Читать книгу Never Too Late - Робин Карр, Robyn Carr, Robyn Carr - Страница 8

Sarah’s little shop was in the center of town, and she typically put in very long days there. It was customary for her to open the art supply store at around ten in the morning and close at six, but after dinner with her dad she would go back to work in her studio, which was behind the store, sometimes until quite late. In fact, she could get lost in some project—a woven throw, an oil painting, a sculpture—and forget time altogether, looking up only when her eyes burned with exhaustion, finding suddenly it was two or three in the morning. She was so focused when creating, the outside world seldom intruded.

That was before the accident, three weeks ago. Since then, Sarah had spent minimal time at the shop. She put a sign in the window: Illness In The Family: Call 555-2323 For Today’s Hours Of Operation. Most of her customers were regulars who knew the family and were aware of the accident. Most of the town had heard about the accident—it made the papers.

Sarah opened the shop for the sale of art supplies a few hours a day, spending the rest of her time with Clare at the hospital. Worry had clouded her usual single-minded drive to create.

But today, a beautiful and sunny April day, as she closed the shop before five, there was a special lift in her heart because after three weeks, Clare was finally coming home. Clare’s town house was out of the question, given the stairs to the bedrooms, so George was bringing her home to his house. His and Sarah’s house. And the relief Sarah was feeling was tremendous. The whole family would be at George’s to welcome her.

Of course, Clare wasn’t well yet. She was up walking, but still in pain, unable to sleep through the night without drugs. Sarah would gladly get up to make sure she was medicated and comfortable. The bed in her old bedroom at Dad’s was too soft and low, so George rented a hospital bed. It could be a long and difficult few months, most of the summer at least, through which Clare would struggle with pain, physical therapy, making slow but steady progress; Sarah would do anything to help.

But Clare would be home. After nearly losing her, this was paramount.

Of course Jason was coming to stay, as well. He’d been at Maggie’s for three weeks and Lindsey and Hillary were on his last nerve.

When Sarah got home she was so happy to see all the cars in the drive and on the street. It looked as though everyone was present and accounted for, including Clare. No one would ever know how much seeing Clare in that hospital bed had shaken her. Besides her art and her shop, all she had in her life was the family. She didn’t have girlfriends or boyfriends, and that was perfectly all right with her because her days and nights were busy with her little business and her creative projects. Her dad, sisters, nieces and nephew were everything to her! Her sisters were always trying to coax her into being more social, but she honestly didn’t know where she’d find the time. And she certainly wouldn’t take it from family.

Her sisters were her best friends.

When she walked in the house she met that wonderful noise of family making things happen in the kitchen. She spied Clare at the end of the long oak table in the large kitchen. She’d spent many an hour studying there, before and after what she’d come to refer to as the dark years. Clare was sitting on a pillow, a strained look on her face, as though she might be in pain. Sarah went straight to her, leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I’m so happy you’re home. Are you okay?”

Clare grimaced. “My pain pill hasn’t quite kicked in yet. I’ll be okay.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you, honey.”

Sarah went to the stove, where Maggie, George’s housekeeper, Dotty, and Maggie’s thirteen-year-old, Hillary, were surrounding a big pot. “What’s happening over here?” she asked.

“Stew. Aunt Clare’s request.” She lifted a spoon. “Taste?”

“Hmm,” she said appreciatively. “Not enough salt.”

“Told you,” Hillary said to Dotty.

Maggie slipped an arm around Sarah’s waist and kissed her cheek. “How’s the shop, sweetie?”

“The same.” She shrugged. “Fine.”

“Are you losing weight?”

“You ask me that once a week.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t think so.” But she was, and she knew it. Thing was, she could get involved in some art project and forget to eat. She could be consumed by a bust or throw or painting. Her work didn’t bring in a lot of money, but she did have a following. And her major accomplishment of late was to have a tapestry of a towering brown bear on a snowy ledge hanging in a ski lodge in Lake Tahoe.

But it wasn’t art that had cost her a few pounds. It was the fear and worry Clare’s accident had brought on.

Jason came into the kitchen with a sweater for his mother, draping it around her shoulders. “Hi, Aunt Sarah,” he said.

She smiled her greeting.

Maggie got her girls setting the table for nine. This kind of gathering didn’t usually happen during the week, but it was a tradition to have Sunday dinner together whenever possible. While Maggie had the biggest house and Clare’s home with Roger had been larger than George’s, everyone still liked coming back here every week, cooking together, spending a few hours with family, sitting around that long oak table. A few years ago they had started having Dotty from time to time, as well; she was as much family as anyone.

