Never Too Late

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.”