Praise for the novels of
ROBYN CARR

“Jennifer is a beautifully drawn character whose interior journey is wonderful to behold.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Runaway Mistress

“This is one author who proves a Carr can fly.”

—Book Reviewer on Blue Skies

“Robyn Carr provides readers [with] a powerful, thought-provoking work of contemporary fiction.”

—Midwest Book Review on Deep in the Valley

“A remarkable storyteller…”

—Library Journal

“A warm, wonderful book about women’s friendships, love and family. I adored it!”

—Susan Elizabeth Phillips on

The House on Olive Street

“A delightfully funny novel.”

—Midwest Book Review on The Wedding Party

ROBYN CARR
Never Too Late

This book is dedicated to Denise and Jeff Nicholl,

with deep affection and heartfelt thanks.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

One

Clare drove through the March rain to the house that had been hers, the house she left when she separated from her husband, and she felt a little guilty. Her trip was another of those nighttime forages for things she missed, something she only did when she knew Roger was going to be away. At least this time she’d brought a birthday card to leave behind.

Maybe she was too easy on Roger, as their son, Jason, maintained. Her leniency also dismayed her sisters. Maybe she should try to be tougher, less tractable. Maybe everyone was right—he didn’t deserve it and she was a fool.

Today was Roger’s fortieth birthday, and she felt a little sorry for him. He was clearly having a problem with aging, as someone like Roger would. He’d said as much. So Clare, being the accommodating almost-ex-wife that she was, had offered to make him dinner for his birthday. It would give Roger a chance to spend a little time with Jason, which Roger very much wanted even if Jason did not. But Roger said he had to be out of town on business, holed up in a hotel alone after some boring meeting.

It was probably for the best that the dinner hadn’t worked—Jason was still so angry. She had forced Jason to sign the card, and would leave it on the breakfast bar for Roger to find when he got back to town. She had wanted Jason to come along tonight, but it turned out that signing the card was as far as he could go.

Right before dropping Jason off at his friend Stan’s house for the night, he had said, “You’re going to get back with him, aren’t you?” There had been such vitriol in his tone, she didn’t even dare to respond. Which only led him to accuse, “You are!”

“No!” she had insisted. She had said it as strongly and firmly as she could, adding, “But I think it would be good for all of us, especially you, if we just get along.”

“I don’t want to get along with him! I hate him!”

Oh, how that caused her gut to clench.

Roger had brought it upon himself. In his naiveté he’d imagined that his adultery would be a secret from his son forever; that Clare would be the only one hurt by his actions. He’d really screwed up with Jason and it was a pity. For both of them.

Jason was fourteen. Just budding into manhood, struggling with puberty, freckles giving way to pimples, his overly tall, big-footed form gangly and awkward. And he was, to say the least, pretty touchy. Take one irritable teen, one self-centered and adulterous father, mix, watch explosion in a matter of seconds.

A plethora of responses had sprung to her mind, but she squelched them. She had some experience with these comebacks, and knew they didn’t work anyway. You might not always hate him. No matter what you might think, he doesn’t hate you. He screwed up, he knows it, and he’s sorry, Jason.

Clare didn’t care that Jason was mad at Roger—Roger deserved it. But this hate. This wasn’t good. She didn’t want her son to be in pain. So when Jason had refused to even go by the house with her to drop off the birthday card, she had said, fine. I’ll do it. No big deal. I’ll drop you at Stan’s on the way. Call later, before you fall asleep. If you think of it.

Clare admired her old house as she pulled into the drive—it was a fine-looking, two-story brick, carriage lights shining at the three-port garage and around the walk to the front door. She sat in the car, gazing at it, thinking. Thinking how much she missed it.

This was her fourth separation from Roger. She thought it would get easier, since the reason never changed. Roger was habitually unfaithful. This time when Clare caught him with someone else, she had decided to be the one to leave. She thought she’d finally had enough. She was pushed so far that she didn’t even want to stay in the house she had shared with him, though she loved the spacious four-bedroom home. She thought a fresh start would do her good, but this had been harder than she expected. She had labored over every detail of the interior, having done all the decorating herself, and it was like parting with an old and dear friend.

Right on cue, Roger had immediately started making noises about wanting his family back and a chance, one last chance, to start his life over and make amends with Clare and Jason and all the peripheral people wounded by his behavior.

“I’m about to be forty, Clare, and it’s pretty traumatic,” he had said. “Don’t think I don’t know what I’ve done, how stupid I’ve been. I do. And I’m going to prove to you that I can change. I’m going to get help. I’m in counseling now.”

“I don’t think I have one more chance in me,” she had returned. “And even if I did, my family doesn’t. Our friends can’t even take any more.”

“That’s your doing,” he had shot back. “You haven’t been able to keep even our most private problems to yourself!”

Well, that was true. But if Roger thought that was hard on him, he ought to try being her. Once people knew what he’d done, they couldn’t believe she’d taken him back again. And again. And again. Their recriminations had run from astonished disbelief to what felt like a crushing lack of respect. Needless to say, the people she loved most had all but given up on her. In this relatively small town of only fifteen thousand, she was sure everyone knew.

And why had she caved in and taken him back, anyway? Because there were things about Roger. He was handsome, funny and very often kind-hearted. He was generous and a wonderful dancer. There were times in her life when she’d been shattered—like when her mother died and her little sister, Sarah, had plummeted into a frightening depression—and Roger had been completely there for her. He’d always been a good provider and while not a doting father, he loved Jason. He’d never been a coach or Boy Scout leader, but he’d enjoyed his son’s games and achievements. Truthfully, Roger only had one screwup—it just happened to be about the biggest one available.

She just couldn’t seem to get past the notion that this was all her fault. Her inability to make her marriage work; her failure to leave it. She couldn’t keep him from straying and she couldn’t seem to keep herself from letting him back in. She wasn’t sure if trying to keep the family together had been a good thing for Jason, or the opposite. Clare just couldn’t win.

She had officially moved out three months ago, right after Christmas, and into a town house the perfect size for herself and her son. She had taken only what she needed, but over time she transferred more of her things. She retrieved them in small increments on days and nights like this, when Roger had said he’d be away from the house. If he noticed the linen closet or kitchen getting emptier, he never mentioned it. Tonight she was in pursuit of a Bundt pan, slow cooker, her favorite red-trimmed dishes, the kitchen rug from in front of the sink and a bunch of Williams-Sonoma dish towels. Leaving the card on the breakfast bar would give her secret away, but that was all right. It was time Roger figured this out. Time to make this split official with the big D.

With a sigh, she turned off the engine and stepped out into the cold drizzle. She pulled the collar of her jacket up around her neck and shivered—possibly from the cold, or from the prospect of stepping back into the house she loved. Clare was a little surprised that the house alarm wasn’t set, but then Roger had never worried about things like that in this nice little town. The only lights were those built into the walls of the foyer and hall, but that was all she needed. She knew every inch of the house; she’d obsessed over every countertop, cupboard, baseboard, floor covering. She’d just go straight to the kitchen, prop the card on the breakfast bar, get her things and go home. No lingering. No looking around. Seeing the house perfectly tidy always depressed her a little. It was kind of hard to see Roger getting along so well, especially given all his protesting that he needed her back in his life.

This house, after all, had been her domain. All the more reason to leave it in the past and start over.

She heard a squeak and froze. A creaking floorboard upstairs? Her heart pounded. Was someone in the house? A burglar? Then she heard another noise, kind of like that high-pitched moan the water pipes made when the backyard faucet was turned on. She thought about bolting. Then she heard it again, louder. This time it was followed by an undeniably female giggle.

The son of a bitch!

She was enraged on so many levels, but star billing went to the fact that she had asked Jason to come with her! My God, how much counseling would it have taken to get him past this?

She crept up the stairs without making a sound and saw the slit of light coming from the master bedroom; the double doors were just slightly ajar. She peeked inside and saw the long slim back of a blonde riding Roger. The woman rocked back and forth while beneath her Roger moaned. The woman giggled again. At the foot of the bed was a wine bucket with an opened bottle sticking out of it; on the bedside table, two glasses.

