O'Farrell's Law

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EVEN IN the guaranteed security of his Alexandria home, it was instinctive, far beyond any training, for Charles O’Farrell to awaken as he did: eyes closed, breathing deeply as if he were still asleep, listening first. Always essential to listen first, to be sure. Around him the house remained early-morning quiet, the only sound the soft, bubbled breathing of Jill, still genuinely slumbering beside him. Safe then. O’Farrell opened his eyes but did not move his head. It wasn’t necessary for the initial ritual.

The bedroom cabinet with the photograph was directly in his line of sight. Except when he was on sudden overseas assignments, when it would have been unthinkable to risk such a prized possession, the photograph was invariably O’Farrell’s first sight in this unmoving, safety-checking moment of awakening. Just as at night, usually while Jill was making dinner, he went to the den to look over the cracked and yellowing newspaper cuttings of the archive he was creating. With just one martini, of course, the one a day he allowed himself. Well, normally just one. Sometimes two. Rarely more.

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