by Robyn Carr
“You know, I don’t care if you’re divorced or not.”
“Oh? Don’t you?” she asked teasingly.
“You’ve lived apart for a long time. If he hasn’t gotten the message by now, he’s really dense.”
“He’s really dense,” she assured him.
“We need to go out. You know—on a date. You’re wearing me out. And I’m going broke on sprinkler heads.”
“Be patient,” she said, but she said it very sweetly. “You’re very handsome in that uniform, you know.”
He tilted his head and his eyes glittered. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Maybe a little. Just to see how it feels. I’ve been wondering if I’ve forgotten how.” The door chime tinkled as it opened and Jeffries came into the store, his thumbs hooked into his gun belt as he looked around. He zeroed in on a young cashier—a sexy young thing all of sixteen with a belly button ring under her McCarthy’s apron. “Is he swaggering?” Clare asked.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” Sam swore. “My brick.”
“Your—?”
“My load. My pain in the ass. My cadet.” He took a breath. “How about those sprinkler heads. And a kiss.”
“No kissing!” she whispered. “This is my father’s store!”
“You know, you confuse me to death. You’re all worried about how old you are, then all of a sudden you’re fifteen.”
“Yeah, well, my father does that to me sometimes.” She went to the box full of sprinkler heads; he followed. She grabbed a few. “Four?”
“Two. I’ll just go home, break ’em and come back.”
“And how many nails?”
“Forget the nails—I have to get Jeffries out of here before he commits a felony. And can I call tonight?”
She nodded. “My cell,” she said quietly.
“Of course. We wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re getting phone calls from a guy!” Then he grinned. “Later, gorgeous.”
He went to the cashier that Jeffries was trying to impress. He put two dollars on the counter. “I don’t need a bag,” he said. “Come on, Jeffries.” The younger man continued to talk to the girl. When Sam got to the door he turned to see Jeffries backing away from a giggling teenage girl, but doing so too slowly. “Jeffries!”
He turned. “Yeah, man. Take it easy.”
When they were back in the squad car Sam said, “You know, Jeffries, that girl is too young for you to be fooling around with.”
“I was just talking to her.”
“Get her number?”
“No!” he protested. Then he turned and grinned at Sam. “But hey, I know where she works.”
“She’s too young. The sergeant wouldn’t like it.”
“Don’t tell him, then. And I won’t tell anyone that you’re all hot for a woman with a tool belt.”
Sam gave him a glare that should have told Jeffries he’d had about enough. But he was too green and goofy and just grinned. “Nice ass, though,” Jeffries said.
Sam hit him in the chest, in the vest, with a balled-up fist. “Behave yourself.” But he thought, yeah, it really, really is.
There was truly nothing to compare to fall in Breckenridge. The September air turned crisp and the trees in the valley began to change color and soon would burst into flamelike breathtaking color right up the sides of the Sierra Nevadas. It was Clare’s favorite season. She also loved spring, when the new green growth and brightly colored flowers decorated the valley, which this year she had missed almost entirely; the accident happened in the wet drizzle of late winter and the next three months were a blur of pain and pain medication while during the summer she slowly came out of her cocoon of misery. But now, in fall, she felt reborn. Vital. And for the first time in forever, she had a goal.
Things fell into place rather neatly. She left the house right after Jason in the morning and was home by six. She wasn’t on the clock, so if she had errands or shopping, she could dash out of the store when things were slow. Whenever she was running around town, she found herself glancing at the For Sale signs in front of houses that looked as though they could use work. Her plan almost seemed meant to be.
Maggie called almost every morning before work, usually from her car while Clare was just getting ready to go to the store. “I’ll be getting that check soon. You’re going to be coming into a large amount of money and we should talk about your future,” she said one morning.
“I’m trying to live my future,” Clare said.
“I mean investments. Retirement. A portfolio. And maybe something more permanent than working in a hardware store for your father.”
“There isn’t anything more permanent than that store, Maggie. It got three of us through braces and college, not to mention two ostentatious weddings.”
“But it’s just the hardware store. God, I remember when he made me work there and how much I hated it….”
“I’m thinking about buying a fixer-upper and doing some remodeling, too.”
“Before you do anything like that…”
Clare picked up yesterday’s pile of mail from the countertop and began leafing through it while Maggie droned on and on in her ear. She heard things like estate planning, bonds, mutual funds. She stared at the envelope in her hand—from Centennial High School where she had so briefly taught.
She opened it and as she read, stopped hearing Maggie. It was from Ms. Elizabeth Brown. She was filing a complaint against her for breach of contract and while the district considered further action, wanted immediate restitution for the training days the school district had paid for Clare to take.
“Further action?” she said aloud.
“What?” Maggie asked.
“Uh. I’m sorry, Maggie. I have to go. Need to make a couple of phone calls.” And she hung up without a goodbye.
So that’s how it was going to be—Ms. Brown was pissed. She was going to come after Clare.