Maggie’s husband, Bob, came into the kitchen carrying two drinks. He handed one to Maggie and dropped an arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “How’s my little artsy-fartsy?”

She merely leaned against him. Bob was so steady, dependable.

No one had to be called. As the plates began to land on the tabletop, George appeared from the living room with Lindsey, and people began to take their places. Maggie and Dotty brought the stew, salad and bread. Bob poured milk into the kids’ glasses; George fetched himself a beer. There was a little scuffle between Jason and Hillary for the seat next to Clare; Jason won. Sarah could’ve gotten up and yielded hers next to her sister, but no. She wouldn’t give it up.

Before the plates were full, someone’s cell phone chimed. Lindsey looked at her phone and said, “I have to get this,” and jumped up from the table.

“‘I have to get this,’” Bob repeated, humorously. “She’s fifteen.”

“There’s a guy,” Hillary said, clearly having no intention of protecting her sister’s secrets.

“What guy?” Maggie asked.

“He’s a junior,” she said meanly. “A football player.”

“Christopher Mattingly,” Jason said. “He’s gonna start next year.”

Sarah felt herself smile. Her nieces were so gorgeous and smart, there would be no shortage of young men. Hopefully they would handle these years better than she had. With the force of Maggie and Bob to watch over them, surely they would be safe.

There was passing and chatter, except that Clare, who was often talkative, was quieter than usual. That was okay, Sarah thought. Because she was getting better; things were getting back to normal. She folded her hands over her plate and let her eyes gently close for a moment, enjoying the sounds of her family around her.

“You okay, honey?” Clare asked.

“Yes. I’m just so relieved that everyone is back together again.”

“You don’t do so well with change, do you, kiddo?” Clare asked.

“Oh, I’m not as fragile as everyone thinks,” she said. But because of this close call in her family, she realized she had kept herself too isolated. Too safe. She vowed to take more chances. A little risk now and then. Maybe open up her life a little so that art and family wasn’t the totality of her existence.

However, she wasn’t sure how that was done.

Leaving the hospital was far more complicated than Clare imagined. First of all, when she left Roger months before, she found herself that cute little town house to rent—a town house full of stairs with a community washer and dryer. She didn’t know how long it was going to take to be pain free. “Everybody is different, healing time varies,” the orthopedist had said. No one knew how long a person’s cracked pelvis was going to hurt, how long walking and lifting and climbing stairs would be impossible and then merely difficult.

Because her recovery would involve many weeks, maybe months, Maggie immediately and without being asked, stepped in on Clare’s behalf and negotiated with the landlord to cancel her lease. It was very quickly done. Clare had rented the town house as a temporary base anyway. Part of her plan had been to eventually find a larger, more permanent home for herself and Jason, with her share of equity from the house she and Roger shared, an amount to be determined later, in a divorce. Now there would be more than one settlement to help pad her purse—one from the accident, one from the divorce. Both of those would take as long to settle as her recovery would be, if not longer. Maggie had warned her that dealing with the insurance company would be simple, but not fast. And she hadn’t even filed for divorce from Roger yet.

But as May came in bright and warm, Clare found that living with George, Sarah and Jason, with Dotty ever present, was getting a little crowded. She liked her space; she’d get a little bristly when surrounded by too many people. Yet, the prospect of house hunting was too daunting to even imagine.

Dotty came to George’s place almost every day, to make sure Clare had everything she needed. But she talked constantly and bleached Jason’s undershorts with such gusto they turned into mere threads in no time. When the good housekeeper went out to replace them, she bought them too small. “I don’t know if I’m better off going commando or having my nuts squished all day,” he complained. “Besides that, if she doesn’t quit asking me who I’m talking to on the phone, I might kill her.”

“Patience,” Clare said. “This is temporary.”

After a month with George, Clare could see that very soon she could live on her own with a little help around the house, a problem she could throw a little money at—preferably Roger’s money. But she had no house.

Except, she did have a house. She had walked out of it with practically nothing, assuming that in the divorce settlement she would get to take some of the things she treasured plus a tidy settlement out of the equity, investments made during the marriage, plus half of the nest egg accrued during their sixteen years together. Roger screwed around, but he had been a successful businessman. He’d made plenty of money. It might’ve been shortsighted of her at the time, leaving so suddenly, but since seeing the blonde in her bed, the thought of that master bedroom she had once found so luxurious and comfortable had lost all its appeal.

However, there was a guest room and bath on the ground level. She could live there, manage the downstairs easily with her crutches, and rely on Jason to get up and down the stairs as necessary.

She could not live with Roger, though. And neither could her son. Just trying to get him to visit his father had so far proved impossible.