She gently pushed the door open and stood there, watching. She cleared her throat. It took a moment for them to realize they were no longer alone. The woman glanced over her shoulder, spied Clare and dived off Roger and under the sheets. She only glimpsed her but at least she wasn’t someone Clare knew. Thank God.

Roger, at a disadvantage, struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. “Clare…”

She walked toward the bed. “How’s that boring old business trip going, Rog?”

“Clare, it was cancelled. At the very last—”

“Oh, shut up, Roger,” she yelled.

“But Clare, we’re separated, and I figured—”

She plucked the wine bottle out of the bucket, tossed it on the carpet and lifted the bucket full of melting ice and water off its stand. She doused Roger and company. He was lifted off the bed with a yelp of pain and the woman under the sheets screamed.

Clare turned and fled the house, deliberately leaving the front door standing open, hoping there had just been an escape from the zoo and several lions and tigers were loose in the neighborhood. Or maybe a serial killer would be passing by and see a prime opportunity.

She jumped in the car and screeched out of the driveway, changed gears and zoomed down the street. And she cried.

She didn’t cry because she loved him so much, but rather because she was so bloody sick of being humiliated like this. When would she learn?

Despite the fact that Roger had no discretion whatsoever, this was the first time she’d actually caught him in the act. She’d found evidence, like hotel charges, receipts for gifts not given to her. There had been strange phone messages and there was that time a woman had called and begged Clare to free him. Once confronted, he’d always come clean. He was a charmer, a flirt, a philanderer and a lousy liar.

She’d asked him more than once why he didn’t just embrace bachelorhood. “Seriously, Roger—why not just be single? You act like it anyway. Just go for it. Knock yourself out.”

Then he would hang his head and say, with pathetic sincerity, “Because I love you, Clare. I’ve always loved you. I know I’m screwed up, but I just don’t think I can get beyond this without you.”

She hit the steering wheel in blind fury. That’s when she saw the flashing lights in her rearview mirror and looked down at the speedometer. Damn it all, she was speeding.

She slowed down and pulled to the curb, then she let her head drop and she fell apart, crying painful tears. Familiar tears.

It was a few minutes before the officer’s flashlight shone into the window and he tapped lightly on the glass. She lowered it and looked up into the handsome face of an overgrown boy who wore a paternal frown. “Got an appointment?” he asked.

She wiped the tears off her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, though even as she said it she knew he wasn’t looking for an apology. “I was angry and careless. A bad combination.”

“Angry, careless and dead is an even worse combination.”

“I found my husband in bed with another woman,” she blurted. There, she’d done it again. Roger wasn’t the only one with no discretion. She just couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

“Whoa,” said the police officer. He shined the flashlight on her face. “He must be crazy,” he said.

“We’re separated,” she added. “I walked right into it. I should have been smarter. I should have known.”

“I’m going to need to see your driver’s license and registration.”

“Sure,” she said. She fumbled a little, but got the papers together and handed them out the window. “Proof of insurance, too.”

He looked at the documents. “Are you drunk?” he asked.

“No. But I’m not going to kid you. I’m going home to fix a nice big one.”

He had a dazzling smile. Wonderful dimples. Good-looking guy, she thought. “Hey, if I weren’t on duty, I’d buy you one.” He handed back her stuff and said, “Look, I don’t know anything about this man of yours, but you’re a beautiful woman and it would be a damn shame if you got yourself killed on account of him being a loser. Know what I mean?”

“Yes,” she said contritely.

“Think you can make it home safely? Stop at stop signs, drive slowly, all that?”

She nodded, confused. “Aren’t you going to give me a ticket?”

“I think you’ve been through enough tonight. Don’t you?”

“But I thought once you started a ticket, you had to finish it.”

“I’ve always wondered why people think that,” he said. Again that smile. “I’m the police—I can do what I want. Go on. Be careful. And don’t punish the bastard by hurting yourself.”

“Of course you’re right,” she said, surprising herself with a weak laugh.

“Of course I’m right. I could tell in thirty seconds, you have a lot to live for. Drive safely.”

He went back to his car and she put hers in gear. She signaled, looked around and carefully edged away from the curb. She was only five minutes from home. He followed her, she noticed with some amusement. She came to the traffic light and stopped on the red. She gave him a little wave in the rearview mirror, but couldn’t tell if he returned the gesture. The light turned green and she cautiously entered the intersection.

And the lights went out.

Sam Jankowski went back to his squad car. Whew, he thought. What a dish. If he’d met her anywhere else, he’d have asked her out. Even with the tears, that was one good-looking woman. She was a little older than he, but he liked that. The women he was accustomed to dating tended to be younger, often immature and a little flighty. He liked a woman who had lived a little. A woman who was clear on what she wanted and where she was going. Clare Wilson, five foot four, one hundred and eighteen pounds, brown hair, green eyes, stupid ex-husband.

She pulled away from the curb, blinker and all, and he moved off right behind her. She stopped at the traffic light on the corner and when it turned green, proceeded into the intersection. Then, from out of nowhere, bam! An SUV ran the light and broadsided her, shoving her car all the way across the intersection into the light pole. “Holy Jesus,” he said.

He lit up the squad and moved into the intersection behind the collision to stop any approaching traffic. He keyed the radio attached to his belt while jumping out of the car. “Control, DP-thirty-five, roll medical. I have a 401 at the intersection of Winston and Montgomery.”

“Copy. I have them en route.”

“Can you copy for two plates?” he asked, as he went to the trunk for flares.

“Copy.”

“Mary Nora Paul seven six nine,” Sam said, repeating Clare’s license plate from memory as he ran toward the collision. A young woman was getting out of the SUV. “Ma’am,” he called, “please get out of the intersection if you can. Stand on the sidewalk.” He lit and threw down a flare.

“My baby,” the woman cried.

“Control, advise medical we have an infant in the vehicle.”

“Copy.”

“Copy plate Union Zebra Henry two two nine.” He went to the woman, who was looking in the backseat. The rear windows were intact, the baby was crying, a good sign, and the broken glass of the windshield was contained in the front of the vehicle. “Ma’am, leave the baby in the car seat until medical arrives.”

“I have to pick him up,” she said in a panicked, shaken voice.

“It’s better if you don’t move him.”

He lit and tossed another flare. “Ma’am!” He heard sirens. “Leave the baby for paramedics to examine before moving him.” He ran to the trunk for his fire extinguisher, then to Clare Wilson’s little, destroyed Toyota. There didn’t seem to be a fire, but he’d be ready.

The driver’s side was crushed against the light pole, which, thankfully, hadn’t broken in half. The right side was destroyed by the SUV. He couldn’t get to her, but he could look in the driver’s window. Her hands still gripped the steering wheel, her head lolling to the side. She moaned. He reached through the broken glass and took her left hand into his. “Clare,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

“Uhh,” she moaned, eyes closed.

God almighty, he thought. This is bad. Bad. He held her hand. “Try not to move, Clare. Just try. It’s going to be okay.”

“Jason,” she said.

“Be still, Clare,” he said.

“Mike. Mike!”

“Shh,” he said. One of those must be the ex, he thought.

He was moved away from the wreck by paramedics, so he backed up and went into the intersection, directing traffic. It took a long time for them to remove the SUV, pull the Toyota away from the pole, and then it required the Jaws of Life to remove her from the car. He heard her scream as they put her on the stretcher and the sound ripped through him like a knife.

After the ambulance took her away, he asked the fire captain, “She going to be all right?”

“I don’t know. Her vitals are iffy. You see it?”

“I was right behind her. She had a green light. The SUV ran the red. I’ll put it in my report.” And then, he thought, I’ll call the hospital.

Clare was wandering around in a fog so thick it was hard to move her limbs. She wasn’t sure if she even had her eyes open. There seemed to be a dim light in the distance and she did all she could to move toward it, but it was difficult. She felt as if she were restrained. Something was pulling at her.

