Never Too Late (17 page)

“I want to cleanse my soul,” he said gravely. “Clear my conscience. That night—nineteen long years ago. Clare, that wasn't an accident. It wasn't just too much wine. Not for me. It was the greatest moment of my young life.”

“What? I don't understand.”

He put his hand over hers on the tabletop. “What I did was wrong and I knew it, but it was intentional. I had a huge crush on you. Since I was about fourteen, I guess. I was in love with you.”

“You couldn't have been…” she said, shaking her head. They goofed around together. Laughed insanely. There had never been a hint of romance in their relationship. She pulled her hand out from under his.

“Oh-ho, I was so gone, it was almost tragic. But I was
this skinny freckle-faced kid and the only way I could get your attention was to make you laugh. Then you got hooked on my brother—who was older, bigger, smarter, better-looking. And I think I stayed this kid brother in your eyes all through high school, so I just kept making you laugh.”

“You never let on,” she said in a soft breath. “Not once.”

“Are you kidding? I liked living. Mike would have killed me. But he was gone, we were alone, and I could tell you were warming up to me in a brand-new way.” He shrugged. “What an asshole, huh? It turned out I took complete advantage of you. Then felt completely ashamed of what I'd done to you.”

Clare was flabbergasted. This possibility had never occurred to her, not once in nineteen years. She held her mug toward him and he tipped the thermos over it. “How did you expect things to turn out?” she asked him.

“Ah. Well. In my fantasies I thought you'd realize you were marrying the wrong brother and we'd break it to him. He'd be pissed, but by the time we'd had our second or third kid, he'd be over it. Or, I thought it was possible you'd stick to your original choice—but have no regrets about what we'd done. You'd have let me down gently—you always were a really nice person. Then there was always the chance that you'd go ahead and marry Mike and struggle not to be unfaithful again even though you were constantly tempted—and the strain would be with us through forty years of family dinners. The one thing I never considered was that you would be shattered by it. And hate me.”

“I never hated you.”

“And never did I consider that Mike would up and
kill himself in a jet. And screw us all up even worse than we were already screwed up.”

“I just don't believe it,” she said, shaking her head.

“It's absolutely true. I wanted you. For years. I was about as desperate as a tortured young man can be.”

“My God,” she said. “I just don't know what to think.”

“It never crossed your mind? In all these years?”

“Not once.”

“And you thought—?”

“That we drank too much wine, were too alone, did what came naturally without using one single brain cell in the process.” She looked down. She cleared her throat. “Wow. Now I'm going to have to remember this in a whole new way. From an entirely different perspective.”

“I've been wanting to get together since we talked in August, but knowing that I had to do this—it took me a long time to get up the nerve to call you.”

“Why did you feel you had to tell me this? You really
didn't
have to.”

“Because I just couldn't let you go on thinking that I was as innocent as you were. For you it was a mistake—which you only made because I went after you with everything I had. I wanted you to know the truth because…”

“Clare,” someone shouted. They both turned and looked as Sam approached. He was uniformed and his cruiser was parked behind Clare's car. As he recognized Pete, a broad smile broke over his face. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, sticking out his hand.

Pete stood and accepted the handshake. “How you doing, Sam?”

“Great, Coach. Great!” Then he moved closer to Clare, leaned toward her and gave her a proprietary
peck on the cheek. “Hi. Is
this
your old friend from high school?”

“As a matter of fact,” she said. “You two obviously know each other.”

“I coached Sam in varsity football,” Pete said. “About a dozen years ago?”

“At least! What a hoot! I thought you'd be getting together with a girlfriend!”

“Pete and I grew up together,” Clare said. “We graduated in the same class.” She forced a smile. “And taught at the same high school for four whole days.” And made mad passionate love nineteen years ago that I just found out was premeditated.

“That kind of put us back on the same path,” Pete explained. “We were just talking about old times. What brings you out here?”

“Oh—I saw Clare's car and wondered what she'd be doing here. So I stopped.” His radio sputtered and he turned it down. “I'm not one to pass up a golden opportunity. So, how are Vickie and the girls?”

“Girls are great. Vickie and I have been divorced about five years now.”

“Oh man, I'm sorry to hear that, Pete. Jeez.”

“It's okay. She's been remarried quite a while now.”

“So—you seeing anyone special?”

Pete shrugged. “I go out now and then. Pretty casual, I guess you'd say.”