If she’d thought it through, she could have suggested that she and Roger temporarily trade homes—he could have her town house, she could have the home she’d lived in for ten years. But thinking things through while lying in a hospital bed in excruciating pain had not been possible.

She called Maggie and said, “I wonder if you could do me a favor. Would you be willing to suggest to Roger that he move out of our house and let me have it when I’m ready to live on my own again? That’s going to be real soon.”

Maggie didn’t respond at once, but finally in a voice both surprised and pleased said, “I’d be more than happy to.”

Maggie had always felt a bit underappreciated by her family. Here she was with her degree in law, a successful practice, an enormous number of important contacts, and they not only rarely asked her for help, they sometimes eschewed her advice. It was exactly the opposite to what other attorneys complained of. In fact, her own father was going to pay another lawyer to do his will and living trust. Sometimes it was insulting.

Every time Clare began making noises about divorcing Roger, Maggie tried to counsel her. Clare had always been more than willing to complain about her marriage, but she was never prepared to discuss doing something about it. But the accident had changed everything. Clare needed Maggie to deal with the insurance company, the lease on the town house, and now this. Maggie was secretly thrilled. And she was going to do right by her sister.

She took a large chunk out of her busy day, putting paying clients on hold, to track down Roger. She went to his office in downtown Breckenridge, not really expecting to find him there. Roger liked to be out and about and did most of his business, and his running around, all over this town and those nearby. At least that was what she expected—to have to chase him down at a restaurant or client’s home. But his secretary reported him home sick.

Hah! she thought. She decided her trip to the house would be a mere formality, for he would not be there. His illness was an excuse given to the secretary, surely. Roger was probably in some no-tell motel. Or…Maybe with Clare pinned down at their dad’s he was using the house as some trysting place. All the better. She’d love to catch him in the act and make him feel like the low-life he was.

So she rang the bell and banged forcefully on the door.

It opened quickly. “Maggie?” he said in question.

She did a double take. There stood Roger looking worse than she’d ever seen him. His clothes looked as though he’d slept in them, his thick mane of golden hair was on the greasy side and his eyes were red rimmed.

“Jesus, Roger, you look like hell,” she said in surprise.

“Yeah? Well, what did you expect?” he asked, turning and walking back into the house. He headed down the hall toward the family room where the television could be heard softly droning.

She was left to follow, thinking this was an odd twist. Roger was handsome, damn him. And he pampered his looks, especially that Robert Redford hair. He was fussy about his clothes being both stylish and perfectly kept. And what was with the watery, pink eyes? Maybe he really was sick. He had that look of a killer cold.

She caught up with him just as he was sinking into the sofa and picking up a drink of amber liquid that was not apple juice. For a moment she just stood there, looking like a lawyer. She wore one of her many navy-blue suits, pumps, and held her briefcase. She glanced at her watch—two-thirty. For all his crimes, he was not an irresponsible drinker.

Roger sipped. “What’s this all about?” she asked. “You’re a wreck. And you’re drinking in the afternoon?”

“Things haven’t been exactly stress free around here,” he said, taking a final sip and putting down the empty glass.

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” he bellowed. “My wife damn near dies, then when she does recover she won’t even talk to me, my son doesn’t want to spend time with me, and what am I supposed to do? Huh? Huh?”

“Oh damn it, you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I want to be drunk, but I’m hopelessly sober.”

Maggie walked into the room, but she didn’t want to get too close to him. He was disgusting at the moment. So she took a superior position at the breakfast bar, leaning more than sitting on the high stool. “You and Clare are separated and she tells me there will be a divorce. This isn’t news. I’ve seen you probably a dozen times since she moved out. You were holding up as your usual perky self.” And then she added sarcastically, “Like you always do during your separations.”

“Oh yeah? Well this is a little different, don’t you think? She’s hurt! I want to take care of her. Help her. And Jason.” Then he rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head dejectedly.

“Look, Roger—I know what happened between you and Clare the night of the accident, so don’t get all pitiful on me. You were doing some blonde when Clare stopped by the house.”

He lifted his head to look at her, his eyes mean. “I’m not at all surprised you know about that. Clare usually can’t wait to air my indiscretions.”

“Don’t make this about Clare! I don’t believe she did anything wrong.”

“We were separated. She wouldn’t give me the time of day. I didn’t think it was against the rules. Besides, don’t you see how that makes it even worse? I keep letting her down, over and over. All I want is a chance to help her. To make amends.”

