Never Too Late (15 page)

“What'll happen to him?” she asked.

“He'll be picked up,” Sam said. Tic. Pulse. His eyes, usually deep blue, were steely. Icy. He did not look at Clare. “Probably before he can even find the ignition.”

Roger wandered around the small parking lot, a little lost, lurching from one side of the aisle to the other. He had his keys in his hand and, swaying, he managed to click the control so that the lights of his Pontiac blinked. Sam took his cell phone out of his pocket.

“What will they do to him?”

He looked at Clare. “I imagine they'll hook him and book him. Drunk driving. Leave him alone, Clare. This is not your problem.”

“They'll put him in jail?”

“It's what they do to drunk drivers, Clare.”

Roger leaned against the hood of his car for a moment. He obviously kept pressing the button on his remote because the lights on his car kept blinking on and off. She looked at Sam—no solution there. She looked at Roger—he was trying to get the key in the door of the car as if he didn't know he had unlocked it with the remote about a dozen times. She looked at Sam—he had his cell phone to his ear.

“Shit,” she said. She took off across the parking lot, disappointingly aware that Sam did not call after her or join her. She caught up with Roger and pulled him away before he got in the car. “Come on, Roger. Come with me—behave! I'm going to take you home. And then I'm going to
kill
you!”

“Clare,” he said in a whine. He put out a hand as if to stroke her cheek.

“If you touch me, I'll coldcock you!” She looped her arm through his and walked him to the other side of the parking lot. She poured him into the passenger seat.

“Clare…” he said again. “Oh, Clare…”

“Oh shut up!”

She slammed the door and went around the car. She got in the driver's side and pounded the steering wheel a few times. Then she looked at him. Roger was slumped in the seat next to her, humming some off-key tune as though oblivious. She reached across him and buckled him in.

“Thank you, Clare,” he slurred contritely.

When she drove out of the parking lot she saw Sam and Frank standing just outside the restaurant door, watching. She made sure she signaled.

Roger was singing. She could recognize the lyrics if not the tune. “Can't smile without you…Can't laugh, can't sing…” She wanted to stop the car and push him into a ditch and leave him there. Tonight was special—she'd spent the last few months of phone calls and stolen kisses working up to having a real date and now
this.
And if Sam hadn't been so stony and cold, she might've made plans to just take Roger home then meet him for an after-dinner coffee that might have led to an after-dinner make-out session to end all make-out sessions, but his demeanor left no room for something like that. Sam clearly wanted to kill Roger and did not endorse the idea of Clare helping him.

Don't be so hard on Sam, she told herself. Because I want to kill Roger just as dead.

“Clare, I didn't mean to,” he said. “It was just seeing you like that…So happy with another man….”

“Oh really? Well, welcome to my world, Roger!”

“Clare, don't be mad, honey—”

She slugged him in the arm as hard as she could. “Don't call me
honey!
”

“Ouch! Jesus, Clare! Whatsa matter with you?” Then, he started singing again.

What a disastrous end to a promising evening, she thought. But it had taken her only moments to realize that she could either drive him home or bail him out of jail, and with the rift between Roger and Jason still so wide, having him booked into jail was not going to serve their healing in any way.

She looked at her soon-to-be ex-husband and
thought, no jury would convict me. It didn't take long to pull up to the complex in which Roger had taken a small apartment. Luxury Apartments, the sign said. It was gated. “What's the code?” she asked him.

He rattled off some numbers and went back to singing. She pulled through the gate and stopped the car right inside. “Roger, where is your apartment?”

He looked straight ahead, had a confused look on his face and said, “Gee, they all look the same, don't they?”

“Roger!”

“Okay, okay. Gimme a sec. Hmm. I think it's right over there. Yeah, over there.” Then he smiled at her. “Wanna come in?”

Clare parked and got out of the car. She opened his door for him. He struggled to get out of the car but failed—his seat belt was still hooked up. If she weren't so furious with him, she'd laugh. Clare simply hated him too much to laugh at him. She popped the seat belt off and he nearly fell out of the car. When he righted himself, he said, “So? Wanna come in?”

