Robyn Carr - Never Too Late

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.