Breckenridge was a small town. It rested in the valley a mere half hour from Carson City, just eleven miles beneath Lake Tahoe and the snowy peaks of the Sierras. There were only fifteen thousand people though a lot of tourists passed through on a regular basis en route to Reno, Tahoe or the Capitol. Residents ran into each other all the time and it was a damn hard place to keep a secret. Roger, despite his shabby marital habits, happened to be popular. He was extremely social. He was a respected insurance guy; he took good care of his clients. Sometimes too good, especially the women.

But this was a Roger she’d never seen before. He looked pathetic. She wished she could feel sorry for him.

“Well, Roger, as it happens you can help her. That’s why I’m here. She sent me on an errand.” He lifted his head. “Clare’s been with my dad, as you no doubt already know, and she can’t handle the town house she was leasing, so we let it go. The stairs, you know. She’s going to be struggling with things like that for at least a couple more months.” He dropped his head as though in agony. She tried to ignore him but found herself saying, “Hey, she’s doing very well! Her physical therapy is coming along great! But—and you can probably understand this—she doesn’t want to stay with Dad much longer. I think maybe Dotty is driving her nuts. She wants to be on her own. And she just isn’t up to searching for and renting a single-level house. So she asked me to ask you if you’ll give her the house.”

This time when he lifted his head, he actually had a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “The house?” he echoed.

“Uh-huh. She can use the downstairs guest room and bath. She won’t have to go upstairs at all. And Jason can have his old room. It’s already furnished, mostly by Clare, in fact. It’ll be perfect.”

He got to his feet and began tucking in his shirt. He ran a hand through his hair. “She wants to move home?”

“Well,” she said, “not exactly, Roger. She’d like you to move out.”

“What? Did she say that?”

“Oh yes. Very specifically.”

“But I can help her! I can take care of her!”

Maggie straightened from the stool. “Roger, that’s not going to happen. She’s not interested in sharing a house with you again. Now, it’s much easier for you to find your own place…You’re going to have to do that eventually, you know.”

“I’m not giving her the house unless she lets me stay, too. I’ll stay upstairs. I’ll be able to help out.”

“Okay, now look,” she said sternly. “I don’t think she wants to expedite the divorce, given her condition, so let’s not push it. All right? Here are the choices—you can refuse to vacate and we’ll just proceed with the divorce settlement in which she will naturally be asking for the house along with other things, or you can be a good sport and let Clare and Jason move back in while you reside elsewhere. Those are the only two options.”

“She said that?”

No, she hadn’t. “Yes, exactly,” Maggie lied. Well, Clare had implied it. What she’d said was that it was either Dad’s or Roger’s house without Roger. That business about expediting the divorce was along the lines of Lawyer’s Privilege.

Roger hung his head again. He picked up his glass and walked over to the wet bar. He poured himself another slug and threw it back. Then he turned to Maggie. “Will you ask her one more time? If she’ll let me take care of her?”

This was too funny. Roger taking care of anyone. To hear Clare tell it, Roger couldn’t seem to ferry his own dirty shorts to the laundry bin, much less do something for another human being. He excelled at three things—looking good, selling insurance and banging women who were not his wife.

Clare had said, however, Roger could be very supportive when Clare was in need, though those times were very infrequent. Nonetheless…

“I will ask her one more time.”

“Thank you, Maggie.”

“God, you are so pathetic. Snap out of it, will you?”

“Maggie, I know you have no respect for me, but I love her, I do. I’m devoted to her. I’m a stupid idiot, I’ve treated her so badly, but honestly, the thought of losing her in that accident changed everything for me.”

“You’ve got to stop drinking, take a shower and go to work,” she said.

“But you’ll ask her?”

“I said I would. And if the answer is still no?”

Head drop again. He turned and faced the bar, leaning on braced hands. “She can have anything she wants,” he said.

She stood there watching his back for a moment, but he wasn’t turning around. “Thanks, Roger. I’ll be in touch.”

Maggie went back to her office for the rest of the afternoon. She could have called Clare and asked her the loaded question, but wanted to be face-to-face in case Clare revisited earlier fits of indecision and even thought about giving Roger another chance. Maggie considered lying and not asking the question. The only thing that prevented her from doing so was the possibility of that conniving Roger telling on her. But, she fully intended to talk Clare off the ledge if she had to.

So she went to Clare.

“You are looking so much better,” she remarked. And Clare really was. Those first few weeks after the accident she had become so thin, pale and wasted looking, her face in the constant grimace of pain. But that was easing now and she’d not only put on a couple of pounds, she was able to primp a bit. Her hair was shiny, her face had color.

“Thanks. I think I’m going to live.”

“How’s the pain?”

“I can’t get through the night yet, but as long as I get a nap, my days are pretty manageable. Did you talk to Roger?”