“Got someone you can call, go out with me and Clare?” Sam asked. He reached out and rubbed her arm. “That'd be fun.”

Clare didn't respond. Sam's radio sputtered some more, but he didn't seem concerned.

“That would be great,” Pete said.

There came a whoop-whoop-whoop from the police car and the lights suddenly flashed. “I'm being paged—I guess they seriously want me. Gotta run.” He leaned toward Clare and kissed her cheek again. As he backed away, he pointed a finger at Pete. “Great seeing you, Pete!”

Pete nodded. Hands plunged in his pockets, he just watched Sam as he turned around and jogged back to his squad car. He waited till the car pulled away, lights flashing and siren screaming, before he turned back to Clare.

“We've been out on one date,” she said.

“Clare, he was marking his territory. I'm surprised he didn't pee a circle around you.”

“I have a little problem here,” she said. “I think I made a mistake. I think I led him on. I'm going to end this now before it goes any further. And I know he's not going to take it well.”

“What happened?” Pete asked.

“He was the police officer at the scene of my accident. He came to the hospital to check on me, then he called, then he dropped by.” She took a deep breath. “More recently he started asking me out, let more and more of his feelings be known. But he always had a light touch—just relax and enjoy yourself, he said. If it's right, great, and if it's not, we move on.” She took a deep breath. “Even as he said that, I knew it wasn't that simple. To tell the truth, it's the first time in a long time someone has paid attention to me. And it felt good. I wanted to think it could be casual. It can't.”

“But you were considering it,” he said.

“Well, who wouldn't? But I'm in no condition for that kind of relationship. I'm not even divorced yet. I need time to figure out my life, which seems to get more complicated by the day.”

“I have a feeling I just added to your complications,” he said.

“Well, yes you did. But we might as well have the truth between us.”

“Don't spare me now—does that truth make you hate me more?”

“No, Pete. I never hated you. I'm determined to have your friendship back. Regardless of the mistakes we made—and we both made them—there is more good stuff in our past than bad. I just need a little time to digest this.”

“Just say you forgive me.”

“I think the one who has to forgive you is gone.”

He smiled a small smile. “It's been a long time. I've made my peace with Mike.”

C
lare went home and got busy in the kitchen making Jason's favorite meal—homemade macaroni and cheese and chocolate cake. When he was finished with dinner and had the chocolate cake in front of him, she said, “Jase, I have something to tell you. It won't come as a surprise, but it still might be hard to hear. Tomorrow your aunt Maggie is serving your dad with divorce papers.”

He slowly looked up from his cake. “Why would that be hard to hear?” he asked her.

She ignored that. Instead she said, “You know, an old friend of mine taught me a lesson I wish I'd learned years and years ago. About how to remember the things that are really important. Your dad hasn't lived with us for a long time now, Jase. And from now on we're going to be friends, not husband and wife.”

“Fine by me. But I don't want to—”

“Okay, stop. Just listen to me for a second. The marriage is over, but the family isn't. Whether you love him or hate him, he's your dad and he
was
my husband. There were times he came through for me in such a huge
way, I don't know what I would have done without him. When your grandma died, I was devastated. Totally wrecked. I cried and cried and cried till I was so pick-in' sick of crying I'd want to die, and then I'd cry some more. If the roles had been reversed, I'm not sure how much patience I'd have had—but your dad just held me and said, ‘there, there, I know it hurts.' For days. For weeks. Maybe months.

“He was there when you were born and he cried, he was so happy. Remember how he loved to take you skiing? And he was the one who insisted you have a chance to learn to ride that sinful four-wheeler I hated, and
he
bought the snowboard, not me. I don't think he ever missed a soccer game. And even though I have plenty of complaints about the kind of husband he was, he never missed my birthday or anniversary—he gave me beautiful presents. Wonderful cards. He took you shopping for Mother's Day. And since the day we separated, he has paid all the bills and sent money. Do you know how many men leave their marriages and their children and have to be chased down by the courts to support their families?”

“So what are you getting at?”

“I have plenty of negative things to think about, to remember, if I want to. But I've decided I'm not going there. There are things I treasure that I wouldn't have without your dad—starting with you. So from now on, I'm going to work on remembering the positive things. The good things. I don't want the last sixteen years to have been a waste of time.”

He stared at his cake for a minute. Then he said, “Well, good luck.” He picked up his plate and took it to his room.

