Is that even a word?
It wasn’t in her notes but she seems to recall that Mr. Kershaw used it. Or something like it.
Whatever. It sounds good, and now Bobby the cop is looking at her with more interest than suspicion.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
She hesitates only slightly. “Clara Becker.”
She’d considered saying Doctor Clara Becker to sound more official, but you don’t lie to a cop about something like that.
No, only about the rest of it.
Ignoring a flicker of guilt, she hurries on, channeling Mr. Kershaw, “According to an August 1984 report in the Bulletin of the Seismological Society of America, forty-four percent of the—the, uh, strike-slip earthquakes in the San Andreas system were preceded by immediate foreshocks defined as having occurred within three days and ten kilometers of the main shock.”
He frowns. “But that doesn’t mean—”
“Following the Bayer theorem—” Which might very well have been the Bayes’ theorem; she couldn’t read her handwriting there—“the conditional probability that the Christmas Day quake was merely a foreshock to a catastrophic quake is very high.”
“How high?”
“Very high,” she repeats.
She can tell he isn’t sure whether to be dubious or concerned.
Feeling desperate, she forges ahead. “Officer, I’ve been studying the activity along the fault for the past few days using my official uh, paleoseism—ologic—” Paleoseismologic? Paleoseismic? “—equipment, and I’m telling you, an earthquake is imminent.”
He shakes his head.
Maybe it was paleoseismic.
But how the heck would he know?
“Look, I’m sure the work you’re doing is groundbreaking—” He breaks off to grin delightedly. “Ha. Groundbreaking. Get it?”
She gets it.
And obviously, he doesn’t get it at all.
“Please, Officer Shelton, you have to evacuate the town. If I’m wrong, then I’m wrong. But if I’m right, then . . .”
“Then you can tell me I told you so,” he says, setting the clipboard aside, its page still blank. “How’s that?”
“That’s not good. That’s terrible!” Tears spring to her eyes. “You’re joking around and thinking I’m crazy and I’m telling you—”
“Listen, Ms.—Becker is it?” At her nod, he continues, “Believe me, I don’t think you’re crazy, and I don’t take earthquakes lightly. But no one knows how to predict them—that’s in the news all the time. I just saw it in the paper yesterday, after that last quake—an article about how scientists are looking for a breakthrough, and they need more funding, and yada yada yada.”
“But—I am a scientist, and I made a breakthrough, and we’re all in danger right here, right now. Today.”
He’s silent for a long moment, looking at her. Then, steepling his hands in front of his mouth, he says, “You’re talking about a large-scale evacuation. Do you know how complicated that is? I can’t just decide to do it—it’s not even up to me.”
“But can’t you talk to whoever does decide, and tell them they have to evacuate—”
“For no apparent reason. Look, you don’t go up and down the streets with a bullhorn saying, ‘Something might happen, so everyone leave.’”
“Something is going to happen.”
He shrugs. “I used to work down in Florida, before I moved here. We’d get hurricane warnings. Not watches. Warnings. Based on the kind of science that’s actually proven.”
“But this is proven, too. I told you, according to that article published in—”
“Look, that doesn’t even matter. I’d still have to get an official evacuation order from the local government. That’s how it works. That’s how it worked down in Florida, too. And when they finally told us to order people to evacuate, believe me, that didn’t happen instantaneously. Sometimes, it didn’t happen at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’d tell people to go, and they’d refuse. They didn’t believe the forecast, or they didn’t want to be bothered, whatever. So they’d stay to ride out the storm.”
“But this isn’t a storm.”
“I know. Look, I’m sorry. I hope you’re wrong about a quake. I really do. But my hands are tied.”
She stares bleakly at him for a long moment.
“All right. I understand,” she tells him heavily. “But if you can’t evacuate the town, you can at least make sure that your own family gets out of here. Please.”
He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say about that.”
“Say ‘I’ll do it.’ And then someday, say, ‘thank you, Clara, for saving their lives.’”
Without another word, she turns and walks out.
In the east, the miasma of gray mist is just barely tinted with a glow of pinkish-orange.
The fog will lift soon, and the sun will be up, and the sky will turn blue.
Any other day, the forecast would bring promise. Today, it brings only a devastating threat.
Clara gets into the car, starts the engine.
As she drives the deserted streets through lamplit mist, she takes one last look at San Fernandina, wanting to remember it the way it is.
Nothing will ever be the same here.
But nothing ever stays the same anywhere, does it? Regardless of war, or acts of God.
The New York City and Glenhaven Park she visited in 1941 bore little resemblance to their present-day counterparts. Time marches on. The landscape is little more than an ever-changing backdrop for the real drama. People are born, they live their lives, they die.
And everything changes, yet nothing ever does.
Wiping tears from her eyes, Clara heads toward home, fighting the urge to take one last look over her shoulder.
It’s time to move on.
Time to tell Drew the rest of the story.