They were seated in the family room. Jason was at the kitchen table with his schoolbook open while Dotty chopped vegetables at the counter. When Clare asked the question, everyone froze and silence hung in the air for a moment.

“Yes. He made me promise to ask you if he could stay and take care of you.”

Jason slammed his book and shoved back the kitchen chair as he stood. He looked as though he was about to storm out of the room.

“No,” Clare said without even glancing at Jason. “No, he has to leave. Did you tell him that?”

“Yes.”

Jason looked into the family room and met his mother’s eyes. He smiled somewhat sheepishly. He picked up the closed book and left the kitchen, not angry but mollified. Dotty went back to her chopping without comment, but there was no question she was listening raptly.

“And what did he say?”

“That you can have whatever you want.”

“Well. That was nice of him. I think.”

Maggie leaned forward and whispered so that Dotty wouldn’t hear. “You should see him. He’s a mess.”

“Roger?”

“Dirty, greasy, wrinkled, drinking bourbon. Neat.”

“No kidding?”

“A broken man,” she said. Then sitting back she wondered what she was doing. It was dangerous to paint him that way and risk Clare’s sympathy.

“Ah,” Clare said. “The Broken Man game. Been there, done that.”

“Is that how he gets?” Maggie asked.

“Ritualistically,” Clare confirmed.

“But I’ve seen him here and there during your separations—I never noticed this side of him.”

“I suspect he can put on a good face around his friends and clients. But I’ve seen him miserable and pitiful. Why do you think I always get suckered into one more chance?”

“Well, I knew you felt sorry for him and caved, but…”

“But you thought I was just stupid? Well, partly. But mostly it’s that Roger is so good at convincing me he’s sorry, that he’s learned his lesson and he’ll never do it again. I think I’ve recovered from that temptation now.”

Maggie stiffened. “You mean it’s all an act?”

“Actually, it’s not an act. I think he really goes through it—the remorse, the guilt, the shame. The depression. The problem is, it has yet to modify his behavior.”

“God, that accident. It really did shake up your thinking. You finally get him.”

“Sort of,” she said. “Probably it’s more that I finally get me.”

Maggie settled back in the family room, relaxed and had a glass of wine. Clare’s was apple juice—the wine didn’t go well with pain meds. Maggie made time for the family gatherings but the rest of her life was always a rush; she always had a million things to do. Now she seemed more at ease, hanging out at her dad’s during the workweek, than she had in quite a while. Clare wondered if it was because they were finally on the same page about her divorce.

Then Sarah came home, a little early, as she was doing these days. It was almost as though she was desperate to make sure Clare was all right, that the family remained intact. She was clearly delighted to see Maggie. Before the accident the sisters tried to carve out time for an after-work cocktail at least every other week. “Oh boy,” she said. “Happy hour.” She poured herself a glass of wine and joined them.

Sarah was wearing paint-stained overalls. Underneath was a lime-green sweater, the sleeves so baggy that when she pushed them up to her elbows, they just slid down again. Maggie noticed that she had a piece of duct tape holding her glasses together. “You didn’t have to dress up for us,” Maggie said.

“The paint doesn’t care what I wear,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “What are you doing here?”

“Just dropping by.”

“Good,” she said. “I’ll be glad when we can get back to our regular happy hours.”

“It’s going to be a while, I’m afraid,” Clare said.

“Sooner than you think,” Sarah said, giving Clare’s hand an affectionate pat.

“Tell her about Roger, Maggie,” Clare said. “She’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Roger’s falling apart,” Maggie said.

“Really?” Sarah asked, leaning forward.

“I went to see him about getting Clare back in her house and caught him drinking in the early afternoon. He’s miserable. He’s greasy and wrinkled and pathetic.”

Sarah grinned. “What’s he pathetic about? Can’t he get a date?”

“He wants to take care of Clare,” Maggie said.

Sarah sipped her wine and leaned back on the sofa. “Tell him to stick it up his ass. We can take care of Clare.”

“Sarah!” Maggie said, laughing.

This, Clare thought, was why she loved her sisters so. Because they were dedicated, irreverent and sometimes hilarious. What more could a crippled, almost-forty-year-old, almost divorcée need?

When Maggie had gone and Sarah was busy in the kitchen, Clare crutched her way to Jason’s room and tapped on the door.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” he said.

She found him lying on the bed with a Game Boy hovering over his face.

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

“As long as it’s not about him,” he returned, his eyes glued to the game.

Clare entered slowly, careful not to get a crutch snagged on something left on the floor—clothes, shoes, books. She could get around pretty well now and was using the crutches only to give herself assistance, to keep the pressure off her pelvis. Walking no longer caused horrid pain but the ache crept back in as the day wore on.