Well, that little speech wouldn't have worked on me six months ago, either, she thought.

It was ten-thirty and she was in bed with a book when she heard Jason's bedroom door open. He tapped gently at her half-open door and she waved him in. He stood at the foot of her bed and she could see that his eyes were red rimmed from crying. She wished he hadn't cried alone, but boys his age are so stoic, so isolated. “He used to dress up like Santa,” he said. “Like I couldn't tell who it was.”

“He did,” she said. “Come here,” she invited, patting the bed beside her.

He was already taller than she was, but he sat on the bed beside her, then up came his long legs as he curled up on the bed, his back to her. His head on her pillow, his shoulders shook just slightly as he cried.

“It's going to be all right now, honey,” she said. “We're going to be fine. All of us.”

 

Sarah couldn't remember when she had wanted something so badly that she'd be willing to risk so much. She took a hard look at herself in the mirror and made a conscious decision—she was going to make changes. Major changes. She couldn't expect any man to look at her the way she was. Her natural beauty, and there was some, was buried beneath this veneer of neglect she had adopted. It had not been as deliberate as it appeared—it had been born out of her complete absorption in her work. That, and her need to change that tawdry, cheap persona her poor mother had so despised.

Clare and Maggie used to try to coax her back into beauty and style. “How about a better haircut,” one would say. “Or highlights. Blond streaks would light up
your face.” She had heard things like, “If you must wear the glasses instead of contacts, let's at least get you some more fashionable specs,” and “Honestly, Sarah, you have such a perfect figure, why not dress in clothes that show it off.” She tried to remind them that when she had tried showing off her assets, it upset everyone, especially their mother, but they were quick to point out that there was a happy medium.

Her sisters had long since given up as Sarah appeared to be committed to plainness.

It was time, she reckoned. And it might not work at all, might not pay off, but she had to give it a chance. Sam would never glance her way as she was—and why should he? More than beauty was required, of course, but looking as if you just don't give a damn was no way to get a man's attention.

Every time she thought about him, she trembled. This was what Clare was talking about. Tossing and turning, feeling your pulse race, your cheeks suddenly brightening from the sheer heat of a fantasy. According to Clare, that wasn't happening to her. But it was sure as hell happening to Sarah.

This would take time, she decided. She meant to effect her superficial changes quickly, the rest would come later. It was imperative to sit quietly and watch, to be sure that Clare had no lingering interest in Sam. If it appeared that Clare was waffling, Sarah would do nothing. Her sister's love was everything to her and it was finders-keepers. But if it was truly over between them, after a respectable amount of time, she was going to hunt him down and see if she had a chance. Was two weeks respectable? Oh, God, she hoped she could wait even that long.

There was a little voice in her head that said, You might be very, very disappointed. He might not have the slightest interest in you, even prettied up. Or he might do to you what Clare refused to do to him. Toy with your feelings; break your heart.

So I'll cry, she told the voice. So I'll feel a little sorry for myself. There is no guarantee, but you never know unless you try.

There was a time, in her young years, when she would sleep with anyone. Then in later years, no one. Since she'd turned twenty-one, there had been exactly two men in her life, and neither of them had caused her heart to pound the way the mere thought of Sam did.

She put up a sign in the shop—Closed For The Day. She went to the beauty shop without an appointment. Bonnie, the beautician she and her sisters had been seeing for years, was usually instructed to trim an inch or two off the bottom of Sarah's light brown hair. But when Sarah was in the chair she said, “I'd like to do something different today, if you're up to it.”

“Well, hallelujah!” Bonnie said.

“Do you think you can make it…I don't know…pretty?”

“Girl, I can make it beautiful.”

Bonnie got to work, cutting, coloring and perming. Sarah was in the chair so long she was about to call Maggie and tell her to pay the ransom. Three hours later Sarah looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. Her long, straight, lank hair was now cut in a layered shape, streaked with soft blond, curling around her face and onto her shoulders. It was fluffy and soft. Full and thick.

“You want my advice?” Bonnie asked. But before
Sarah could answer she said, “Let's wax your brows into a nicer shape. Say goodbye to that monobrow.”

“Sure,” she said, taking off her glasses.

It only took minutes and when she looked in the mirror again, even though her new brows were surrounded by pink skin from the hot wax, it made all the difference in the world.