“No!”

“O-
kay!
Sheesh.”

Roger wove his way up the walk toward an apartment door. He fumbled with his keys for quite a while, then the door opened and he lurched inside.

Clare sighed in relief. And went home. She never even considered going back to The Fireside to see if Sam was there. She could tell he was very unhappy with her helping Roger and didn't feel like trying to explain. Besides, Jason might already be home.

She found the place deserted. It was only nine-thirty. The message light on her answering machine was blinking. She thought it was pretty likely that Roger
was already calling her and she considered not listening to her messages. But it could be Jason so she pressed the button.

To her complete astonishment, Pete's voice rang out in the room, completing the trifecta of men in her life. “Hi, Clare. I meant to call you long before this, but football season keeps me pretty tied up. Anyway, can't help thinking about how we were going to get together—you probably thought I forgot. Not hardly—you've been on my mind. I was wondering if you'd like to meet for coffee or something on Sunday? It's about the only time I don't have a game or a practice. Give me a call. Let me know. I…ah…can't wait to hear from you.”

He didn't even say his name. Didn't leave a number. He didn't have to say his name; didn't have to leave a number. Her annoyance over the disastrous evening vanished.

Clare played the message again. And again. And again. She felt herself smiling.

B
efore Clare could contemplate whether it was too late to return Pete's call, she heard her cell phone twittering in her purse. She heaved a sigh—that had better not be Roger, drunk dialing. She wished a major hangover on him as she plucked the phone out of her purse and looked at the caller ID. Sam.

“Hello.”

“You're home now, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Any reason you didn't call me to see where I was? So we could finish our date?”

“I was finished,” she said.

“Hey! Are you putting this on
me?
”

“You weren't exactly helpful,” she said.

“And why would I want to help your drunk ex-husband? He got tanked up, made a scene and was about to put the whole town in danger by driving impaired!”

“Are you raising your voice? Because I can just hang up if that's what you're doing.”

He took a breath. “Okay. All I want to know is why you did what you did.”

“Because my life isn't going to be any easier if Roger goes to jail. I don't expect you to get it.”

“That's good, because I really don't. You're either over him or you're not.”

“You think I did that for Roger?” She laughed bitterly. “I was this close to pushing him out and leaving him in a ditch! But I have a son—his son—and things are bad enough between them, without giving Jason any more reasons to refuse to make amends with his dad!” She sighed. “I'm
over
him, I'm just not
done
with him. Apparently.”

“You said anything they had to work out was between them,” he said, his voice irritable.

“It is. And the sooner the better, because I need to have someplace for my son to go once in a while so I can have a little privacy!” She hung up on him.

Clare sat heavily on the couch. She couldn't believe she yelled at him, then hung up on him. As if it was his fault. She picked up the remote and turned her gas fireplace on. She clicked on the light by the sofa. She was holding a phone in each hand—the cell and the house phone from which she was contemplating calling Pete.

She sat. And sat. She should call Sam back, apologize. This should be nipped right here because regardless of what Sam had said or done, it was Roger who had acted like an ass and screwed up their evening.

The cell phone rang. Sam. Again.

“Hello,” she said, much more calmly.

“Okay, we had our first fight. Check that one off. Now we can kiss and make up.”

“I was just going to call you to say I'm sorry. Do you see how crazy Roger can make people? God!”

“Can I come over?”

She hesitated. “Jason will be home anytime now.”

“He's not there right now?”

“No, but he'll be home any—” The doorbell rang. “You did it again, didn't you?”

“I did.”

She put both phones on the hall table and opened the door to Sam, who rushed in and immediately grabbed her like a starving man. She gasped, which served to give him her slightly opened mouth, of which he took full advantage. He devoured her mouth, his tongue probing and hot inside. He turned her so that her back was against the front door; he flipped the dead bolt. He pressed into her.