He’ll believe her now, after everything else.
The two of them will leave right away, and go someplace where it’s safe.
Someplace where they can ride out the storm.
The sky is just getting light when she reaches her own driveway—light enough for her to see that the spot where Drew’s car was parked is empty.
Dread overtakes her.
She bolts for the front door, finds it locked, realizes she left the keys in the car and the car running.
Hurriedly, she turns it off, returns to the door, unlocks it, and bursts into the house.
“Drew? Drew! Where are you?”
No answer from her husband, but somewhere in the back of the house, Dickens barks.
Still calling for Drew, she rushes to the kitchen to see that the puppy is in his crate.
“Where did he go?”
Dickens just looks at her helplessly through the wire.
“Okay, okay, come on out of there.” She opens the cage for him and he trots out.
Turning away, she spots a note on the counter. Snatching it up, she reads:
Good morning. I hope you satisfied that craving. I woke up when you left, couldn’t go back to sleep, so I went to the office. I’ll call you later. Have a great day.
Love, Y.H.
A great day.
Oh, Drew.
She grabs the phone, dials his cell.
Half-expecting it to go into voice mail, she’s surprised when he picks up on the first ring.
“Hey, there you are. So was it pickles and ice cream, or something more—”
“Drew, listen to me. You have to come home right now.”
“What’s wrong? Are you cramping or bleeding or—”
“No!” So much for the man who promised her everything will be fine.
He’s as worried as I am, she realizes. He just won’t admit it. He thinks he always has to be the strong one.
And her stomach—it really is hurting. She’s certain the anxiety isn’t helping, but—what if it’s not jus
t that?
She forces the thought from her mind. One thing at a time. “Drew, listen to me. When we were talking yesterday, I said there was something else I had to tell you. I—”
“Clara, you said yesterday that this is not the kind of thing we should be talking about with me behind the wheel. I shouldn’t even be on the phone. There’s a lot of fog, and—”
“I know, be careful. Just turn around and come home. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“I know you have more to say, and of course I want to hear it, but right now, I just have to get myself to work and get through the day without thinking about any of that.”
Work.
In San Francisco.
Suddenly, it dawns on her: he’ll be safe down there.
There’s no need for her to worry about him for the time being. She already knows he’s going to survive.
And so am I. Dickens, too. And the house.
Everything is going to be okay. Drew was right.
“You’re right—I shouldn’t be bothering you with this now. You go ahead to work.”
“Okay. We’ll talk tonight.”
Tonight. Yes. The quake will be behind them.
“I love you,” he says.
Her own voice thick with emotion, she says, “I love you, too.”
She hangs up the phone, takes a deep breath to compose herself, and nods, her mind made up.
She’s got to get out of here, right away.
She’ll take the dog, and she’ll go . . .
Where?
San Francisco, maybe. She can go to her mother-in-law’s, or Drew’s office, or . . . wherever. It doesn’t matter, as long as she’s far from here when the quake hits.
A glance at the window confirms that daybreak has arrived. There’s not a moment to lose.
“Come on, Dickens,” she calls, her thoughts on what she’ll need to take with her. It might be a while before they can get back to the house with all the damage to the surrounding area.
Her gut twists at the thought of it, but she can’t let herself get distracted now. The immediate future is about self-preservation. It has to be.
“Dickens!” she calls again, stripping off the jacket she threw on earlier to go down to the police station. She’d better bring a warm coat instead, and gloves—for herself and for Drew. A couple of changes of clothing would be a good idea.
She’d better go up and pack a bag.
She’s halfway to the stairs when she spots the front door standing wide open, keys in the lock.
What the . . . ?
Remembering the way she’d left the car running when she’d first arrived, she realizes she must not have bothered to close the door behind her, either.
As she reaches for the knob, she flashes back—forward—to Christmas morning 2012, when a big black dog cannonballed from the shrub border and into the house.
To think she wasn’t even sure whether it was him.
What other dog would—
Oh, no.
Hand poised on the doorknob, it occurs to her that if he could run into the house through an open door—then he could just as easily run out. Especially as a frisky new puppy who’s been locked in a crate for hours.
“Dickens?” she calls again, her heart sinking. “Dickens, come back here right now!”
The world beyond her doorstep is still. And beyond the tree line, through the lingering mist, the sun is rising.
Chapter Twenty-four
She should have told me.
She should have told me.
Drew presses his foot harder on the gas pedal, as if speed will somehow allow him to escape the refrain that’s haunted his every waking hour since yesterday. It was all he could do not to blurt it into the phone when she called him just now. Somehow, he held his tongue. Now is not the time or place to get into all that with her. Now is not the time for her to tell him whatever else she has to say about the crazy situation when she managed to keep it to herself for all these years.
She should have told me.
But she did, he reminds himself. She told you yesterday.
Well, she could have—she should have—done it sooner.
Three years. For three years, she kept it from him. How could she?