There was a figure coming toward her, a shadow. As it neared, the light behind it brightened and he came into view. She gasped as she recognized Mike, the love of her life, still wearing that Air Force flight suit he’d had on nineteen years ago. He stopped several feet in front of her and treated her to one of those bright smiles that just made her melt. “Mike!” she gasped. “Oh, Mike! I knew you’d come back!”

“Hi, Clare.”

“Oh, God,” she said, weeping, trying to reach for him.

But he didn’t come closer. His hands were plunged into his pockets and he kept his distance but he looked so perfectly at home, at peace. “You have to go back, Clare. You have things to do.”

“I want to be with you! All I’ve ever wanted was to be—”

“I can’t stay, and neither can you. I’ll see you next time.” And he turned his back on her and began to walk back into the fog.

Terrified of losing him a second time, she screamed. At first nothing came out, then only the weakest groan. When she tried to reach out to him, to follow him, she was prevented. The force that held her was filled with fear and anger and though she tried to escape it, it held her fast.

So she screamed again—but had no voice.

The fog began to thin, then lift. A light was beginning to penetrate from above and she struggled against it, pinching her eyes closed. The power that was drawing her away from Mike was so jagged, so raw with emotion—not pleasant at all—that she began to thrash in protest. Then her eyes suddenly popped open and there above her was the face of her son.

“Mom!” he said. “Oh, Mom!”

Jason was instantly pushed away, out of her line of vision, while people in scrubs moved in and took over. A woman was injecting something in a tube that dangled above her, the surface she was lying on was being jostled and a man was shouting, “CT’s positive. Give her a hundred mics of fentanyl and send her upstairs, stat.”

And the world went dark again.

The next time, she woke from a dreamless sleep and looked up into the face of her older sister, Maggie. Nothing was ever more beautiful to her; Maggie always made her feel safe, even when she was chewing her out for something. She tried to smile, but wasn’t sure she had succeeded.

“We’re all here, Clare,” Maggie said. “Dad, Sarah, Jason, Bob. But we’re not going to crowd around your bed.”

Clare tried to explain that she’d seen Mike, but only a guttural sound escaped.

“Don’t try to talk. You’re going to be fine, but there will be pain. Just let them drug you out of your mind and try to sleep. Bob and I will take care of Jason. We’ll be here.”

That woman, who she now knew must be a nurse, was fiddling with her tubes again, and then sleep came. The tube was magic.

She was in and out from then on, having no idea of the length of time in between. Once she lifted a hand to see how much her nails had grown, wondering if it had been days or weeks, but they looked the same. She became increasingly aware of pain, in her throat, back, pelvis, gut, legs.

The last thing she could remember was not getting a speeding ticket. Had she done something wrong? she wondered.

The pain was terrible, but just as terrible was not having any idea why she was here. She opened her eyes and there was Maggie again. Maggie was so busy—too busy to be sitting around the hospital for hours. Or was it days?

“Hey, ’bout time,” Maggie said.

Her hand rose shakily to her neck. “Ugh. My throat.”

“I know. It’s from the intubation. Here, have a little sip of water.”

The cool liquid was welcome but swallowing was very hard. “What? What?” she asked.

“A car accident, Clare. Do you remember anything?”

She shook her head.

“You got broadsided in an intersection. Your injuries were the worst—you lost your spleen and your pelvis is cracked. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Oh, God,” she moaned.

“You’re going to make a full recovery, but it’s not going to be an easy road.”

“Who hit me?” she was able to ask. “Drunk driver?”

Maggie shook her head. “Nothing as cut-and-dried as that. A young woman in an SUV was fussing with her baby in the car seat while her light was green. When she looked back at the road, it was red and you were in the intersection.”

“Oh, God,” she said, closing her eyes. “The baby?”

“They’re both okay—baby’s fine, Mama had a few bruises. She had the SUV. Your Toyota is toast. They had to use the Jaws of Life to get you out. You don’t remember anything?” Clare shook her head. “Well, your head is all right, so I guess it’s just a stroke of luck that you can’t remember.”

Clare nodded off again and when she woke Maggie was still there, holding her hand. She stood from the chair she’d been using and leaned over the bed. Seeing her there made Clare feel so cherished. Maggie, a lawyer, wife and mother kept a killer schedule. She couldn’t imagine that she’d just drop everything. “Have you been here long?”

“Just a few hours. Today.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Clare whispered.

“I’m going to leave soon,” Maggie said. “I just wanted to be sure you’re back.”

“Did I almost die?” she asked.

“I don’t know about that, but your injuries were definitely life threatening. Is the pain terrible?”

It was, but she shook her head. “Roger?” she asked.

Maggie got a look on her face as if she wanted to spit something out. “He’s been here. Do you want me to leave word that you want to see him?”

She shook her head. “I want him to stay away.”

Maggie obviously couldn’t resist a satisfied smile, but all she said was, “Sure.”

As time passed, so slowly, Clare saw the faces of all her loved ones leaning over the bed at one time or another, but they were careful not to tire her. Jason was very emotional. He cried and laid his head on her hand and said, “God, Ma, I was so scared. If you died, what would I do?”

She said, “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere.” And she had it on firm authority from the other side. She had things to do. Things to do?

Her younger sister, Sarah, was holding up, but she looked a little wild-eyed behind those thick glasses, as though this close call had terrified her. She had been twenty-one when their mother died and definitely took it the hardest. Clare touched her hand and said, “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s going to be okay.”

Sarah gave a wan smile. “That’s so you,” she said. “You’re in the hospital, but you’re comforting me.”

Looking at Sarah now, dishwater blond hair pulled severely back, black-rimmed, old-fashioned glasses, no makeup—it was hard to imagine the younger wild child. Maggie and Clare used to call her slut-in-training. Their mother’s death had changed all that; had changed Sarah completely.

But another trauma had changed Clare. It was no coincidence that she’d be thinking about that quite a lot while in the hospital. After all—she’d just seen Mike in that ghostlike, after-life appearance he’d made. It caused her life to literally flash before her eyes, sending her back in time over and over.

Right until she was twenty-one Clare had lived a charmed life. She’d been a happy kid from a happy marriage, even as the middle child. Maggie was bossy and Sarah had that sense of entitlement that comes from being youngest, but Clare had good looks, humor, intelligence and luck. She’d done well in school, been popular and was never afraid. She’d hung out with a great group of friends who had all grown up together and at the age of fifteen she fell in love with the star quarterback and homecoming king, Mike Rayburn. He was two years older than she and went to college in Reno, just a short drive from their hometown of Breckenridge, Nevada, a beautiful little town nestled at the base of the majestic Sierras below Lake Tahoe. With the green, plentiful valley filled with crops and grazing animals under snowy peaks, it could pass for Switzerland. It was a sweet life in a magical place where they had played at the lake all summer, skied the mountains all winter.

There was no question but that Clare would go to school in Reno, too, and their romance was hot and steady right through college. After Mike graduated he went into the Air Force, separating them for Clare’s last two years, but he gave her a shiny big diamond and told her to spend her last year of college planning their wedding.

Then there had been a hiccup. Er, earthquake.

Mike’s younger brother, Pete, who was Clare’s age, had been one of her best pals and buddies all through high school. They had graduated together. Pete had never been much on school while Mike had been an honor student. Pete concentrated on having fun. He and Clare would get laughing so hard and so long that Mike, annoyed, would threaten to pound them both. And like big brother, he was a gifted athlete. But because he was more of a fixture in detention than the honor roll, after graduation he had taken a full-time job and some classes at a community college in Breckenridge. Then at the age of twenty-one, ready to finish a degree, he was university shopping. He went to Clare’s campus and she was more than thrilled to be his hostess while he looked around.

In the way young men are a bit slower to mature than young ladies, she always thought of him as a kid—skinny, lanky, goofy. She’d been busy doing other things while Pete was maturing and she was a bit shaken to find this kid came to her a grown man, just as handsome and sexy as his older brother. Maybe, just maybe a little more so.

