Never Too Late (11 page)

She kissed his cheek. “I'm fine with money. You're being awfully supportive. I half thought you'd go berserk—I know how you are about quitters. You never let us quit anything growing up. Eight years of piano lessons and I can still barely play ‘Chopsticks.'”

“Ah, I don't know if this is the same thing, Clare. Sounds like maybe you chose wrong rather than gave up. It's at least fifteen years you've been subbing and I never once heard you say you were dying for a full-time position. You need a course correction.”

She went home and took off the skirt and sweater, tossing it on the bed. What am I going to do with all the clothes? she asked herself. Most of them still had the
tags on—they could go back. But the others were likely to gather dust. She pulled on a pair of jeans and lightweight sweatshirt. And she baked cookies.

Clare was amazed by how unpredictable her own son could be. Not only was Jason not embarrassed by her abrupt departure from his school, he thought it was cool.

“It totally rocks, how you just walked out like that and quit!” he said. “I wish I could do that.”

“Well you can't, so don't even have fantasies about it. Besides, you don't hate school. Do you?”

He shrugged. “I guess I don't hate it. But I don't like it all that much.”

“What don't you like?” she asked him. “Besides homework, that's a given.”

The shrug again. “The kids, I guess. The jocks. Some of 'em are real assholes.”

“Jason,” she warned. “I didn't have as much trouble with the jocks.”

“Because they're suck-ups.”

“Well, maybe you'll have more success finding what you want to do in life. It turns out I had it all wrong.”

“Why'd you do it then? Go to college for it and everything?”

The truth was, she was waiting to get married. She was planning to be a wife and mother. An Air Force wife. “I knew I had to have a degree—that much is just common sense. You can't get a good job without one. And while I was in college, the only thing that snagged my interest was literature. What are you going to do with a love of reading without a teaching degree?”

“Dumb move,” he said. “I could've told you being in a school for the rest of your life would suck.”

She laughed at him. “Too bad you weren't around to warn me. We haven't touched on this one in a while—any idea what you want to do?”

Again the shrug. I guess at fifteen you're not sure of anything, she mused. “I'm thinking, maybe, pilot.”

She shuddered. “What's your second choice?”

“I don't even have a for-sure first choice. Maybe I could take some flying lessons? I'm old enough.”

“Um, let's think about that awhile,” she said. She might have to tell him someday, she thought. At least part of the story.

Fortunately the phone rang. And it was Pete. She should have expected this, but it had never occurred to her.

“I heard,” he said.

“Wow. Word travels really fast.”

“It's a high school, Clare. By sixth period you were a legend. Now, is there anything I can do to help?”

“You mean like convince the principal to give me my job back? I know you have big testosterone points with her, but no thanks.”

“Can you at least tell me why? I mean, besides hating it? Because half the people in America hate their jobs, and they still have to have one.”

She took a deep breath and leaned against her kitchen counter. “Ah, you know, Pete, if I'd found myself in that spot a year ago, I probably would have stuck it out a long, long time. If I ever did get up the nerve to leave, it would have been planned out, nice letter of resignation, different job in sight—something very rational. But that damn accident shook me up. All of a sudden I'm almost forty, got a big lesson in how short life can be, and I'm not going to waste any time. It caught me off guard, really.”

“But you're okay with the decision?”

“I was worried about explaining it to Jason, my fifteen-year-old son. But it turns out I'm a hero. The only thing he'd like better is if he could walk out.”

“I can relate. I used to feel that way.”

“Yeah. And you ended up a teacher?”

“If you remember, it was Mike who liked school, not me. I ended up a teacher because of sports and discovered I actually like it. Probably something about the difference between being in charge and being handcuffed to the desk. And I like the kids.”

“Amazing,” she said.

“There's only one thing about this that worries me. You came to me to talk because you'd taken that job. We made our peace because we were going to be running into each other every day. I don't want to go back to avoiding each other.”

That made her smile. “Not a problem, Coach,” she said. “I think we're in a good place.”

“Great. So I won't see you around campus, but I'll give you a call one of these days. We should get together. Lotta lost time behind us.”

“I'd like that. And thanks for the call. It's nice that you were concerned.”

When she hung up the phone and turned toward the kitchen table, she found Jason eyeballing her with a very grave expression on his face. “Who was that?” he asked very suspiciously.

“Oh. That was Pete Rayburn. The Phys Ed teacher. Football coach.”

“You know him already?” he asked.

“I've known him for over twenty years. We went to school together, graduated together.”

“Get out!”

“Absolute truth. Why?”

“
Because,
Mom! He totally
rocks!
”

M
aggie heard about Clare's walkout from Lindsey; Clare was the talk of the school. “I can't believe you did that,” she said.

“You would if you'd been there. Here's a little tidbit that's not being passed around the hallowed halls. The new principal? I finally remembered why she looked so familiar. Last time I saw her was in my master bedroom, doing Roger.”

“No!”

“I'm not working for her. End of discussion.”

“Well. I guess you'll have to look for something else. I hope you can find a job that doesn't come with the challenge of working with or for one of Roger's bimbos.”

Clare sighed. “He's had so many, that might be harder than you think.”

