on her little girl for her while she does. Her daughter's name is Gracie."
"Yeah, I know." Sam watched her carefully. Elvis had told him she'd done that once before when the Sands woman had tuned up Ruby Kelly's car. Gracie Sands was the first child he'd known Clare to show an interest in since Evan's death. Up until now she'd tended to shy away from other people's children, and the God's honest truth was he found her interest promising and was marginally heartened. Maybe there was hope after all that he'd someday get his old Clare back again. "I saw her at Bill's Garage the first day they were in town," he said. "She's a cute little girl."
"She reminds me of Evan, Sam," Clare said. "There's something about her."
God! It was the first time since Evan's death that she'd willingly spoken their son's name to him. He ached for every single thing he had once taken for granted—the instinctive understanding they'd once shared, the unquestioning closeness. Taking a chance, he walked up to his wife and wrapped her in his arms for the first time in months.
Clare stiffened and Sam's arms dropped away. She immediately wished them back, but he'd already moved away. In any case she probably wouldn't have reached out for him even if he'd remained standing right in front of her. She'd lost the old self-confidence that used to allow her to grab what she wanted, and she sure as hell no longer knew how to ask for it. She did, however, stay in the kitchen with him.
She also attempted to share something of herself with him, and that was an effort she hadn't bothered to make in ... oh, a very long time.
"I handled all the arrangements between Emma and Jenny," she informed him. She hesitated, and then confessed, "And I purposely set everything up for Friday morning because I knew that way Emma would have to stay another week." She still couldn't believe she'd done that. And yet ... "Maybe I'll ask her to do my car next Friday. That would keep her here for still another week." Biting her bottom lip, she gazed into Sam's face, looking for a reaction.
One corner of his mouth went up around the cigarette he'd just lighted. "You can have her do mine the Friday after." Then he smiled.
She wanted to throw herself into his arms. This was the Sam she'd married. The don't-tell-me-who-I-can-be-friends-with-i'm-gonna-do-what-matters-to-me-not-whats-important-to-this-town-Sam. She'd fallen in love with him when she was fifteen years old and he was eighteen. She'd watched him run around town with Elvis Donnelly, thumbing his nose at all the small-town strictures—but ever-so-politely and always with that big, beautiful smile—and she'd thought, This is the guy for me. I'm gonna marry this boy.
And she had. He'd been everything to her, too, for over ten years. She didn't know how things had gotten so out of control.
Sam opened the window over the sink and flicked his cigarette butt out into the yard. He looked at her over his shoulder. "So, what's the story?" he asked. "Clare, do you wanna keep Emma in town for herself, or because of Gracie?" Pulling the window closed, he turned and hiked himself up onto the counter. Ankles crossed, bare feet swinging, he sat observing her through level eyes.
"I suppose it's a little of both," she admitted. "There's something about that little girl that's so ... healing. But there's something about Emma, too. She's a fighter and she speaks her mind. Yet, she's warm and friendly—I mean, my God, Sam, she even calls Elvis cher!" She still marveled over that little piece of gutsiness. Most of the people in this town called him Sheriff if they couldn't avoid addressing him entirely.
Sam laughed. "Yeah, I know. I don't think he knows quite what to make of her."
"I told her about Evan this afternoon," Clare told him. "I wanted to do it myself before she heard about him from someone else. And, you know what, Sam? She just reached out and rubbed my arm and said, 'Ah, cherie, I am so sorry. I can only imagine how you must
"Yeah, I know." Sam watched her carefully. Elvis had told him she'd done that once before when the Sands woman had tuned up Ruby Kelly's car. Gracie Sands was the first child he'd known Clare to show an interest in since Evan's death. Up until now she'd tended to shy away from other people's children, and the God's honest truth was he found her interest promising and was marginally heartened. Maybe there was hope after all that he'd someday get his old Clare back again. "I saw her at Bill's Garage the first day they were in town," he said. "She's a cute little girl."
"She reminds me of Evan, Sam," Clare said. "There's something about her."
God! It was the first time since Evan's death that she'd willingly spoken their son's name to him. He ached for every single thing he had once taken for granted—the instinctive understanding they'd once shared, the unquestioning closeness. Taking a chance, he walked up to his wife and wrapped her in his arms for the first time in months.
Clare stiffened and Sam's arms dropped away. She immediately wished them back, but he'd already moved away. In any case she probably wouldn't have reached out for him even if he'd remained standing right in front of her. She'd lost the old self-confidence that used to allow her to grab what she wanted, and she sure as hell no longer knew how to ask for it. She did, however, stay in the kitchen with him.
She also attempted to share something of herself with him, and that was an effort she hadn't bothered to make in ... oh, a very long time.
"I handled all the arrangements between Emma and Jenny," she informed him. She hesitated, and then confessed, "And I purposely set everything up for Friday morning because I knew that way Emma would have to stay another week." She still couldn't believe she'd done that. And yet ... "Maybe I'll ask her to do my car next Friday. That would keep her here for still another week." Biting her bottom lip, she gazed into Sam's face, looking for a reaction.
One corner of his mouth went up around the cigarette he'd just lighted. "You can have her do mine the Friday after." Then he smiled.
She wanted to throw herself into his arms. This was the Sam she'd married. The don't-tell-me-who-I-can-be-friends-with-i'm-gonna-do-what-matters-to-me-not-whats-important-to-this-town-Sam. She'd fallen in love with him when she was fifteen years old and he was eighteen. She'd watched him run around town with Elvis Donnelly, thumbing his nose at all the small-town strictures—but ever-so-politely and always with that big, beautiful smile—and she'd thought, This is the guy for me. I'm gonna marry this boy.
And she had. He'd been everything to her, too, for over ten years. She didn't know how things had gotten so out of control.
Sam opened the window over the sink and flicked his cigarette butt out into the yard. He looked at her over his shoulder. "So, what's the story?" he asked. "Clare, do you wanna keep Emma in town for herself, or because of Gracie?" Pulling the window closed, he turned and hiked himself up onto the counter. Ankles crossed, bare feet swinging, he sat observing her through level eyes.
"I suppose it's a little of both," she admitted. "There's something about that little girl that's so ... healing. But there's something about Emma, too. She's a fighter and she speaks her mind. Yet, she's warm and friendly—I mean, my God, Sam, she even calls Elvis cher!" She still marveled over that little piece of gutsiness. Most of the people in this town called him Sheriff if they couldn't avoid addressing him entirely.
Sam laughed. "Yeah, I know. I don't think he knows quite what to make of her."
"I told her about Evan this afternoon," Clare told him. "I wanted to do it myself before she heard about him from someone else. And, you know what, Sam? She just reached out and rubbed my arm and said, 'Ah, cherie, I am so sorry. I can only imagine how you must
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