Pete stayed with her and her two roommates while he toured the school, met some of the teachers and coaches, talked to counselors and in general had a look-see. She introduced him to her friends and took him out to the local pub when it was crowded with people and he had a wonderful time…and all her girlfriends went gaga. Then her roommates left for the weekend. Clare fixed Pete a nice big spaghetti dinner and he bought a jug of Chianti as big as a horse’s leg. They ate, drank, laughed and told stories late into the night.

Then something happened. She began remembering how much she liked him; realizing how much she’d missed him. They were a little bit drunk when she felt the vibrating tension of his muscular thigh against hers. He touched her hand, he looked into her eyes, he kissed her. He kissed her again. To this day she wasn’t sure what happened. It wasn’t exactly the first time she’d had a little too much wine, nor the first time a guy had come on to her. She had never cheated on Mike, had never even been tempted. But she was suddenly swept up in some kind of crazy passion right there on the couch with Pete, who was no longer a little brother but a very strong, able and experienced man. Every kiss sent her soaring; his touch thrilled her and she responded with need of her own. Her brain and her judgment took a hike.

Before she knew it she was beneath him, opening herself to him, begging him to come inside, to finish, to give her everything he had. He told her he wanted her, that he couldn’t stop, and the fact that he seemed slightly out of control only made her want him more. He thrust and she answered each one with wild craving. He nibbled, caressed, teased and brought her to a shattering climax right in time with his own.

They came slowly to earth and suddenly she was stunned. Mortified. She gasped in horror and said, “Oh my God!”

“Clare, I—”

But she couldn’t listen. What had she done? To Mike? To Pete? To herself? She fled from that apartment couch into her bedroom, slammed the door and was racked with sobs of remorse through the night. All the while she was thinking that if she felt that terrible, he must hate her for what she’d encouraged him to do to his brother. After all, she had begged him! In the morning when she got up she found a note under the aspirin bottle. “Let’s never talk about it. It didn’t happen. Pete.”

She didn’t talk about it, that was for sure, because she was thoroughly ashamed. Clare froze up inside. She had trouble putting together the wedding guest list, couldn’t stand to talk about the reception, didn’t register her gifts and when she went for a bridal gown fitting, she burst into tears. She was completely miserable and a long way from getting over it. Of course she didn’t hear a word from Pete—and she didn’t know if that made things better or worse. And if he didn’t hate her, at the very least, he would have lost all respect for her.

Mike seemed not to pick up on the trouble during their phone conversations, either because he had so much going on at flight school that he was preoccupied or maybe she was becoming the master of deception. Either way it hardly mattered because just a couple of months later his F-16 went down and he went with it.

Clare was plummeted from despair into a deep well of grief and regret. It was the blackest time of her life. She wondered if she would die of it. She never once met Pete’s eyes during the memorial services, not even when she embraced him and they sobbed on each other’s shoulders. It was a long, long while before she stopped feeling she had killed Mike with what she had done.

It was two years before she could even manage a girls’ night out with her friends, and she adamantly refused any fixing up. There was such an ache in her heart. She wouldn’t consider letting herself be that vulnerable again. When she ran into Pete, she could barely talk to him, and he ducked his head away from her eyes. It was obvious to her that his pain was equal to her own.

And then she met Roger; smooth, good-looking Roger. She was lifted up out of the darkness, laughed, looked forward to events and dates. He was such a clever flirt; he could charm the paint off an old Buick. He pursued her with such gusto. She didn’t even know she had it in her to be seduced and she felt alive for the first time since Mike’s death. When she realized that days passed without her thoughts turning to Mike or her sin against him, she saw in Roger a chance to start her life over. More than that, she fell for him, hard and fast. That was the Roger she had always had trouble leaving—the sweet, sensitive, fun-loving man who pulled her up out of the darkness and into the light. Clare would be forever grateful to him for that. Her friends and family were so relieved to see her smile again, they wholeheartedly encouraged them. They loved Roger, and so did she. She accepted his proposal, which came a little too soon into their relationship, but he had always moved fast. Jason arrived immediately.

Then came the late-night meetings, the trips out of town, being unable to reach him during the day because he was tied up with a client. Once he was home, he could smooth things over with ease—he had this way about him. Irresistible and always so desirable, he banished her edginess in no time.

But it was not how she thought it would be, not how it had been with Mike who was far less charming and fun loving but more reliable. There were lonely times in the dark of night when she rocked her baby—often waiting for Roger to come home hours later than she expected him—that she would fantasize she was waiting for Mike and that she rocked their child. Because of that dirty little secret, because of what she had done before, she worked as hard as humanly possible at being a good wife.

Clare felt guilty about fantasizing Jason was Mike’s, until years later when she learned that Roger had first been unfaithful while she was in her pregnancy. There had been a reason why he was always unavailable and late, and her name was Jill. As far as Clare knew, Jill was the first one.

Instead of being her knight in shining armor, Roger became her cross to bear. Her penance.

Much of her adult life had been manipulated around the mere fact that she had made love to her fiancé’s brother. Every time she ran into Pete she remained aloof and cool and he looked at her with the saddest eyes—it appeared neither of them would ever recover from what they’d done. She even tried counseling and was honest as a heart attack during her sessions, but still she floundered on in a marriage that wasn’t true.

That was another reason she kept taking Roger back—because if she couldn’t be forgiving, she couldn’t be forgiven. That, and she wanted her life to be worth something. She wanted the family she’d made to survive. And of course there was the fact of Roger, a seductive and charming flirt to the end—and it had worked on her for years.

But then she woke up in a hospital in Reno with every inch of her body throbbing in pain and for the first time in almost twenty years, she realized her marriage had gone on long enough.

It was time to move on.

Two

If there was anything on par with being dragged half-dead out of mangled car, it was physical therapy. Every step shot through Clare like dynamite, every stretch came with the agony of the rack. The first thought she had upon waking in the morning was that she was going to suffer the torture of the truly damned. All this was administered by a devilish little creature no bigger than a wood sprite. Her name was Gilda and one should not be fooled by the fact that she was a mere slip of a thing. She had a black heart and the strength of a herd of dragons.

“One more step, come on, one more. Good! Good! Okay, one more…”

“I…hate…you…so…much….”

“Ah, yes—sweet talk. You’ll thank me when you’re up dancing the rumba again.”

“I’m…taking…out…a…contract…on…you….”

“One more, no whining. Good! Good! Okay, how about just one more.”

“You’re going to suffer. I swear to God!”

Gilda kissed her cheek. “You’re tough stuff, Clare. Good thing you were in such great shape when you got hit—it’s paying off.”

“You are a mean-spirited witch.”

“Yes, so they tell me.”

The payoff was that after being abused by Gilda she could have a pain shot, a sponge bath and a nap. Then the company would start to arrive. And with them always the same dilemma—she was bored and lonely in addition to wretchedly uncomfortable, and she was too tired to endure too much visiting. Still, she wanted them to come.

Her younger sister, Sarah, dropped by daily and Maggie came for a little while most afternoons, often bringing Jason with her. Her brother-in-law, Bob, usually made a quick swing by in the evenings—he spent a lot of his workday in Carson City, the capitol of Nevada. And her dad, George, still went to his neighborhood hardware store every day, retirement not even a part of his agenda despite the fact that he was in his sixties. One thing had changed in his schedule—he was now taking a lunch hour, which he spent at the hospital. And he would sometimes stop by later in the evening on his way home from work. And George’s cleaning lady, Dotty, made it a point to come to the hospital most days with some kind of sweet treat meant mainly for the hospital staff. “Soften them up,” Dotty said. “They’ll go easier on you if you feed them.”

Clare’s mom, Fran, fell ill with cancer when Jason was only three. It took her quickly. Sarah was devastated by the loss and at twenty-one, moved back into her dad’s house, but she proved to be no help at all. Both of them grew thin and messy, so Maggie and Clare pooled their resources and hired Dotty to clean twice a week and stock the refrigerator with nutritious meals. George protested, but soon he gained some weight and his stained clothes were clean and pressed. Sarah, so lost there for a while, had a maternal figure to watch over her.

