Terry?” Chris spoke softly. “You know I’m engaged to someone else. But the heart has a mind of its own.” He walked over to me and slipped his arms around my waist. “Do you love me, Terry?”

      Without hesitation, I told him I did.

      “I love you, too. So now what do we do?”

      I leaned against his breast, soothed by his heartbeat. “I don’t know.”

      He said, “Usually, when two people love each other, they express their love in intimate ways. But I can’t ask you to sleep with me. Because I’m going to marry someone else.”

      “Do you want me to tell you that it’s okay?”

      He held me tightly. “Is it okay?”

      I didn’t answer him. He said, “Since we last saw each other, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind. And that’s saying a lot. Because I’m usually very good at compartmentalizing. I don’t want to sleep with you because it will hurt you in the end. But there are other ways we can be intimate with each other.”

      I lifted my head and met his eyes. He read my confusion.

      “Let me draw you,” he said. “Completely.”

      Completely. As in the nude. My heart started racing. I closed my eyes and buried myself in his embrace.

      “Look at me, Terry,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

      I opened my eyes but said nothing.

      “Do you?” he repeated.

      I smiled weakly. He picked up my hands and kissed my fingers. “Terry, I know what they’ve taught you, so I know what you’re feeling.” He placed my hand on his cheek. “Embarrassment, shame—”

      “I’m not that pious anymore, Chris.” I pulled my hand away. “I haven’t been to confession in over six months.”

      “But the crap’s still there, right?”

      “It’s not crap.”

      He waited. When I remained silent, he drew me close and said, “You know the Italians have it over the Irish in their Catholicism. I mean the guilt’s still there in the Italians, but they’re more … flexible. God, even my aunt Donna, who was an old, old-fashioned Catholic woman, could look the other way. She once caught me drawing these pictures.”

      He smiled at the memory.

      “Real explicit pictures … of guys and girls … Anyway, I was thirteen and suicidal over my mother’s death. What else was I supposed to do?”

      I hugged him hard.

      Chris said, “The lady was smart. Know what she did?”

      “What?”

      “She took me to the Met. The art museum, not the opera house. We covered the place from top to bottom in a week. Mostly we concentrated on the religious art … lots of nudes in religious art, believe it or not.”

      I nodded.

      Chris whispered, “Terry, it changed my whole … image of what a human body was. From something hidden and shameful to something incredibly beautiful. My body is beautiful. Your body is beautiful. And I want it.”

      I didn’t respond.

      “Look, I’ll take you through it step by step. Anytime you want to stop, just cut the phone wires. I swear I’ll stop. Please do it for me.”

      I bit my lip. “I’d do anything for you.”

      Chris traced my profile with his left index finger—a preamble to his sketching. “I know what you’re giving me. Thank you for trusting me. I promise I won’t let you down.” He broke away and looked around the room. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Light’s probably better in here with the spots and all.” He faced me. “But I’d rather draw you in the bedroom. More personal that way.”

      He took my hand and led me into his sleeping quarters. It also had a city-lights view and lots of built-in cabinets. Not a thing or an item appeared out of place. Not surprising. Because Chris was compulsive.

      He hung up his jacket in his closet and pointed to his king-sized bed covered with a black quilt. “Just sit there for a moment. The cover will make a perfect backdrop. I want to get some auxiliary light.”

      “Are you going to take photographs?” I asked.

      “Nope. Just me and my charcoals.”

      “What are you going to do with them?”

      “The sketches?” Chris broke a smile. “Ah, little girl, what you don’t know. I’m going to look at them whenever I’m alone and lonely … which is often. Rest of the time they’ll be locked up and stowed away. I swear they’re for my eyes only. I’ll be back.”

      He came back a minute later toting lamps, an easel filled with paper, art supplies,