“Girl, look at those eyes. You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. You and your sisters—you green-eyed hussies. You have to get rid of those glasses. Any reason you can't wear contacts?”

“I…ah…I stopped wearing the contacts because my eyes would get so dry and scratchy from long hours of painting. Weaving.”

Bonnie twirled the chair around so that Sarah faced her. “Let me just say something. You have your work on display here and there. From time to time…”

“Exhibitions,” Sarah supplied.

“I would think it would be better, help you sell your stuff, if you spruced up a bit. I'm not saying glamorous. Just, you know—”

“Professional?”

“There you go.”

“I'm sure you're right.”

Sarah hadn't needed Bonnie's advice. Only thing was, she wasn't doing this to be more professional looking. She wanted a man. She had everything else.

 

On Monday Clare was able to blame her distraction and nervousness on the fact that Roger was being served with the divorce papers. That fine fellow took it better than she expected. Of course he called her at once. In a watery voice, he asked her to reconsider. But he didn't
make her endure too much of that before he said, “If you ever change your mind, even for a second…”

“I won't,” she said firmly. “But Roger, we need to get back on track with Jason. I want us all to get along.”

“I want that, too, Clare. I promise you.”

“I'll do what I can to help,” she relented. “He needs you in his life.”

“Even if you don't?” he asked.

“I need you to be my son's father.”

A couple more hours dragged by, and then it was time. Sam picked her up at the hardware store at noon. She had wanted to take her own car and meet him somewhere, but he insisted.

When they were in Sam's car, he asked, “How'd it go with Roger?”

“Better than I expected. It was Jason who surprised me with a few tears. I take that as a good sign. He might be softening up.” It might be better to just tell him in the car, she thought. Before we get to some restaurant where we'd have no privacy. She cleared her throat. “Where are we going?”

“Look in the backseat,” he said, smiling.

She turned to see a picnic basket and carefully folded blanket. Oh, God, she thought. We're going to be alone, probably isolated, and I'm going to rip his heart out. This is going to be horrible.

“The leaves are getting awesome,” he said. “It's such a beautiful day, why be cooped up in a restaurant? Is this okay with you?”

“Sure,” she said, her voice small.

“You okay?”

“I might be a little moody,” she answered. “It's kind of a strange day.”

“You don't have second thoughts about Roger, do you?”

“No. But even knowing you have to end something doesn't make it easy.” She stole a guilty look at his strong profile. “Especially something that's been going on for…a long time.”

He reached across the console and squeezed her hand. “You'll get through it, Clare. God, your hand's like ice.”

“Maybe a little sunshine will warm me up. We aren't going far, are we? I don't have to rush, but I do have to get back to work.”

“Not to worry,” he said. “It's not far.”

She was quiet the rest of the way, but it wasn't long before Sam turned off the road and down a dirt drive at the end of which was a small park. A very private place. He got out, taking the basket and blanket from the car. She followed more slowly. There were two picnic tables, but he spread the blanket on the grass under a large tree that had begun to display its fall colors. By the time she reached it, he was kneeling, picnic basket open. A bottle of wine appeared and he popped the cork.

Clare sat on the blanket, cross-legged, and Sam handed her a glass of red wine. The wine was probably a good idea, she thought. But she doubted they would get to the rest of the basket. He lifted his glass in a silent toast; she touched his glass with hers, but knew her eyes told too much. She knew she couldn't put it off, but it was he who said, “What is it, Clare?”

“Sam, you will never know how hard this is for me.” She dropped her gaze, unable to look into his eyes. “Sam, I have to end whatever this is between us.”

A moment of silence drew out. He took a sip from his glass. “What brought this on?”

“There's no way I can make this easy. You're great, and you've been wonderful to me. I'm very fond of you. But my feelings for you are just not as strong as yours are for me, and I think it would be best if we let this go now. Before it gets more complicated.”

He stared at her, his lips parted slightly. Then he smiled a small smile. “That's not what your body says.”

“I know, that's why I'm stopping it here and now. My feelings just don't match.” She shrugged. “I'm sorry. It was never my intention to lead you on.”

“Okay,” he said, shaking it off. “I admit I was moving a little fast. You're right—we'll slow way down. I'm not going to pressure you. I've got all the time in the—”

“No, Sam, you weren't moving fast. You've been extremely patient, and it's been months. It's just not growing for me. I don't have…” She cleared her throat. “I just don't have it.”