Dotty was a widow just a couple of years older than George. When they first found her, she had a total of four families she worked for, but now she was down to George, who she said would have to bury her to get rid of her. “I don’t like him that much,” she said, lying through her false teeth, “but it’s obvious he is useless on his own. And if I can do one kind thing for his departed wife, it will be to make sure he doesn’t join her too soon.”

The one person in Clare’s life who hadn’t put in an appearance was Roger. But in the way things that seem too good to be true aren’t, he showed up. He got past the sentries at the door. He waited until evening, just before visiting hours were over, and brought with him that pathetic face that said, Oh I’m such a bad boy, you must take pity on me for I suffer so. What poor Roger didn’t know was that the second she saw him that vision came into her mind—of a slim blonde on top of him. And it infuriated her anew.

“Clare,” he said. “I’ve been trying to see you, but your sisters said you didn’t want to see me.”

She put on her call light. “That’s right, Roger. Go away. I’m an injured woman and you’re making the pain worse.”

“I want to talk to you about Jason,” he said.

She turned off the call light.

“I think he should be staying with me,” Roger said.

“What on earth for?” she asked, genuinely perplexed. “You’re busy all day and most evenings. What’s he supposed to do?”

“We’ll get in the car pool for school. I’ll lighten my schedule. He can have his old room.”

She thought about this for less than ten seconds. “No,” she said. “He’s fine at Maggie’s and, in case you haven’t noticed, he’s still very angry. You’re going to have to give him more time and make up with him before you coax him home.”

“How can I make up with him when he doesn’t want to see me?”

“I’m sorry, Roger, I know it makes you feel bad, but he’s adamant, he doesn’t want to spend time with you.”

“You can talk to him about that.”

A few days ago, pre-cracked pelvis and major surgery, she probably would have. But the cause of this current separation had created such terrible anger in Jason. This had been a long time coming; she had always dreaded the day her son would find out that his dad, the object of such admiration, was screwing around on his mother. Jason felt completely abandoned by his father, though Roger kept trying to reconcile with him.

The night it happened was awful beyond belief. Clare had chosen the time specifically because Jason wasn’t going to be home. He was spending the night at a friend’s house. Clare confronted Roger about his latest affair, which she had researched thoroughly. He denied it and she laid out her proof—copies of bills, cell phone calls, et cetera. She knew exactly who the woman was—one of his many clients to whom he sold insurance. A lot of regrettable things were said, but the worst were:

“Okay, maybe I did have a stupid, meaningless little fling—a guy can make a mistake!”

“A meaningless little fling? There have been over a dozen. Maybe many dozens!”

“Well, you’re not exactly welcoming in the sack, you know, Miss Ice Queen.”

“What do you expect? I’ve had to worry about disease!”

“When have I ever given you—”

Roger’s eyes had grown large as he looked past Clare and his expression became stricken. She whirled to find Jason standing there, the in-line skates he’d come home to fetch dangling from his hand.

“My God, Jason,” she had said, chasing him as he fled from the house.

Roger rattled the bed rail to regain her attention. “Clare? You’ll talk to him about that? Tell him, regardless of our family problems, his place is with his father.”

In her mind she saw that blonde again; she remembered the night Jason overheard their fight.

“No,” she said. “No, Roger. We don’t have ‘family problems.’ You have a problem. I’m not sure what it is—sex addiction? Being a pathological liar? Doesn’t matter. The fact is, I don’t have a problem and Jason seems to be doing fine. He’s had a big scare with my accident and I’m not going to make it even worse by forcing him to go to your house. We’ll deal with your relationship later.”

“My house? It’s still our house, Clare. And there are legal—”

Her hand came crashing down on his and he yanked it off the bed rail with a yelp. “What the…?”

“Listen to me, Roger. Don’t you dare fuck with me now. You leave Jason alone or, so help me God, I will make you pay! Now go home and leave me alone. No one will bother you—you can screw your brains out with any hoyden you can find!”

He looked at her as though cut to the quick. “That’s nice, Clare. Very nice. As though your accident hasn’t been a big shock to me, too?”

“Oh bite me, Roger.”

He shook his head sadly. “I don’t know what’s happened to you.”

“It’s very simple—I got smacked up the side of the head and all your bullshit fell out and some sense seeped in. Now go!” She flipped on the nurse’s call light for emphasis.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine.” He turned and left.

It was amazing how good that felt. She didn’t seem to even want a pain shot. It was as if drawing that line in the sand with him, firmly for once, was all the narcotic she needed.

She saw someone peeking in the door. George had a real evil grin on his leathery face. “Oh, Clare,” he said. “That’s the best entertainment your old dad has had in ages.”

So how did they get past that trauma of Jason overhearing? He skipped the night at his friend’s house and Clare took him with her to the Hilton in Lake Tahoe where they got a plush two-bedroom suite. She bought them bathing suits in one of the shops there, and ordered room service and a movie. They went swimming at midnight. She told him as much of the truth as she thought he could bear—but she could see it really didn’t get through his anger.

The real credit went to George, both for being there for Jason and somehow managing not to kill Roger. George explained to Jason that Roger was a screw-up when it came to flirting with women and had really disappointed and let down Clare. It was probably a good idea for them to separate, but what George wanted Jason to understand was that while Roger seemed to have this weakness, he had many strengths—he’d been a pretty good father and was proud of Jason. He cared about him and was suffering, terribly, because he’d disappointed his son. “So what? He should have thought of that before,” Jason had said.

“You’re right, he should have. But none of us is perfect, so let’s not throw stones. I know you’re all bent out of shape, and maybe I don’t blame you, but don’t nurse this too long, Jason. Your dad loves you, and you’re only as mad as you are because you love him.”

“You’re saying I should forgive him?”

“I’m saying I hope we get to that pretty soon, yes. Because whether you believe me or not, the two of you need each other.”

Clare topped that off by getting Jason in a counselor’s office, too. She intended to do all she could for him, feeling so damn awful about not bolting the door that traumatic night against his possible surprise return. What they finally came to learn was that once Jason knew his father had been unfaithful, he immediately felt that Roger had cheated on Jason, too. No wonder he was pissed.

Lying around in a hospital bed, Clare had plenty of time to think about her family, especially her sisters, her two best friends. Maybe they hadn’t been best friends growing up, but they were in adulthood. As Clare spent so many long hours of the day in pain, her sisters putting their own lives on hold to sit at her bedside, she was reminded constantly of how lucky she was to have them. She couldn’t get through this without them.

George and Fran McCarthy had three pretty green-eyed daughters. Maggie came first, Clare three years later, and then Sarah, the caboose, who was born six years after Clare. They couldn’t be more different if they had been born on different planets.

Maggie was a typical firstborn overachiever, who had excelled in high school and college and attended law school, graduating with honors. She married a lawyer and had two daughters who were now thirteen and fifteen; they were sometimes Jason’s closest friends, sometimes his bane. Hillary and Lindsey.

Maggie, age forty-two, lived in a perfect world and though she worked hard and put in long hours, her clothing was always chic, her shorter-than-short light brown hair impeccably cropped, her nails immaculate and there were never circles under her eyes. She had the wonderful high cheekbones that can carry off that coiffure and looked sexy as hell, except that she downplayed the sex appeal with conservative suits, tools of her trade in court. She had household help, of course, in that not-so-modest Breckenridge manse of hers, but even on Ramona’s days off, there was never a speck of dust or so much as a throw pillow out of place. Maggie was all about perfection and control. Yet she was loving—but in a very crisp and unflappable way. Nonsentimental. Maggie was the one to call if you needed something taken care of; if there was a problem to solve. If you were wallowing in self-pity or feeling fat or in love, forget Maggie. She had no time for petty self-indulgences.