She slowly lowered herself to his bed and he moved his long legs over to accommodate her, but he stayed focused on his game. She gently pulled it out of his hands. He released it and sat up, leaning against the headboard. “It’s about him. I need a favor.”

“Aww.”

“Jason, the accident—it not only shook up my body, it shook up my mind. I can see that I need to make changes in my life, big changes. I have to heal my body, and also I have to heal my spirit. I have to get a life. And I need you to lighten up. I know you’re mad. I’m not going to try to talk you out of it—you can work out those issues with your counselor. But I can’t get better while I’m constantly faced with your rage. I can’t move on. Understand?”

“But don’t you hate him?”

“Actually, I don’t,” she said. She didn’t even have to reach for the answer. “I’m really mad at him. Who wouldn’t be? But Jason—he’s the one who’s losing out here. He had his last chance with me and it’s over. He lost a good wife. And, I fear, a wonderful son. You have no idea how much hurt this is causing him. You have to trust me.”

Remarkably, tears gathered in Jason’s eyes. “You should hate him,” he said, but he didn’t say it in rage, he said it with pain.

“There was a time I did,” she said, reaching out and threading some of that thick, floppy blond hair across his brow. “But I’m just too busy now. Healing is like a full-time job. And the second I’m better, I have to think about our own house, a good job and getting on with my life. My life with you.”

“Sometimes I just can’t take it,” he said.

“Take what?” He shook his head in misery, looking down. “What, Jason?”

He looked up and a tear spilled over. Even though he was at that ragged and vulnerable age, seeing him cry was rare. “He’s like his dad was, right?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess so.” She wasn’t sure of the details of Roger’s family. He never bitched about his father. His mother, a widow for some time now, complained about what her life had been like, married to a man who was greedy and unfaithful and left her virtually penniless, but Roger’s father had been dead for a long time and Roger took good care of his mother. Clare had met Roger’s father, but couldn’t say she knew him.

Just when you think your kid isn’t paying attention. Apparently Jason had heard everything that spilled out of his grandmother’s mouth.

“So? What if I’m like him?”

“Oh, Jason.”

“Well? I look like him!”

True. When he filled out, gained some muscle, survived the pimples, he would be as handsome as his father. “It could be worse, Jason. You could be like me.”

“That’d be okay!”

“Oh yeah?” she laughed. “Wishy-washy, do anything to please, passive-aggressive?”

“Passive what?” he asked, brushing impatiently at a tear.

“Passive-aggressive. I punish people by being late, by not speaking. Instead of being direct.” Not giving sex, being coolly cooperative, acting like I’m back in the marriage when I’m really just counting the days or weeks or months ’til the next confrontation.

“You’re not that way.”

She was that way with Roger, and she knew it. That’s why it was better for everyone if that cycle finally came to an end. “Or,” she said to her son, “you could be like yourself. You could be exactly the kind of man you want to be.”

“Didn’t he see his own dad being a jerk to his mother and want to be better?”

“Can’t answer that,” she shrugged. “I don’t know if he saw it, don’t know if he wanted to be different.”

“So what if you can’t help it? What if I grow up to be a crappy husband?”

“Jason, if you don’t want to be like that, you won’t. Everyone has a choice about how they act.”

“You think that?”

“I know that. Look, you can be mad, you can hate him if you want, but at the end of the day, you are who you want to be. You’re in charge of your own life. Period. You don’t have to waste one second worrying that you’ll be anything but what you want to be. I swear.”

Looking down into his lap, he nodded weakly.

She lifted his chin and looked into his eyes. “Jason, you should dump all this rage and fear of being a bad husband on your counselor. He’s getting eighty bucks an hour—he went to school forever to learn how to help people deal with stuff like this. He might be able to help you move on, you know.”

“Yeah, well, you’re wasting your money as far as I’m concerned.”

She smiled conspiratorially. “It’s your dad’s money. Knock yourself out.”

Three weeks in the hospital, six weeks at George’s, at least another two before Roger, who was not cooperating quickly by finding his own place, but Clare was beginning to think that someday—within a few weeks—she would be living a life without crutches and pain meds. Right now she was moving around with all the speed of bureaucracy. But moving around, at least.

During the two-and-a-half months since the accident, Sam Jankowski had called a few times, asking how she was feeling, interested in the progression of her recovery. She found that when she heard his voice on the phone, it pleased her. He was so friendly and solicitous, wondering if there was anything he could do, anything she needed.

Today was no different. He called and asked how it was going, and she told him about her three trips a week to physical therapy, how many pain pills she was popping a day, how long it was taking Roger to get out of the house. “But I’m afraid I’ve never been very patient,” she told him.

