Death on a Silver Platter by Ellen Hart Page A

prices. He adjusted his glasses, blinked a couple of times, but the numbers remained the same. His wife probably thought he was working on his new book, the one he had under contract with Random House, but the numbers wouldn’t release him from their grip.
    Danny’s editor was a patient man, perhaps too patient, and had given Danny yet another extension on his newest novel, The Fool’s Gift , a book that was to be the crowning glory of his literary career. No one but Danny knew that after two years of hard work, all the manuscript consisted of was an assortment of character impressions, jumbled descriptions, and a few lengthy ruminations on justice, fairness, prejudice, modern medicine, the stock market, family ethics, and life in general in these United States in the second millennium. When Danny had the energy, which he often didn’t, he alternated between bouts of anger and depression. The only solution he could find was to return to the home of his youth and put things right.
    As he sat staring at the screen, his wife breezed into the room.
    “I’ve got you all packed,” she said, shutting the window Danny had opened just before sitting down at his desk. The room had grown chilly while his attention had been elsewhere. He hadn’t noticed. “Two sweaters, three pairs of slacks, several dress shirts, jeans, two ties— the red one and the blue one—and your new dark blue suit. You’ll have to decide on shoes. Oh, and your shaving kit—”
    “I’ll take care of that,” said Danny, clicking off the screen before she could see what he’d been looking at.
    Ruth studied him for a moment, threading the fingers of her right hand through the side of her short, black hair. Stepping behind his chair, she put her arms around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. “I wish you weren’t going.”
    “I know. But I have to.”
    “We just visited your mother two months ago.”
    “I told you. I’ve got some unfinished business I need to take care of.”
    “But you won’t tell me what it is.”
    He smiled. “It’s a deep dark secret.”
    “I thought we weren’t supposed to keep things from each other.”
    Doing his best Jack Nicholson impersonation, he said, “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her down into his lap.
    “Danny, stop it.”
    He kissed her properly, passionately, tenderly. At this moment, he loved her more than he’d ever loved another living soul. She was the rock on which he’d built his life. When he was off in the stratosphere somewhere doing his work, he knew she would be waiting for him when he landed. Ruth and the girls were the best part of his world. He’d always had such grandiose notions of who he was and what he would leave behind him after he was gone. It had taken him every minute of his forty-four years to learn that his true legacy would be far less visible, and yet infinitely more meaningful than anything he’d ever written.
    “What’s wrong?” said Ruth, pulling back, but only just a little.
    He could see the effect his touch had on her, and it warmed him. “I don’t want to go any more than you want me to.”
    “Then don’t.”
    “It’s not that simple.”
    She ran her hand over his beard, caressed his cheek. “You frighten me sometimes, Danny.”
    “Look, Ruth. It’s simple. A writer spends his waking hours working with conflict. Conflict is the soul of character. Character is the soul of drama. And drama is the soul of life. You’re not afraid of life, are you?”
    “Yes, sometimes.” She hesitated. “Tell me why you have to go back there. Why I can’t come with you.”
    She could be so exasperating, and yet he found himself smiling. “Because.”
    This time she pulled farther away. “Because why ?”
    “You’re beautiful.”
    “Don’t change the subject.”
    “My beautiful Ruth Louise Goldfarb.”
    She cocked her head. “Why did you call me that? I haven’t been Ruth Goldfarb in over twenty