Sam's hands were on her face, his fingers laced into her soft brown hair, his mouth moving passionately over hers. As he plastered her back to the door, she felt the full measure of his desire against her pelvis. If this were happening any other place, even in the backseat of a car, she would be lost. Her whole body ached to be satisfied; she virtually trembled with longing. She heard her own moan, deep in her throat.

“I'm sorry I yelled,” he whispered against her mouth. “It was stupid. I was disappointed. I wanted to be with you.”

“Okay. I understand. Let's not get all worked up—Jason will be coming home soon.”

He ground against her, kissing and nibbling her neck and she moaned again. It felt so good. “Let's get a little worked up,” he whispered. “God, Clare, do you know how badly I want you?”

She did. She directed his mouth to hers again, filled herself with his kiss, moved her hips a little against him. Tempted. Awfully tempted. But she said, “Not tonight.”

“We could make a run for it,” he said. “Get your coat.” His hand found her breast and she put her hand over his to hold it there.

Clare actually thought about doing just that. Grab her coat, go anywhere he wanted,
do
anything he wanted. She enjoyed him, was attracted to him; she was more than a little flattered by his attention; she could
easily
sleep with him and she bet he was fabulous in bed. He turned her on. Except…Her feelings for him were not growing or showing signs of permanence. Their relationship wasn't becoming love. She wondered if it ever would…And she doubted it. It was showing signs of being a fling. Period.

“What's the matter?” he asked her.

So here was her dilemma. She was going to be forty soon—did she have to love him? What did that matter, really? There wasn't anyone else interested in her. She'd be monogamous, naturally. She was excellent at monogamy. And as he had said, enjoy life and if it works out, fine, and if not, no harm done.

Oh, but she knew better. He wanted her too much. So much that Roger, who wasn't a threat sober and was even less of one drunk, had made him very angry with his ridiculous little scene.

She couldn't do it. She had to be in love, or at least think she was in love. She had to believe the affair was going somewhere. And Sam, for all his playful spirit, was intense. He would devour her. If she let him in, he would not let her go. It was too soon, way too soon for her to get into a hot and serious relationship, especially
since she would be hot and he would be serious. She couldn't keep him at bay any longer while she struggled with this. She wasn't sure they could even continue to be friends.

Feeling him against her, his hands on her body, it was very difficult to give this up. It was too tempting to forget her scruples and just go for it.

“Clare?”

“Okay, look, I'm going to make us some coffee. We'll sit by the fire for a while. We'll settle down a little, okay?”

“You sure?” he asked. “Because I think we can still make a break for it before—”

There was the sound of a key in the lock. Sam braced a strong hand against the front door to prevent it opening and whispered, “Bathroom?”

“Right there,” she said.

He disappeared around the corner instantly. Jason pushed the door open.

“Hi,” he said. “Who's here?”

“Sam Jankowski. We had dinner together tonight. I'm going to make us some coffee.”

“Cool,” he said.

 

It was eleven-thirty and Clare was under the covers, phone in hand. She had managed to get Sam out of the house about an hour before without any more clinches, citing concern that Jason might discover them and be traumatized. “He's probably getting more than you are,” was Sam's insightful remark.

So she lay here, thinking about the situation. One of the things that had kept her from going full tilt into bed with Sam was some instinct that told her despite what
Sam said about having all the time in the world, he was running out of time. And patience. She had thoroughly enjoyed his flirtation. It had been fun being wanted like that, being tempted. Desire had all but dried up in her, and he had brought it back to life. And she hadn't been particularly worried about how he might react when she ultimately said, “So, Sam—this isn't working for me—let's not see each other any longer.”

But she should have been. He was falling in love with her. If she didn't do something about this, he would get in too deep and experience an awful lot of hurt getting out. It might already be too late. She'd had hints of this intensity in him, but hadn't been able to put a name to it.

She wanted to talk to someone about it, but there was no one available to chat at eleven-thirty. Maggie and Sarah would have gone to bed long ago.