“Slow going, is it?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“Getting out much?” he asked.

“Not getting out at all—except for physical therapy. But the worst of it is, I have no privacy. I am so grateful to my family for their help—I’d be doomed without it, but you can’t imagine what it’s like living with your father and sister after you’ve been on your own for years.”

“Must be a little crowded there, huh?”

“The house is definitely shrinking. I’m having a brief reprieve. School’s finally out and Jason grows inches a day, so I sent him with Dotty to do some shopping. I gave her strict orders not to try to dress him—he gets to pick his own clothes, however crazy they seem.”

“He’s gotta appreciate that,” Sam said. Then, “Hang on one second, Clare.” Slightly muffled, she heard him order an iced latte with whipped cream. “Okay,” he said, coming back to her.

“That sounded good,” she said. And she thought, it would be nice to get out for a coffee. With Sam or anyone.

“But tell me—how are you really feeling? Physically? You sound better every time I talk to you.”

“I might be impatient with my progress—but the doctor says I’m doing great. And I have to admit, I feel just a little better every day. I get around without crutches most of the time and it’s only after being up all day and tiring out that I have to rely on them. Not only that—I’m not all that sorry that I’ve dropped a couple of pounds, even if I wouldn’t recommend the diet. And despite all my bitching, I think my housing situation is going to improve soon. It looks like by the middle of June I’ll get to go home. I’ll have to stay on the ground floor, of course. I still can’t manage the stairs.”

“Clare, how long have you been separated, if you don’t mind the question?”

“Not at all. Going on six months. I would have filed for divorce by now, but it’s a bad time to shake up all the health benefits, et cetera. And—should Roger be a pain in the butt about all the particulars, I have to be a bit stronger to deal with him.”

“Are you sure this is final for you?”

“Absolutely. Not only is it almost six months now—it’s the fourth time in ten years. I may be a slow learner, but I’m steady.”

“Is it…Was it for the reason you gave me when I caught you speeding?”

“Unfortunately. Roger is a tomcat. Can’t help himself. It’ll never change. And even if it does, I’m moving on. Are you married? Single? Divorced?”

He laughed softly. “Clare, if I were married, I doubt my wife would be happy about how often I’ve called you.”

“Oh, it’s nice of you to check on me,” she said. “Thoughtful. Sensitive.”

“Single,” he answered.

The doorbell rang. “Oh damn,” she said. “Someone’s here.”

“You don’t have to answer the door if you’re not feeling up to it. No excuses necessary.”

She groaned a little as she got to her feet. “No, I’m up to it. I’d just rather finish this conversation is all. Maybe I could call you back? I hear the radio in the background so I know you’re on duty. But you could let me see who this is and maybe you could call me back?” She opened the door and there stood Sam, squad car in the drive, Starbucks bag in his hand. She smiled and clicked off the phone. “Or you could come in and bring that coffee with you.”

“If you’re sure I’m not imposing.”

“You’re not. I know I don’t look very good. I haven’t even—”

“You look great,” he said, coming into the house.

“You knew where I lived? Where my dad lives?”

“Little things like that aren’t very difficult to find out. I hope you like iced latte.”

“Sam, you’re a very nice young man. Let’s go sit on the back patio. And don’t run.”

He let her slowly lead the way and from just a pace behind her said, “No crutches. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Steady as she goes. Right out here.”

Sam stepped through the opened French doors onto the patio and whistled. The yard was lush and vine draped, a couple of chaise lounges beside a redwood table. There was a shallow, rock-filled stream that wound around the yard and opened into shallow pools in two different spots. A waterfall gurgled and at the far corner of the yard stood a ceramic birdbath and a gazebo.

“Clare, this is awesome!”

“My dad’s pride and joy. He says the climate and fertile valley get the credit, but he’s a master builder, and great with flowers. I’d take you out to the gazebo, but I’m afraid this is as far as I go today—I’m so sore. But go look around if you like.”

“Just a glance,” he said, leaving her to sit on one of the lounge chairs while he stepped off the patio and took the rock path along the man-made brook. “There are fish in here!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” she laughed. As he wandered back to where she sat, she said, “It’s a little paradise, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s the most beautiful yard I’ve ever seen. Is your dad in landscaping or something?”

“No. He owns a hardware store on Granger.”

“He’s that McCarthy? I know George. Helluva nice guy.”

“That’s George. So, in all the weeks you’ve been kind enough to call and check on my progress, I haven’t learned much about you. What’s your story, Sam? Always wanted to be a cop?”

He answered easily. “That was an accident, a fortuitous one. I needed a good job with decent benefits and they were testing. I wasn’t sure until I got into the academy. I have a daughter, Molly. My mom helps me raise her.”

