The telephone rang at three-thirty.
“I think I should talk to him,” Clare said to Richard. “I think Detective Hall is right. Everything he says can be used to help the police catch him.”
“As long as you’re sure you can handle it,” Richard relented.
Taking a deep breath, Clare picked up the receiver from the nightstand beside the bed.
“Oh, I’ve been so worried,” Nina exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
Richard insisted there be no telephone in Clare’s hospital room, and then called Thornburgh House himself on Monday morning to say simply that his wife would not be back to work for a while.
Clare relaxed. “Yes, I’m all right,” she told her friend. “A little beat up, perhaps, but still kicking.”
“What happened?” Nina wanted to know. “All they would tell us at the office was that you had some sort of an accident.”
“That’s exactly what it was,” Clare confirmed. “I was over on Mercer Island, and some idiot in a big hurry decided to cut in front of me and when I swerved to avoid him, I guess I must have lost control of the car and went off the road.”
It was almost accurate, she decided, and she could tell Nina the real story some other time.
It was the first of several dozen such calls to come in throughout the afternoon and evening. Glenn Thornburgh also called, as did three of Clare’s authors. James Lilly, of course, offered his sympathy and encouragement. Henry Hartstone, Doug Potter, and the entire board of directors of Nicolaidis Industries wished her a speedy recovery.
Clare had no family of her own left, but Richard’s relatives descended on Laurelhurst en masse, demanding to know what they could do to help. Many of the neighbors called, although several, like the Bennetts and the Corcorans, who lived on either side of the Durants, simply came on over when they heard Clare was home. And through it all, Julie, wide-eyed and white-faced, hovered anxiously by the bedroom door.
“Never mind what I look like, I’m all right,” Clare assured her daughter, over and over again, not wanting the girl to retreat into herself as she had before. “All I’m going to need to do is rest for a while.”
By eight o’clock, she was exhausted. Doreen helped her to the bathroom, and then Richard helped her back into bed.
“I’m going to go downstairs and work a little,” he said. He hadn’t gotten much done, what with the phone calls and the neighbors coming in and out. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course, I will,” she said. “If people will just stop calling, I’ll be asleep in a minute.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when the telephone rang again. With a rueful smile, she picked it up, wondering which friend or family member it was going to be this time.
“Hello, Clare,” the voice said.
As it had so many times before, the smile froze on her face. Seeing it, Richard reached for the receiver, but she held up her hand to stop him. “What do you want?” she managed to ask.
“I want to know how you’re feeling,” the voice said. “And I want to tell you how terribly sorry I am about what happened to you.”
“Are you really?”
“Of course I am,” the voice said, sounding hurt. “I was very upset when I heard you had an accident. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you before we have a chance to meet.”
“I think we’ve already met,” she said clearly. “A few days ago, on a road, around a curve.”
There was a sudden silence at the other end of the line.
“What’s he saying?” Richard whispered. But Clare just shrugged as best she can inside the cervical collar.
“Yes, we really will have to meet,” the voice said finally. “Not now, of course, but when you’re feeling a bit better.”
“Trust me, I’m never going to feel better enough for that,” Clare said defiantly.
“Oh, yes, you will,” the voice assured her. “And it’ll be like no other meeting you’ve ever had before in your life.”
In a van parked just down the street from the Durant home, Dusty and Erin sat and listened. They would spend every night in that van, on their own time, for the next week.
***
On Wednesday, after telling Doreen that he believed his wife to be safe, Richard went back to the office for an important series of meetings. As soon as he was gone, Clare turned off the telephone in her bedroom and went to sleep, actually sleeping through most of the day, and awakening only when Doreen came into the bedroom to insist that she have at least a little something to eat or drink. When Richard came home that evening, on time, she actually felt well enough to get up and have dinner with the family.
They sat around the large mahogany table, saying little. It was the first night since the accident that the four of them were eating a meal together, and they weren’t sure how to act.
“How is school?” Richard asked the children finally.
“Okay,” Julie replied.
“Okay,” Peter replied.
“Okay?” Richard echoed. “It’s almost two months into the new year. You’re not bored yet? School’s not a total waste of time? What you’re learning isn’t useless?”
The children giggled.
“Well, if you really want to know,” Peter said.
“Sure, I do,” his father said.
“All right, then, it’s not what we’re learning that’s useless,” the boy declared. “It’s Julie who’s useless. She already learned what I’m learning, and she won’t even help teach it to me.”
In response, Julie shot a forkful of mashed potatoes across the table at her brother, hitting him just below his left eye.
For a moment, they all sat there with their mouths open, not quite sure what had just happened, or how they should react. And then, without warning, Clare picked up her fork and shot a blob of potato in the direction of her husband.
“What did you do that for?” he demanded, grabbing his fork and returning the favor.
Instantly, the
