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health, unfortunately forgetting that Friday was bridge night.
    I arrived home to a chorus of good-time howls and cackles echoing down the hallway from the kitchen. My kitchen.
    "Is that you, Kali?" Bea called. "Come have some spanakopita. Not low-calorie by any means, but scrumptious."
    Six women, average age close to seventy, were perched at various spots around the room, nibbling spanakopita as well as a variety of other delicious-looking finger foods.
    "We're waiting for Helen," Dotty said, balancing her squat frame on the edge of a kitchen stool. "But we'll still be one short. We couldn't talk you into joining us, could we?"
    "I don't play bridge, remember?"
    "We'll teach you." The words sounded as a chorus, six voices speaking in unison.
    Bea and Dotty had been renting my house in Berkeley while I was living in Silver Creek, three hours away. When I'd come back recently to fill in for Nina, I'd moved into the downstairs room -- a subtenant in my own home. Surprisingly, it was an arrangement that worked well for all of us. But I usually tried to make myself scarce on bridge nights.
    "Sorry," I said, sampling a triangle of golden brown puff pastry. "I've got work to do."
    "You're always working," Dotty chided. "It's not healthy. You gotta learn to enjoy life."
    "I do," I protested.
    "Not enough." She scowled at me for emphasis.
    "She goes more for young fun," Bea said, "not old fun like us. Besides, her work is interesting. No men's underwear for her." Bea was referring to her own part-time job with J. C. Penney.
    "Such work," Dotty muttered, "defending rapists."
    I spread sour cream on a wedge of roasted red potato. "How did you hear about that?" I asked.
    "We heard all about it on the television," said one of the other ladies.
    A second chimed in. "He doesn't look like a rapist, does he?"
    "Maybe he's not," I offered.
    "Well, dear, I certainly hope not. It can't be much fun taking the side of someone who's guilty."
    I delivered the evening's civics lesson with a smile. "Representing someone is not, strictly speaking, the same as taking sides."
    "What she meant," Bea explained, "is that it's harder to be a white knight under those circumstances."
    Actually, I found it pretty hard to be a white knight in most situations. And the burden of representing someone who was truly innocent was heavy indeed.
    "Anyway," I told them, "it's not really my case. I was just helping out because the actual attorney couldn't be at the bail hearing."
    "Oh." They seemed oddly disappointed.
    "You got a call a bit ago," Dotty said suddenly. "A Mr. Sandborn."
    "Did he say what he wanted?"
    She gave me a coy smile. "Only to wish you sweet dreams. Is he a new beau?"
    "Hardly." I choked at the thought. "He was suing one of my clients. He lost."
    "Oh, dear."
    Bea poked her. "That means Kali won."
    "Oh, well, that's wonderful..." Dotty smiled broadly, then looked confused. "Why is he calling with good wishes?"
    "I imagine he's being sarcastic. He can't be happy about losing."
    The ladies made another attempt at persuading me to join them. I ducked out with protests of work. Taking a sampling of food and a hefty glass of wine, I headed downstairs.
    When I'd lived in the house as owner rather than subtenant, I'd used the two downstairs rooms primarily for storage and occasional out-of-town guests. But I was discovering they made a comfortable and cozy retreat.
    Not that I was considering making the arrangement permanent. If I moved back to the Bay Area for good, and if I could afford to, I'd reclaim my house for myself. It was the "ifs" that were the stumbling blocks.
    After years of belittling my childhood hometown of Silver Creek, I'd returned for my father's funeral. I found myself staying on, drawn by the same slower pace and small-town surroundings I'd run from more than a dozen years earlier. I'd set up my own law practice there, a practice I was now trying to keep alive long distance.
    I'd also gotten involved in yet another not-so-smart