She clicked through the caller IDs to see if anyone had called but left no message. Pete Rayburn's name popped up four times. She clicked on the number and put the call through. The answering machine came on. “This is Pete…”

Clare started to leave a message. “Oh. Of course it's too late, I'm sorry. Just wanted to tell you that I'd love to—”

“Hello? Hello?” a man's tired voice said. “You there?”

“You were sleeping, I'm sorry,” Clare said.

“No, no, no! I was, ah, screening calls.”

She laughed at him. “You were sleeping,” she said.

“Okay, but I'm up now. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. I got your message. I'd love to go out for coffee. Or something.”

“Great! That's great! So—how you been? Busy?”

“Kind of, yes. Would you believe that tonight was my very first real date in my almost single new world?”

There was a pause before he said, “Really? Um, how was it?”

“It was a complete disaster,” she said. “Try to picture this—I'm having a very nice steak dinner with a man who happens to be one of our local police officers when my soon-to-be ex, Roger, sees us from the restaurant bar and proceeds to get himself plastered. I mean,
steenking.
The manager is trying to eject him, but he comes to our table, makes a little scene, the police officer date threatens to make a phone call and have him locked up if he attempts to drive, which Roger, who can barely walk, insists he is going to do. So instead of having a nice first date, I drove my drunk almost-ex home.”

Pete was laughing. “God, you couldn't have made that up!”

“Oh, it's the truth,” she said.

“That's priceless! Think you'll get a second date with this guy?”

“We'll have to just wait and see,” she said evasively. “You've been single awhile. You any better at this dating thing?”

“Well, my ex-wife doesn't show up drunk.” A pause. “No, I'm lousy at it. I haven't been out on a date since…Since…Hell, I can't remember,” he said. A long silence followed. “This police officer. You like him a lot?”

“Oh,” she hedged, “he's a nice guy, but…I don't know.”

“Don't know what?”

“I just realized something. He's intense. I think he's looking for a lot more in a relationship than I am. Probably not a good thing. At this point, anyway. I'm not officially divorced, though Roger and I have been separated for months. And months. And tonight I almost made myself a widow.”

“What's holding things up? Is he giving you a hard time? Roger?”

“As a matter of fact, he's being a huge pain in the ass, but the thing that really stalled this out was the accident. I just couldn't take on a divorce while I was recuperating.”

“You have a clean bill of health yet?”

“One hundred percent. Cleared to ski, though I've been warned to take it easy. Sounds like the bunny slopes for me.”

“But that's great. We used to have such fun skiing, didn't we? I was remembering some of the things we used to do,” he said. “Remember when we were sophomores and it was homecoming and we were out at Sorenson's farm making the float for the parade?”

“Yeah?”

“And everyone was working really hard, but we snuck off to the pasture with a bridle and hooked up the horse? And we were riding around the corral and around the barn, irritating all the hardworking seniors. We were bareback—you were hanging on to me and kept slipping. So we got to laughing. We got the stupids.”

“We used to do that a lot. Get the giggles and not be able to stop.”

“And the homecoming king, my big brother, got really pissed…”

“Oh, God, he was so mad at us. Screw-offs, he called us.”

“I was a screw-off, that much we know. I was a bad influence on you. Got you in trouble with your boyfriend, who was sooo reliable and responsible.”

“I wasn't all that hard to influence, though.”

“Yeah, but you're a girl, so you always tried to be
have. Me? I was hopeless. Behaving never really turned me on. You know?”

“I know,” she laughed. “You were a bad boy. But you had so much fun.”

“I stayed in trouble. That's probably how I deal with these teenage boys as well as I do. I relate.”

She was quiet for a moment. “It's nice. Remembering some of the good things. The funny things. For a long time I could only remember that terrible time—when his plane went down. Too long. I was stuck in that time frame too long.”

“It's so good to hear you laugh. We had some great times back then.” He paused and then said, “Clare, it's so good to hear your voice.”