There was this favorite chair in her house that was perfect for reading—she had upholstered that chair and made the matching throw pillows. It was her love of books that drove her to study literature and she learned, too late, that teaching it was not exactly the same thing.
So Clare was tasked with the job of discovering what she loved. That would be the taste of cookie dough, the smell of warm, clean laundry and freshly brewed coffee. She didn't enjoy scrubbing the floor so much as seeing it shine. And decorating had been easy for her—she had a way with color and design, and her goal was always the same—to bring comfort and beauty to her surroundings.

She was something of a perfectionist; things had to be just right. She had sanded and painted the doors in the house, replaced the baseboards and added crown molding to the living room, dining room and bedroom ceilings. George had taught her those things. There was a workshop in the garage and it wasn't Roger's. It was Clare's. She had painted, papered and plastered walls. She was hell on wheels with a staple gun—she'd once made her own upholstered headboard and matching cornices for over the windows. Nothing invigorated her like the smells of sawdust and paint.

She liked being a housewife, however antiquated the term. Maggie often said if she ever knew a true domestic engineer, it was Clare.

So, she thought—maybe someone wants to hire me to be their housewife? But doing all those things for someone else to enjoy at the end of the day just didn't sound like what she was looking for. And it was highly doubtful she could wring a paycheck out of the smell of cookies, sitting in her favorite chair to read, sniffing her clean towels and linens.

Clare was stuck. She knew she didn't have to come up with a life plan in three days, but she found herself wandering around her home, looking at all the improvements she'd made and realized that work had made her happy. Clare was skilled and talented enough to take a
run-down house and turn it into a showplace. There were very few things she couldn't do—George had even showed her how to replace the garbage disposal.

Maybe, when the money from the accident came in, she could take some of it and buy a fixer-upper. Maybe her new career could be in remodeling and decorating to make a profit. And that wasn't the only money she had in her future—when she got around to divorcing Roger, they'd have to split the home equity and their investments. Nevada was a community property state—everything was fifty-fifty. The accident money, however, wouldn't go into the divorce settlement pot—they were already separated when that happened.

And then it came to her. She tossed off her sweatshirt and put on a white polo shirt with her jeans and drove to the hardware store. She went right to the hook by the office door and grabbed one of the green McCarthy Hardware aprons. To her dad's questioning look she said, “This. This is what I want to do. Until I can pull some money together and maybe buy a fixer-upper to sell at a profit, I'd like to work here. And if you like, I could give classes now and then—show people how to do their own crown molding or upholstering or tiling. Because I can do all those things—plus I'm a teacher.”

George's eyes danced. He smiled approvingly. “Welcome aboard, then.”

 

Sam had a training cadet in the patrol car with him, a kid about twenty-two who had a little too much enthusiasm. He was a talker, too aggressive on calls, too slow on reports. It had been a long day, finally winding to a close.

“What are the chances for a little overtime?” Jeffries asked.

“Zilch. It's quiet. We're going in.”

“Aw, damn. I need the hours, you know?”

“Yes, I know. You've told me fifty times—you have your eye on this bike—a crotch rocket. Finish the report on that domestic. I need to stop at the hardware store.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, a little pouty.

Sam parked in front of McCarthy's and got out of the car. The fall air was fresh and clean and outside it was far quieter than in his patrol car. He stretched his back. Then went inside.

He spotted her right away, up on a ladder, digging around in a box. Her chestnut hair fell forward, concealing her face, but there was no hiding the body, especially in jeans. She was slim with great legs, a tight fanny, narrow waist—all of which he'd love to get his hands on. Sam was a leg man. A leg man who didn't overlook breasts, especially medium-size perky ones just like Clare's.

Sometimes he could summon up her image in his mind and get a little worked up. There hadn't been too many women in his young life because he was the cautious type. He was a father. And he didn't just mess around. Substance and permanence were very important.

She looked so natural up there on the ladder. “What a view,” he called up to her.

She looked down at him and unless he was totally crazy, her face lit up with pleasure at seeing him. “Hey, you! Run over another sprinkler head?”

“Yeah. I better get a few. I know where they are since I put 'em in, and I'm just hell on 'em with the mower. And a fistful of number ten nails.”

“Building something?” she asked on her way down.

“Just some repairs,” he said, which was a lie. So
were the sprinkler heads. “You look better all the time. You're really having a good time here, aren't you?”

Her feet touched the floor and she faced him. “It's great. I worked here during high school and college. I'm right at home.” She stuck her hands in the pockets of her apron. “How have you been? It's been—gosh—two whole days since you needed hardware.”

“I told you, I come here a lot. A lot more lately.” He grinned. “I have to admit, the scenery around here is getting better all the time.”

She touched his arm and laughed. “You're so obvious.”

“Good. So, how's that ‘to do' list coming?”

“Actually, it's coming along very well.”

“Need any more driving lessons?”

Her eyes twinkled and her cheeks might've colored slightly. She shook her head. “No, I'm good. I'd ask you to help me pick out a car, but my dad would be devastated. Tell you what, when I settle on something, I'll take you for a ride. Maybe let you drive.”

“I'll hold you to it. And how about that other matter?”

“Huh?”

He leaned close and whispered, “Divorce?”

“Oh!” She almost jumped back. “That! No, I haven't gotten to that. But you'll be the first to know.”

“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.