I’m so afraid you’re not going to believe me, Drew. . . .
Everyone has secrets. Secrets they’re afraid to reveal—even to their spouse.
Especially to their spouse.
Who are you to question her? You have secrets of your own. You were afraid to tell her about the visions, and the voices. You were afraid she’d think you were going crazy. You were afraid . . . just like Clara.
Okay. So maybe he shouldn’t have left in such a hurry this morning. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so short with her on the phone just now. What if she thinks he’s . . .
Running away?
He shakes his head, disgusted with himself.
Coward.
After all they’ve been through together, he can’t deal with this?
Of course you can deal, he reminds himself defensively. It’s not like you’re leaving. You’re just going to work. You just need some space.
It’s fine.
She asked him to come home, though. She wanted to discuss it further.
He refused. He said he has to get to work.
Well, he does. She probably won’t think anything of it.
But he’ll know. He’ll always know that there was more to it than that.
And maybe she will, too, later. Later, when he comes home and tries to pretend, same as always, that he can handle everything without missing a beat. That he’s strong enough to take anything life throws at him without flinching.
Isn’t that what marriage means, though? Dealing with whatever comes your way, good or bad, believing in happily ever after no matter what?
Yes. For better and for worse.
When it comes to worse, he and Clara have certainly been there and back more times than he cares to remember. Cancer, unemployment, a move, unemployment again, financial struggles . . .
So a little thing like finding out that you knew your wife in another lifetime—to which she time traveled—is the thing that’s going to push you over the edge? After cancer, for God’s sake?
Come on, Drew. Buck up, man.
All right—so maybe he should call her right now and tell her . . . what? That he loves her?
She knows that. He just said it.
He can say that he’s sorry he made himself scarce in the aftermath of her revelation. He can say that they’ll talk more about it later, tonight.
He starts to reach for his cell phone, then glances at the dashboard clock, hesitating. It’s still early.
She wants to talk to him. See him.
And she will . . . tonight.
Right now, you need to get into the work mode.
But the truth is, he doesn’t have to be at the office just yet. There’s time, if he hurries, to go back home to San Florentina and see Clara. Hear the rest of the story. Maybe even admit that he’s shaken up by all of this—and really, who wouldn’t be?
Yet . . .
In the grand scheme of better and worse . . . who’s to say this new development won’t fall into the better category?
After all, he knows now that he and Clara were meant to be together no matter what. Soul mates. Nothing ever came between them—not even death. And nothing ever will.
Drew makes a U-turn, heading back home.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Dickens!” Clara shouts, carefully picking her way over the steep terrain of the hillside alongside their house, the ache in her stomach growing worse. “Dickens, where are you?”
She’s been outside searching for a good fifteen minutes, around the house, down by the road, and now up here. There’s been no sign of the dog.
How can she leave without him?
How can she not?
The day has grown brighter by the minute, the sun burning through the last film of fog
.
She already knows that Dickens is going to survive, no matter what. Maybe he’s better off out here. Maybe his animal instincts made him seek out a safe place and she should just leave him be.
“Clara!”
Hearing a shout, she turns to spot Jeff Tucker on the hillside. He’s wearing boots, jeans, a thick canvas jacket. Swap out the Oakland A’s cap for a cowboy hat and he could’ve stepped off the set of a Western.
He looks so rugged and vibrant, standing there in a patch of sun streaming down through the trees. With a stab of sorrow, Clara wants to warn him to be careful.
She doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him, or when or where it’s going to happen, but she remembers the look in his daughter’s eyes when she thought Clara had asked about him. She remembers Amelia saying that her mom couldn’t bear to spend Christmas day in their house.
“You’re looking for the puppy, right?” Jeff asks.
She nods, dragging her thoughts back to the present. “He ran out the door when I wasn’t looking. Have you seen him?”
“Nope—are you okay?” he asks, seeing her wince and touch her stomach.
“I’m fine, just—” Pregnant. But he doesn’t know that. “I don’t know, maybe it’s something I ate.”
“Listen, I can help you look for the dog for a few minutes, but we’re getting ready to hit the road.”
“Where are you going?”
“Tahoe.”
“That’s nice,” she says in relief. So he’s getting out of town. Maybe she was wrong about something happening to him—in the quake, anyway.
“Nice?” he snorts. “This is Nancy’s idea, not mine. I’d just as soon stay home. Lugging three kids and carload of stuff up into the mountains in the snow isn’t my idea of a great way to spend vacation. I don’t even ski. But my wife does and, anyway, I’m not the boss.”
Caught off guard by his candid admission, Clara doesn’t know what to say.
Before she can think of something, a female shout echoes over the hillside.
“That’s Nancy.”
“Go ahead. I know you have to go.”
“I can help you for a bit.”
“No, really—I’m fine. Just go ahead, get on the road.” And hurry!
“I guess I’d better.” He turns back toward his property.
The Best Gift Page 17