And then there was Sarah, thirty-three. As a teen, Sarah had been in constant trouble. She lied to her parents, broke curfew, went to parties she was forbidden to attend, lost her virginity at fourteen and found school to be a gross inconvenience so she dropped out in her senior year and moved out of her parents’ house the second she turned eighteen. Sarah smoked, drank to excess, wore tight, provocative clothing, and when she did come home for family gatherings, she always managed to find a guy to bring along who looked like a member of a biker gang. Sarah knew her mom was hopelessly disappointed in her; Sarah and her mother had been locked in a bloody battle over Sarah’s wild and loose behavior since Sarah was fourteen. Then Fran fell ill and died without that being resolved and Sarah crumbled. She hit bottom and suffered through a frightening depression that required medical attention.

In therapy, Sarah discovered art. She eventually went back to school, got a degree in art and began to create and do some teaching. She painted, threw pots, sculpted and wove decorative rugs, throws and tapestries. A true gift emerged, and also a focus so intense she would become lost in her work. She opened a small studio that grew into an art supply shop where she also gave occasional classes to small groups of aspiring artists. With that avocation came not only renewed health but a disinterest in those bad habits and slutty clothes. She tossed off the contact lenses in preference for glasses so her eyes wouldn’t dry out if she was consumed by a project for hours and hours, chose clothes that were loose and comfortable to work in, had no time for makeup and pulled her hair back into a severe ponytail or bun. At thirty-three, still living with George, she had become dowdy and spinsterish.

Of the three daughters, Clare lived the most average life. She was a stay-at-home mom who did some volunteering and substitute teaching. She had become an excellent decorator, chef and homemaker. A terrific wife. For what good it had done.

Clare loved her sisters deeply. She was probably closer to Maggie, given that they were nearer in age and both tended to mother Sarah. Much to Sarah’s annoyance, they still worried about her and protected her whenever it seemed like what she needed.

It was only Maggie to whom Clare confided the events preceding her accident. In earlier times she had felt the need to explain reasons for her separation from Roger to her sisters and dad, though they were hardly surprised. They’d taken him for a hopeless philanderer long before Clare put a name to it. She hadn’t said anything about the night of the accident, however. She had already left Roger and her family patiently, hopefully, awaited the divorce. No need to drag him through any more mud and risk having the whole shoddy experience further damage Jason.

But when they had a moment alone in the room, she told Maggie.

“He said he was going to be out of town on business, so I went over to the house to grab a few kitchen things and leave him a birthday card I forced Jason to sign. I was actually feeling kind of sorry for him—alone on his birthday. I’d barely arrived, standing in the foyer, when I heard a sound from the bedroom. He was banging some blonde.”

Maggie surprised her by letting go a whoop of a laugh. “My God! How can one man be so predictable!” She leaned closer to the hospital bed. “Is that why you never saw the SUV coming? Your mind wandering back to the scene of the slime?”

“No, that’s just it,” she said. “Just a few minutes before the accident, I was pulled over for speeding. I didn’t get a ticket, but the officer followed me a little. I remember stopping at the red light and I remember it turning green. He was right behind me.”

“He must have seen the whole thing! That’s how the police got the witness report that she had blown the light!”

“Probably. I should thank him. But maybe if he’d let me speed…”

“Yeah, then maybe it would’ve been your fault.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Let me ask you something. Does Roger think he upset you enough so that you weren’t paying attention and got broadsided?”

She took a heavy breath. “I don’t know what Roger thinks and I don’t care. He’s great at acting guilty, but since his behavior never changes, it’s probably all crap.”

“Oh man,” Maggie said. “I think you’ve finally suffered enough.”

“We’re not going to tell anyone about that night.”

“Are you protecting poor Roger?”

“Hell, no. But I think Jason has enough on his plate.”

Maggie nodded resolutely. “Agreed. Time to let the kid heal.”

Clare had been in the hospital for over two weeks and the rains of March were giving way to the sunshine of April, which Clare could only view through a veil of pain. Within a week she would be released, though she would be on crutches for a while and back for physical therapy, probably lasting months.

Maggie let her know she’d be coming into money. She was using her attorney skills to negotiate with the offending driver’s insurance company for a settlement. “I’m not going to have to sue her, am I?” Clare asked.

“Not a chance,” Maggie assured her. “You’re badly hurt, a police report puts her in the wrong and believe me, they’re going to settle generously. I’ll see to that. You should have a nice nest egg—which is the least you deserve. The details will take time.”

Police report. She was reminded about finding and thanking the police officer who stopped her, though she wasn’t sure how to go about that. And then, late in the day after company had gone and the lights in the ward had begun to dim, he appeared in her doorway. It took her a moment to place him as his dark blue uniform had been replaced by a sweater and a pair of jeans. The absence of the bulletproof vest didn’t seem to diminish that broad chest, thick neck and strong shoulders. As she studied the young face that peeked in her doorway, it wasn’t until he flashed that winning grin that she realized who it was. “You!” she said.

He came into the room and pulled a bunch of flowers inside a cellophane wrap from behind his back. The kind you’d pick up at a convenience store. “Hi,” he said. “How are you doing?”

She struggled to lift herself in the bed. “I’m…Well, I’ve been better. But coming along. I was just thinking about you.”

“Well, that’s something. You’ve been on my mind, too.”

“About that night…I think I need to thank you. I was going to track you down, but I don’t know your name.”

“Sam,” he said. “Jankowski.” He glanced about the room. “Is there anywhere to put these? I’m such a dunce, I never thought about a vase….”

“Don’t worry. Just put them here,” she said, touching the tray table. “One of the nurses will bring an extra water jug later. So, thank you.”

“For…?”

“I don’t really know. For catching me speeding before I caused the accident. For not giving me a ticket when I deserved one. For—Were you the witness who said it wasn’t my fault?”

“What I saw was in my report. It was an awful wreck. I sure was relieved you made it.”

She giggled stupidly and then covered her mouth. “Sorry,” she said. “I might be a little loopy. I just had a pain shot.”

He stood right over her bed, where her sisters and Jason had all done so much time. But his presence seemed out of place.

“How much longer do you have to be in the hospital?” he asked.

“Actually, I’m going home in a few days. Depending on the doctor. And then I’ll have physical therapy for a long time. Probably months.”

“Jeez, good thing I stopped by. I didn’t want to miss you.”

“Thanks. But as you can see, even though I look like hell, I’m going to be fine. Eventually.”

“You look pretty good, as a matter of fact. Total recovery?”

“Probably. Ninety-five percent chance, as long as nothing weird happens.”

“Fantastic. Damn, that was lucky.”

“Well, depending on your perspective….”

“I mean, you could’ve been killed. Do you remember the accident?”

“Not a bit. Not a piece. I remember the light turning green. Otherwise, nothing.”

“Good.”

“I was unconscious….”

“Not the whole time,” he said. “You drifted in and out. Asked for someone named Jason.”

“My son.”

“And…Mike, I think.”

“Oh, God,” she said weakly.

“The husband?” he asked.

“No.” Could it be she was seeing Mike at that moment? At the accident and not later, in the hospital? Was time altogether different when visiting the other side? “Mike,” she repeated. “An old fiancé. Many years ago. Nineteen. He was in the Air Force and was killed in a plane crash.”

“Wow. He must be someone you think about all the time.”

“No. No, I don’t anymore. Years ago I did. I couldn’t seem to run him out of my mind, but then I married, had a child and…Listen, can I tell you something crazy? And you wouldn’t burst out laughing or tell anyone or anything?”

He shrugged. “If you want.”

“I saw him. Mike. Right before I woke up in the trauma center. I was in a foggy place with some light out there in the distance. And he came right out of the mist, said, ‘Hi, Clare,’ and then when I cried out to him and tried to reach for him, he said, ‘You have to go back. You have things to do. I’ll see you next time.’”

To his credit, his eyes didn’t take on that bug-eyed, shocked expression that said he thought she was nuts. Instead, he smiled. “I heard that sort of thing can happen.”

“Maybe I dreamed it,” she offered.

