“There’s an idea. You think maybe I could hire your wife to do them up for me?” The twist in her voice when she said “your wife” startled him. He stopped where he stood, one foot on the top step. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
He could smell roses heavy in the warm, humid air. He wondered if the church’s flower committee worked on her garden, as well. He looked at Clare, who was standing between the steps and the double door, almost invisible in the dark because of her black clothing.
“Thanks for bringing me home,” she said.
“I’ll call you tomorrow about retrieving your car.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t move. Neither did he. “You’ve walked me to the door. I’m safe. You can go now.”
“You go in first. And lock the door behind you, for once.”
There was a rustle as she crossed her arms. “Why can’t you leave first?”
He took the last step up onto the porch. “You know why.”
Her chin jerked up. Her face a pattern of pale and dark. She stood absolutely still, watching him. Measuring him. He didn’t think he could move even if a car jumped the curb and came straight toward them. Then she was gone, a whirl, the swish of cloth, and the door clunked shut behind her. He heard the clack of the bolt turning.
He backed down the steps, watching the house, but no lights came on. He climbed into his seat, fired up the truck, and pulled away. He unrolled the window, hung his arm outside, and, half-seeing the stars, drove all the way home.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Clare woke up Saturday morning, she lay in bed for a long time, not moving. She hadn’t turned the fan on last night, and the air was thick and still, like another blanket weighing her down. From her open window came the drone of a lawn mower as someone got to their yard work early, before the heat and humidity became unbearable. She knew she should get up and get her run in early for the same reason. She lay on her back and studied the ceiling. There was a smear in the semigloss paint that looked like a bank of cumulus clouds. If she didn’t get up now and run, she would be cutting it too close to the time of the Veerhoos-James nuptials. The bride-to-be had described it as a “brunch wedding,” although no one would be eating before noon, since the service didn’t begin until eleven o’clock. Clare had turned down the invitation to the reception, so she would be free after the photos in the church. She wouldn’t want to run then, because it would be too hot. Or raining, from the feel of it. And she had to get her grocery shopping done and pick up her car.
The night before reassembled in her memory, the pieces clicking into place—the kir royales, Hugh Parteger, her raid on Malcolm’s bedroom, the porch roof. What in God’s name had she been thinking of? Then riding home with Russ—no, with Chief Van Alstyne. Her attempt at distancing him was so transparent, she sneered at herself as soon as she thought it.
She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. She tried lying in that position until her mind went blank, but she couldn’t breathe very well. If she didn’t get up and strap on her running shoes right now, it wasn’t going to happen. With a groan, she surrendered to the demands of life and climbed out of bed.
She had known several priests and seminarians who liked to use the early-morning hours for private prayer and contemplation. She got the same results from running. Rain or shine, hot or cold, at some point during her five-mile run, the worries and questions that swarmed around her head like blackflies always blew away and she could feel that simple, bell-clear connection to the world around her, the weather, the working of her body. Being in the moment, that was being with God. One of her seminarian friends told her she should have been a Buddhist. One of her army buddies had pointed out that her spiritual experience was more likely the result of endorphins kicking in than opening a channel to the divine. Clare didn’t care. She would take whatever peace and certainty she could get. And run with it.