Clare called Mrs. Donaldson, the principal who had originally hired her. She heard exactly what she expected—there were plenty of experienced teacher applicants in the district and her abrupt departure following more than one potentially dangerous episode with students was not something the district would ordinarily pursue. The amount of money invested in Clare for a few days of training was minimal and she was not paid once she walked out. It appeared, unsurprisingly, to be a vendetta.
“I don’t know what her heartburn is, Clare. If it were me, I might’ve tried to get you to reconsider, but I wouldn’t have gone this route.”
But Clare wasn’t perplexed. This was more about Roger than Clare. And she’d be happy to hand over Roger.
Her next call was to that fine fellow. She’d been avoiding him long enough. It was time for a frank talk. She asked him if he would meet her for lunch and he was disgustingly elated.
She chose for their meeting a small, quiet, dark Italian restaurant and she set the time at 2:00 p.m. when it would be less crowded. When she arrived he was already there—seated in a corner booth, a long-stemmed rose lying across her plate.
She stood just inside the door and looked at him. A wave of nostalgia came over her at the sight of that floppy blond hair, tanned cheeks, toothy smile. Sometimes it seemed like just yesterday that she felt he’d saved her life. When he plucked her out of the gloom and brightened everything, giving her a reason to live, titillating her with his smooth moves and humor and charm. She had fallen so completely in love with him, right at a time when she thought she’d never be visited by that emotion again. Had that been love, or gratitude? It didn’t matter—it had been powerful enough to motivate her to marry him and get instantly pregnant. After all her grief and pain, she had never felt more alive, more desired.
He had made her so happy. She remembered walking into restaurants with him and seeing the stares of envy on the faces of other women—it was a little like winning the lottery. Then when her mother died after a brief and terrible illness, it was Roger who had really been there, holding her through what seemed like long
months of tears and she wondered how she would ever have made it without him.
Then she remembered the odd phone calls, the hang-ups. The late nights and missed dinners and unrecognizable scent on his clothes. She hadn’t wanted that to be happening, but had known it was. And she had been so devastated.
She hadn’t left him after the first affair, but more like the third. That she knew of.
As he noticed her arrival, he stood. She stopped reminiscing and walked to the booth, a little hint of tears in her eyes. Clare let him kiss her cheek, briefly, and slid into the booth opposite him. As she sat, she moved the rose onto his plate. “Clare…” he said in disappointment.
She wasn’t going to let him do this to her anymore. The trust had gone years ago, and so must the marriage go.
“Sit down, Roger. This isn’t a reconciliation lunch and I want the flowers to stop. We have a few things to discuss.”
“Good God, Clare, what more can I do?”
“That’s just the point, Roger. There’s nothing you can do so stop doing it. Save your money.” She handed him the envelope addressed to her. “Tell me if you think you can do anything about this.”
As he opened it, the waiter was at their table. “Cabernet,” he said. And pointing to Clare said, “Chardonnay.”
She didn’t argue, but had already decided she wouldn’t drink her lunch with him. She was going to keep her head. “Water,” she added. “And you can just bring the antipasto for two and bread.”
The waiter nodded and disappeared. Roger read. It wasn’t a long letter, but apparently it took him some time to absorb. Then he looked over the page and asked, “What do you want me to do? Pay it for you?”
“Don’t you recognize the name?” She held her tongue to stop from adding, you moron.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
She leaned toward him and kept her voice low. “Roger, that’s the woman I found you in bed with on your fortieth birthday. She’s the principal at the high school. She threatened me when I quit. She hates me devotedly, and I assume it has something to do with you.”
He handed her the letter. “I haven’t seen her in ages. If she hates you, I doubt it has anything to do with me. Besides, Clare—you know you don’t have to work. I’m taking care of everything.”
She leaned back in her chair and chose to ignore his last statement. “I did a little checking. Although Ms. Brown is one tough cookie, this is unprecedented. The former principal, the woman who hired me before her promotion, said this sort of thing is never done. I think it’s a vendetta of some kind. I bet Ms. Brown thinks you dumped her for me.”
“It’s only two hundred and eighty dollars. It’s the last you’ll ever hear from her. Make it go away,” he said. He accepted wine from the waiter.
When they were once again alone Clare said, “Our son goes to that school, Roger, and if Ms. Brown has some idea that you broke off your little romance with her to get back together with me, she might extend her harassment to Jason. Or,” she said with a shiver, “she might try sucking up to Jason to get your attention. I don’t know which is worse. She needs to be put in her place. Here’s what I’d like you to do,” she said, spelling it out for him. “Go see her, preferably at the school and not at a bar or restaurant. Tell her that there is no possible way we’re ever getting back together and if you’ve stopped seeing her it has nothing to do with your family.”
“But it does!” he protested. “That night, the accident, everything that happened, God almighty, Clare, I’ve changed!”
“Roger,” she said, leaning toward him, “I don’t care. Don’t you understand? It’s too late. That’s what I want you to tell her. Ask her to tear up the letter, unfile the complaint or whatever it is, and if she refuses, write her a check.”
“Why? Clare, I really don’t understand you….”
“Because, Roger, I simply don’t believe she’d be doing this if she didn’t think I’ve taken you away from her. Because, Roger, I believe you brought this on me. I could write the check—it’s not that. In fact, if you insist, I’ll reimburse you. But I think this is your mess, not mine.”