“Or maybe it happened,” he said. “I never rule anything out.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling back at him. “That’s nice of you to say.”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to be nice. Seriously, I’ve heard those stories. You never know, huh?”

“Yeah.”

They were quiet a moment, looking at each other. Then he cleared his throat. “Mmm. This is kind of awkward, but maybe after you get a little better, maybe we could meet for coffee.”

Dumbfounded, she stared at him, gape mouthed, until she realized she must look as if she’d just been hit in the back of the head with a two-by-four. “Coffee?”

“Whatever.” He shrugged. “How about you give me a phone number where I can reach you. At the very least, I’d like to check up on you, see how your recovery is going.”

Oh, that was it, she thought. Her features recovered. It wasn’t as if he was asking her out on a date. He was bonded to her by that accident, which probably shook him up. “God, forgive me,” she said. “It must be the drugs. I thought you were asking me out on a date.”

There was that smile again. Dazzling. “Just coffee. Something like a date could take as many as two coffees.” Then he laughed. And she laughed.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” he said. “And you’re thirty-nine.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve gotten really good at that driver’s license thing,” he said. “So, when you’re up to coffee?” She nodded. “How about that phone number?”

That was kind of cool, she thought. That fantasy, though brief, that this drop-dead gorgeous young guy was asking her out, even though she was feeling really old, not to mention greasy haired and makeupless. But, he didn’t really look all that young. He could even pass for thirty-two.

Thirty-two, Clare? she thought. Get over yourself. The guy wants to have coffee to assure himself that the banged-up heap they pulled out of a wreck was going to be fine. Just fine.

“Sure,” she said. “Got a pencil?”

The nurse stuck her head in. “Visiting hours are ending, sir,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. Then to Clare he said, “I thought about badging her so she’d let me stay longer, but I’m really not here on official business. And you probably need the rest.” He reached over to the bedside commode where the clipboard and pen sat. Then like a kid, felt-tip poised over the palm of his hand, he said, “Shoot.”

She gave him a number and added, “That’s a cell phone.”

“Good then. So, take it easy and I’ll be in touch.”

Clare nurtured that little fantasy about the younger man for a good twenty-four hours. Then when Maggie dropped by the next day it got wiped away by a bigger matter. “Oh, I keep forgetting to tell you—Pete Rayburn called me. He heard about the accident and wanted to know if you were all right.”

Clare instantly turned her head away, almost a reflex now. That discomfort, that shame. She wouldn’t want anyone to see it in her eyes.

Maggie touched her hair. “Does Mike’s death still hurt so much? Even after all these years?”

Clare looked back at her sister. “Sometimes at the strangest moment it will come back—a suggestion, a name, like Pete’s—and I remember how much it hurt then. You know?”

“Sure.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were going to be fine—but there would be some serious recovering to do and it could take months.”

“Good. And how is he?”

“You know, I didn’t even think to ask. But I assume he’s fine. Divorced a few years ago I heard, and still teaching and coaching. Do you ever see him or his parents?”

“I’ve run into him a few times,” she said. In fact, if there hadn’t been that terrible indiscretion, she might’ve spent a lot of time with the Rayburns, when they could have helped each other get through Mike’s death. “That was nice of him. To call.”

And that’s another thing to take care of, she thought. Put it on the to-do list. Get divorced, find a job and make a point of seeing Pete to put that whole business finally in the past. He probably needed it as much as she did.

Three

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.

Four

“Clare, I can barely hear you,” Maggie said into the phone.

“Because I’m in the closet,” Clare replied in a low voice.

“Did you say you’re in your closet? Get out of your closet! So I can hear you!”

“Just a minute. Just a minute, it isn’t that easy.” The closet in question was not a walk-in closet. It was a mere cubbyhole with a sliding door. But she had to talk to somebody, and it was imperative that Jason and Dotty not overhear.

Once out, behind the closed bedroom door, she realized she’d gone over the top by trying to hide. This was her cell phone so there was no extension and Jason was probably either watching TV or in his room with his stereo turned up.

Clare sat on her bed. Still, she kept her voice down. “Did you hear anything I said?” she asked Maggie.

“You said the police officer who was at the accident came to see you?” she repeated by way of a question.

“The young police officer. Very young. Twenty-nine.”

“Okay…?”

“He brought coffee. And…” She was momentarily speechless. She couldn’t go on. It sounded so ridiculous even in her mind, it was impossible to comprehend.

“Clare! What?”

“He asked me if I was sure he was just being thoughtful. Was I sure it wasn’t something more than that. Maggie, I think he’s pursuing me!”

“Well now,” Maggie said. “Any chance you might have sex again before you die?”

“Sex,” she said in a slow, shocked breath.

Maggie burst into laughter. “For God’s sake, Clare. You’re just coming into your prime! You could teach the boy a few things.” Silence answered her. “You haven’t forgotten how, have you?”

“How can you talk about sex?” Clare wanted to know.

“Well, usually if things go well, sex follows. Good luck to you.”

“Ugh. What I can’t figure out is—why would a handsome young man his age be interested in someone like me?”

“Is this a trick question?” Maggie asked. Silence again. “God, I hate that you don’t know things about yourself. Important things. You’re attractive. No, you’re beautiful. You’re fun, you’re sincere. You’re ridiculously tidy, patient and wise.”

“Tidy, patient and wise?” she asked, laughing suddenly. “Yeah, I’m sure this good-looking young buck has been searching high and low for a woman who’s tidy! Besides, I’m not wise—I’ve made some of the dumbest choices for a woman my age.” She thought for a second and said, “I am tidy, though.”

“He probably just liked your face and body—the rest will come. Tell me about him. What’s he like?”

“He’s nice,” she said. “Very conscientious. It seems that he got his girlfriend pregnant when he was just a kid—eighteen years old. And rather than go along with an adoption, he fought for custody. He’s raising his ten-year-old daughter with the help of his mother. How many guys do that?”

“This the first time you’ve heard from him since the accident?”

“I didn’t tell you? He came to the hospital right before I was discharged. He brought flowers. Then he called me. He’s called me a few times. But I thought he was interested in my recovery. I thought he felt bonded to me because he saw the crash, then saw my wrecked body. I guess I thought that it was natural for someone like him to want to see how everything turned out.”

“Clare, you’re hopeless.”

“Well, how was I to know?”

“Do you like him?”

“I don’t know. I mean, sure, I like him fine. I never thought of him in that…that way.”

“And handsome?”

“Oh Maggie, he’s the kind of handsome that would knock you out of your shoes. He has a dimpled smile that can make you wet yourself.”

“Jesus, Clare…”

“What?”

“What a lousy time to have a cracked pelvis!”

“This is simply ridiculous,” Clare said, matter-of-fact.

“Aw, have some fun. How many times does something like this come along?”

“I’ll think about fun later—when I have my life straight.”

“You are such a drag,” Maggie laughed. “I’d have been all over that. Even with a crack in my pelvis!”

Clare welcomed the distraction of settling into her old house, sans Roger. He’d found an apartment in a luxury complex complete with pools and gym where he could no doubt meet many lovely single women. By mid-June, Clare had moved home. Well, it wasn’t as though she moved. She merely walked into the house. Jason, George, Sarah and her brother-in-law toted all their things.

To her great relief, the house seemed to welcome her. But then she didn’t go upstairs to the scene of the crime. She stayed downstairs and if there was anything she needed, Jason fetched it.

Summer in Breckenridge was glorious. The flowers were full, the fields were green and there was still a little snow on the highest peaks. The haze of pain had lifted and Clare could appreciate the beauty of her town, her mountains. Ordinarily she would have taken care of the yard and garden, but she was forced to hire a landscaping service. So when they were there she pestered them, making sure everything was done to her satisfaction. It was such a relief to be outdoors again after that long, wet and painful spring.

