Returning to Shore by Corinne Demas Page B

something about Richard’s use of the past tense. Peter was still her stepfather, wasn’t he, even if he and Vera weren’t married? But she felt that Peter was not a subject that Richard was eager to talk about.
    â€œSure,” she said. It seemed unfair to Peter not to say something more on his behalf, not to say how wonderful he is.
    â€œHow about some ice cream for dessert?” asked Richard. “I noticed a place on the way here.”
    â€œOK,” she said.
    There was a long line at the ice cream place, and Clare was afraid Richard regretted suggesting they stop.
    â€œI don’t really need ice cream,” she said.
    â€œNo one needs ice cream,” said Richard, and he took his place stoically in line. When they got their ice cream they got back in the car and Richard handed his cone to Clare while he started up the engine. When they were out on the main road again she handed it back to him. Her ice cream was soft-serve, and she had to work fast with her tongue to keep up with the drips down the sides of the cone.
    By the time they had turned off onto the smaller road that led to the Blackfish Island Bridge, Richard had popped the last two inches of his cone into his mouth and wiped his hand on his shirt front, and Clare had reduced the swirls of vanilla to a mound barely higher than her cone. Somewhere, beyond the trees, the sun was setting now, and the sky was the faint violet color of dusk. There was a boy on a bicycle riding towards them. He was on an old-fashioned bike with big handlebars, and he was riding in lazy loops. He didn’t have a helmet on, and he was barefoot. Richardslowed way down, but a car came up behind them—a jeep—and passed them just as the road curved to the left. The driver spotted the bicycle rider just in time, honked and swerved to miss him. Richard slammed on his brakes. The jeep raced off. The boy managed to keep his balance on the bike. He looked back over his shoulder at the jeep, then continued on his way. Richard drove a little farther, then pulled to the side of the road. Clare had gripped her ice cream, and her finger had poked through the cone to the cold inside. She started to lean over to take a big lick of the cone, but something made her turn to look at Richard before her tongue met the ice cream. He was bent over, his head on the steering wheel.
    â€œDad?” she asked. “Dad, are you all right?”
    He lifted his head slowly. He was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. She dropped the ice cream cone to the floor of the car.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” she asked.
    â€œI’ve got to get out of the car,” he said. “I’ve got to get some air.”
    â€œDad! What should I do?”
    He flung open the door of the car and scrambledoutside. But once he was on his feet he gripped the side of the car with one hand, his other clutched his chest. His breath came in small spurts.
    â€œAre you having a heart attack?” she cried. “Should I go for help?” There were no other people around that she could see, but there was a mailbox just ahead of them at the end of a driveway, and there must be a house there not far away.
    Richard held on to the door frame and leaned in the window. “I’m all right, Clare. It’s not a heart attack. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.” He opened the car door and lowered himself cautiously to his seat. He was breathing more evenly now, as if he had practiced this, as if he was making himself slow down.
    â€œWhat can I do?” asked Clare.
    â€œCan you drive?” asked Richard.
    â€œI don’t have a license,” said Clare, “but I’ve driven a little.”
    â€œCan you drive a stick shift?”
    â€œNo,” said Clare.
    â€œWe’ll just sit here for a moment, then,” said Richard. “Just give me a moment to catch my breath.”
    Richard sat still with his eyes shut. Clare watchedthe sky