He sighed heavily. “Whatever,” he said, lifting his glass. He took a gulp. “I haven’t even seen her in a long time,” he repeated.
“Has she called you from time to time?”
He waved his hand impatiently. “That’s totally irrelevant,” he said.
“You’ve seen her since that night,” she said, just realizing it must be true.
“Not lately,” he said.
But for Roger, not lately could be as recently as last week. “God,” she said. “She’s pissed. She wants you back.”
“I’ll talk to her. Get her to back off. If that’s what it takes.”
“If that’s what it—? Oh, God,” she said, resting her face in her hand. She shook her head in frustration. It was her own fault—this was so long overdue. But there was that little matter of being nearly killed.
The appetizer and bread arrived at that moment and Roger ordered another glass of wine, though his first was not yet empty. As the waiter left and she looked at the delicious antipasto, she found she had no appetite. She didn’t touch it. She did, however and against better judgment, lift the glass of Chardonnay to her lips and take a sip. She thought it might quiet the homicidal urge she was feeling. “Okay, Roger, it’s time to talk about our divorce. Do you want to use lawyers or just do it ourselves? Because I can ask Maggie to help me with a settlement agreement and draw up the paperwork.”
“I don’t want a divorce. I want another chance.”
“I know that. But fortunately you don’t have to want a divorce for me to get one. So—you want my lawyer to call your lawyer?”
His fist hit the table and set the dishes to rattle. “I’ve seen my son five times in the past eight months! I haven’t spent a whole weekend with him! I’ve sent money at the first and fifteenth of every month and I’ve paid all the bills! There is absolutely no reason for this!”
She took a tiny sip and put down the glass. “You sleep around.”
He leaned his face close and she noticed his cheeks were flushed. “I’m in counseling for that!”
This was a mistake, she found herself thinking. All of it. The restaurant, the attempt at a civilized meeting, the request for help. She grabbed the envelope and said, “I’d better not hear that this woman is bothering our son in any way.” She stood up and quickly exited the restaurant even though he tried calling her back three times.
Clare went to the car and was just about to get in when she felt a hand on her shoulder. He had followed her. She shook him off.
“Clare, I’m going to get you back!” he shouted desperately.
Calmly, though her heart was hammering, she said, “You have to back off and leave me alone, Roger. I’m done talking about this.”
“We haven’t talked about it yet! You’ve refused to talk!”
“I’m not talking about getting back together!” She gave him a little push so she could get in the car.
“Mr. Wilson?” the waiter called from the door. “Was everything all right?”
He whirled. “No! It is not all right! My wife wants a divorce!”
Oh brother, she thought. She got into the car and locked the door.
Fortunately he didn’t try to further accost her, so she backed quickly out of her parking space. It was drizzling and sloppy and she just drove around for a while, ending up at the edge of town in front of a dump of a house with a For Sale sign in front of it. She just sat in her car and thought. About Roger and divorce. It appeared he wasn’t going to make this easy.
When her cell phone rang, she looked at her watch. An hour had passed. Clare saw that it was Sam calling—the one person she had told she would be meeting Roger, and only because he had asked her if she could get away for lunch. “Hi, Sam,” she answered.
“Are you still in the thick of it?” he asked.
“No, it was very short and probably unproductive.�
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“Are you back at work?”
She sighed deeply. “No. I’m sitting in my car. Pouting.”
He laughed at her. “Where are you?”
Clare looked around. “I don’t know. Jefferson Avenue.” She looked at the run-down house. “Fourteen-fifty. Unless some numbers have fallen off.”
“I know where that is. Stay there. I’m on my way.”
“But—” She was about to say, But I want to be alone. Except he’d clicked off.
It was only a couple of minutes before he pulled up behind her. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him walking toward her car, head down in the drizzle. He jumped in the front seat beside her. “You all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Roger isn’t going to make things easy. He’s still begging another chance. I get so sick of it.”
“What are you doing here?” he wanted to know.
“I was just driving around and I saw the For Sale sign. I’ve been thinking about getting a house to fix up and either sell at a profit or rent. So I pulled over—but my mind wasn’t really on the house.”
“Have you looked inside?”
“No, it was completely spontaneous.”
“Come on, let’s peek in the windows. It’s empty.”
“How do you know?” she asked, though he was already getting out of the car.
“I patrol this area. Come on.”
Sam was up on the front porch out of the drizzle before she got out of the car. Well, why not? she thought. She joined him there and they looked inside. The foyer, part of the living room and wide, open staircase were in view from the little front-door window. Under the trash were hardwood floors though the banister was a wreck. Wallpaper was peeling in large sheets off the walls. “This has possibilities,” she said. “Think we can see the kitchen from the back?”
“Let’s do it,” he said. He got them through the back gate and fortunately there was a small porch over the back door that kept them out of the rain. The yard was large and private; there was a detached garage. She looked in the back-door window, framing the glass with her hands to see inside. Behind her he asked, “Tell me about it. Roger.”
