Never Too Late Read online

  “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 yo
u’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,” Magg
ie 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.”