Roger called all the time, sweet depression dripping from his voice. He surprised her by stopping by a couple of times, but while she was civil, she wouldn’t let him stay long. She didn’t want him to get too comfortable. He was filled with offers of help, begging to see her more often if only to be sure she was getting better. Something about seeing her limp a little must have worked on his conscience. He sent her generous checks very regularly, something she’d had to ask him for during past separations. And flowers—she hated when he sent her flowers! She could almost smell him, he was getting so close. So, she had the locks changed.

By the end of July she was hardly ever using the crutches, though she still had occasional pain. She could manage the stairs and the laundry, though she couldn’t carry things up and down. There was a little complication with transportation—she didn’t have a car anymore, and her little secret was that if she did have a car, she’d be terrified to drive it. But there were plenty of people from her dad to her sisters who would happily take her wherever she wanted or needed to go. She was still seeing the physical terrorist twice a week.

She had Jason bring her the paperwork stowed in her upstairs desk, including her records of all the schools in Breckenridge—not so very many, where she had done substitute teaching. She spruced up her résumé and got started.

Clare hadn’t held a full-time teaching job since before Jason was born, only filling in from time to time. And you don’t need the greatest teaching skills to do that. In fact the only real requirement is a whip and a chair; the little heathens gave the sub their absolute worst. She had faced each one of those days with anxiety and dread, but knew the wisdom of keeping her hand in. Not to mention a little money now and then that was entirely her own.

The nice thing about having kept her face in the school district of a small town, was she was known and liked. There were two job offers almost immediately. Both were in the English department, one in middle school—eighth grade, and the other high school, though she had been hoping for younger kids. She was tempted to take the middle-school job just to avoid running into Pete Rayburn who taught and coached at Centennial High, but Jason had turned fifteen over the summer and was starting high school in the fall, so running into Pete was going to happen, no matter what she did.

And…she had made that promise to herself, that she was going to seek Pete out and see if she could mend those embarrassing fences. After all, it had been nineteen long years. And they were grown-ups now.

She took the fifteen-year-olds and thought of all the advantages of being in school with her son every day.

“Aw, man, I’m gonna want to die!”

Jason did not.

In August Clare went up those stairs and looked into the master bedroom. She had always loved that room, but now all she saw was a blond stranger bouncing atop her unfaithful husband. So she called the consignment shop to come and take the furniture away and then called a local decorator. Ordinarily she would have done all the work herself. Growing up the daughter of a hardware store owner had many advantages and she was a master at everything from wallpaper and paint, to crown molding. But even if she felt one hundred percent most days, she knew the logic of not pushing her luck.

Just a couple of weeks later when she went back into the bedroom everything was changed, from the sheets to the window treatments. It was entirely new, without a trace of Roger’s infidelities.

She gathered materials from her new employer and set about the task of preparing lesson plans for the year ahead, and as she did so she began to fantasize about doing any other kind of job than teaching. Why hadn’t she become an architect? A nurse? Been a business major? How could she face one hundred and twenty fifteen-year-olds a day? One hundred and twenty Jasons and Jasonettes?

But surely they would be more tame if she was the regular teacher and not the sub….

She had all but forgotten about her flirty younger man. From his few calls over summer, he was all cooled down. She reminded him a couple of times about how sore her pelvis was and he moved back into his assigned slot as the local cop who was only concerned about how she was feeling, how her recovery was going. She did have one small handicap—she happened to enjoy talking to him.

And when he called she found herself eager to regale him with tales of her hectic days; of redecorating, job interviewing, shopping for work clothes, getting Jason ready for school, sidestepping Roger and working on study plans for her new job. She hadn’t seen him all summer, since the day last June when he showed up with coffee. Five months had passed since the accident and she was nearly back on her feet. Only a little annoying soreness remained—she was ready to go back to work and get on with her life. Then one day Sam called and said, “You know, it’s been weeks since I’ve seen you, and I bet you’re just about fully recovered.”

“I just about am,” she said, surprisingly glad to hear his voice. “Feeling really great, as a matter of fact. Have you had a good summer?”

“I stay pretty busy when Molly’s out of school—and we had a nice long vacation in July. Got a cabin on the North Shore of the lake and really relaxed.”

“Your mom went along?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said.

Clare surprised herself by thinking, then he wouldn’t have taken a woman along. But she banished the thought as a ridiculous regression into dangerous fantasies. “It must have been fun,” she said. And then the doorbell rang and she said, “Damn it. Can you hold on one second? Someone’s at the door.” Carrying the phone with her, she opened it and there he stood, not in uniform this time but in jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt that happened to show off his tanned and muscled arms. She gulped at his physique and kept herself from sighing at his hard good looks. “This is a cute trick you have,” she said, clicking off her phone.

“I know,” he said, treating her to that incredible smile.

“So, besides being very funny, what are you doing here?”

“On a mission,” he said with a shrug. “Got a few minutes?”

“Actually, I’m right in the middle of…of…”

“Come on, I’m not going to kidnap you. Or maybe I should. You probably couldn’t put up much of a fight.” He dangled car keys in front of her. “I bought a new car. Wanna see?”

“Sure,” she said amiably. How typical of a young guy, she thought. Car proud. There in her drive sat a Lexus SUV, a lovely deep blue color. “Wow,” she said. “Breckenridge is paying cops pretty well these days.”

“We get by. How about a spin?”

“Well, just a short one. I really am in the middle of something.” But she was in the middle of absolutely nothing and Jason was out running around with his friends. She moved toward the passenger door and he said, “Clare.”

She turned. “Hmm?”

He dangled the keys. “You drive.”

“Oh! Oh, no, I couldn’t! It’s your brand-new car.”

“I’d like to see how it feels in the passenger seat.”

Her heart began to pound and her palms started to sweat. “No, really. I can’t. I don’t think I’m up to it.”

He met her by the passenger door, slipped an arm around her waist and led her firmly to the other side of the car. “You haven’t been on this horse in a while, Clare. I haven’t missed that in all your running around, you’ve always had someone driving you. You start work pretty soon and you’re putting this off. If you’re scared, let’s get it over with.”

She tried to wiggle free, but he held her waist. “I can’t,” she said weakly. “I’m not ready.”

“You’ll never get ready this way,” he said. He opened the door and that new-car smell of polish and leather wafted out. “Take your time, but get in. Let’s just do it. It’ll be fine.”

“It’s been so long.”

“I know. I don’t think you should make it any longer.”

“Really…” she attempted, pleadingly.

“Just around the block then,” he said. “But it’s time. You need a car and you have to drive.”

Reluctantly, she slid in. Her dad had tried something like this a few weeks ago, but he’d let her off easy. Maggie had talked about it, her driving again, but talk she could handle. She swore to Maggie she wasn’t phobic about it—she just wanted to pick out a nice car when her insurance settlement from the accident came in, and that would be that. But the truth was that Clare didn’t need to wait to buy a car. She had plenty of money—both savings from her life with Roger along with the stipends he sent, not to mention her future salary from the teaching position. She could qualify for a car loan, no problem.

She sat behind the wheel while Sam got in the other side. She placed her hands on the steering wheel, massaging the leather cover. He waited a moment, then when she didn’t move he reached across her and fastened her seat belt. “How’s it feel?”

“It’s very nice,” she said. “I’d like to just sit here for a while.”

He gave that about ten seconds, then he turned the key and started the engine. “Very uncomplicated car, Clare. Just put it in reverse, back out and take her around the block. You can do it. Simple.”

“I can do that,” she said. And in her head she said, I can do it, I can do it, I can do it. I’d just rather not.

One thing she knew for sure—this was going to have to happen sometime, and for whatever reason she was glad it was happening with Sam and not George or Maggie or even, God forbid, Roger. So she put the car in reverse and with her foot on the brake, adjusted the rearview mirror. She went slowly down the drive, changed gears and headed down the street. She signaled at the corner, made a right turn, signaled at the next corner for another right, and repeated the process a third time. She licked her lips, swallowed several times and gripped the wheel hard, so that it wouldn’t fly away.

“How’s that feel?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Are you supposed to sweat this much?”

“Well, I do. But I think it has something to do with the payments.” He chuckled.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.