“So you’re divorced?”

“No. Never married. I was going to college in Reno when my girlfriend got pregnant. Long story short, she wasn’t interested in marriage or in having a baby, for that matter. She’s from New Jersey and went home to her family and decided to have Molly adopted. That’s before we knew she was Molly. If she’d had the paperwork sent to me right away, I might have signed off—but some time passed and I brooded. I wasn’t ready to be a father, that’s for sure, but I was less ready to have someone else raise my child.”

“And how old is Molly?”

“She’s almost ten.”

Shock settled over Clare’s features as she did the math.

“That’s right—I was all of eighteen. Nineteen when she was born. And I had to fight to get her.”

“Your girlfriend’s family?”

He sat at the end of a chaise, facing Clare but not reclining. “This is just for you, okay? I haven’t exactly explained this part to Molly. Can’t figure out how. Her mother and grandparents didn’t want to keep her, they wanted her adopted. Gone. Out of the picture.”

“But you got her.”

“My mother cashed in everything she had to help me fight a legal battle out of state, but yes, I’ve had her since she was two months old.” He pulled the coffees out of the bag and handed her one. She leaned back on the lounger and carefully lifted her legs up. “That’s life, huh?” he said. “How one stupid, irresponsible mistake can somehow turn into the best thing that ever happened.”

They talked a little about their kids; she asked how he managed to work full-time and raise a child. With a lot of help, was the answer—his mother, a Realtor, was pretty flexible. And he worked four ten-hour days, giving him three off each week. They had a dog, Spoof, and Molly’s best friend lived down the block—so they always had a safe place for her to go if Dad and Gram weren’t home.

All the while he talked, the dispatcher sent messages by way of his radio, the receiver attached to his right shoulder, which was turned down, but she could see his eyes dart now and then toward it, keeping tabs on what was going on. And in the back of Clare’s mind came this startling reality—in the past six months and in the previous times she’d been separated, she had never really been on her own. It was more of a respite before going back into that marriage.

This young man was doing so much better by himself than she, so much older and with so much more experience, had done.

“I have so much to figure out,” she finally said.

“Figure out getting on your feet. There’s plenty of time for everything else.”

“My biggest problem is that my son, Jason, is furious with his father. I mean livid. He won’t even speak to him.”

Sam whistled. “Ouch. Well, I hope they work that out. A young man needs a dad. Mine died when I was so young.”

Just as she was about to offer her condolences, the front door to the house flew open with a bang and she heard Jason. “Mom! Mom!” And Dotty. “Clare! Oh, Clare!” The sound of running and shouting caused her to sit upright and Sam to stand by the time Jason and Dotty found them on the patio.

“Are you all right?” Jason, red-faced, demanded.

“Jason. Yes,” she said, confused.

“The patrol car,” Sam said. He stuck out a hand. “You must be Jason. I just brought your mom some Starbucks.”

“Who are you?”

“Jason, this is Sam. He was the police officer at the accident.” Dotty came up behind Jason before the handshake could be completed. Her hand twisted her sweater closed over her ample chest and there was a look of terror on her face. “Dotty, this is Sam. He was the police officer at the accident.”

“Starbucks,” he said, lifting his paper cup.

“Oh my Lord, I thought something had happened to you—and you called the police!”

“Everything is fine. Jason, it turns out I know your grandfather. Sort of. I go to his hardware store all the time.”

Clare struggled up, getting to her feet slowly. “Sam has been kind enough to check on my progress since the accident. And today he surprised me with coffee.”

He looked at his watch. “And my coffee break is more than over. Good thing we’re not having a crime wave around here—I’d better get going.”

“Let me see you to the door,” Clare said.

“You don’t have to. I know the way and I hate to make you move around too much.”

“I’m supposed to be walking. Good for me, they say.”

As they went to the door, they could hear Dotty and Jason settling their nerves with exclamations and deep sighs.

“You didn’t tell them about me,” Sam said.

“I guess I didn’t,” she said. “It never occurred to me that the police car would throw them into a panic. Sometimes I just don’t think ahead.”

When they got to the door, Sam looked at her and said, “Look, I don’t want to throw any curves while you’re trying to recover—but are you absolutely sure I’m being kind? Or thoughtful and sensitive? And that there’s not another reason I’ve been in touch?”

The questions threw her. What would a handsome young man like Sam want with an older woman like Clare? came to mind. But all she said was, “I have a cracked pelvis.”

He put his thumb and forefinger under her chin, looked into her eyes and said, “Well, it won’t be cracked forever.” And then he left her to think about that.