a pill container,
and opened the lid with trembling hands. He popped a pill into his mouth.
Oh, jeez—she hadn’t meant to give the old dude a heart attack. She hadn’t meant to hurt him at all. She’d meant… Oh, hell.
Guilt snaked through her. She’d meant to cause trouble, and this was the result.
Nothing good ever comes from bad intentions,
her mother used to say. Remorse flushed through her veins. She was always screwing things up. Why did she always have to
screw things up?
“You should sit down.” Katie took the man by the arm and edged him two feet back, to the barstool behind the counter. The
wooden stool squeaked on the hardwood floor as he sat down.
“I’m fine,” Dave said. “Really. It’s already better.”
“Does this happen often?”
“Nah. Just every now and then, if I get upset or excited or”—he looked at Gracie—“surprised. It’s no big deal.”
“Heart trouble certainly is a big deal,” Katie said. “How long have you had it?”
“Awhile. But it’s all under control.” He straightened on the stool and looked through the window. “Here comes Brad. We can
go in the back and talk, if you like.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” the man said. “The pain’s already gone.”
A thin young man a year or two older than Gracie walked through the door. Katie looked at Zack. “You two can run along.”
Zack touched Katie on the shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you this evening.”
The man gave Gracie a weak smile. “And I’ll talk to you later, Gracie.”
“O-okay.” She looked at him. Her chin trembled. “I didn’t mean…,” she started. “I mean, I’m… I’m…”
Sorry.
The word stuck in her throat like a chicken bone. Dear God, she was sorry about so many things, things that she could barely
stand to think about, things that woke her up in the night sobbing and covered with sweat, things that she would never be
able to apologize for. How could she say she was sorry for this, when she’d never be able to apologize for the things that
possessed her like a demon, stank up the air she breathed, and tainted her every thought?
Sorry.
Yeah, she was, but what good did it do? It was just a word—a stupid, meaningless word that didn’t change anything.
Nothing could ever change all the things she was sorry for.
“It’s okay, Gracie,” Dave said. His weathered face creased in a smile, and he said the words she needed to hear but didn’t
believe. “It’s not your fault.”
Zack opened the door, punched open the umbrella, and held it over her. She moved away from him, stepping off the sidewalk
and into the gutter. Raindrops plopped down on her head. The sky was weeping, she thought as she wiped her face. No one needed
to know that she was, too.
C HAPTER FIVE
The sun rode low in the sky as Dave steered his sedan into the parking lot of the Sunnyside Assisted-Living Villa. He turned
off the engine, picked up the bouquet of roses he’d bought at the grocery store, and climbed out of the car. As he walked
toward the large, French-country-style building, he thought again how the place looked more like a resort than a place for
the elderly or disabled.
Disabled. It was hard to think of Annette that way. Of course, she was just temporarily in that condition—a nasty fall down
the stairs at her home in New Orleans had broken her leg in three places and required a total knee replacement—but it was
still hard, because in his mind’s eye, she’d always be the girl he’d fallen in love with in high school. Annette had been
his first kiss, his first lover, his first wife.
Hell. She’d been his only real wife. That thing with his secretary didn’t count. That had been nothing but a stupid, alcohol-fueled,
midlife crisis—a way of denying the fact he was getting older, of trying to feel better about himself. It was no excuse, but
if he hadn’t been drinking so heavily, it never would have happened.
and opened the lid with trembling hands. He popped a pill into his mouth.
Oh, jeez—she hadn’t meant to give the old dude a heart attack. She hadn’t meant to hurt him at all. She’d meant… Oh, hell.
Guilt snaked through her. She’d meant to cause trouble, and this was the result.
Nothing good ever comes from bad intentions,
her mother used to say. Remorse flushed through her veins. She was always screwing things up. Why did she always have to
screw things up?
“You should sit down.” Katie took the man by the arm and edged him two feet back, to the barstool behind the counter. The
wooden stool squeaked on the hardwood floor as he sat down.
“I’m fine,” Dave said. “Really. It’s already better.”
“Does this happen often?”
“Nah. Just every now and then, if I get upset or excited or”—he looked at Gracie—“surprised. It’s no big deal.”
“Heart trouble certainly is a big deal,” Katie said. “How long have you had it?”
“Awhile. But it’s all under control.” He straightened on the stool and looked through the window. “Here comes Brad. We can
go in the back and talk, if you like.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” the man said. “The pain’s already gone.”
A thin young man a year or two older than Gracie walked through the door. Katie looked at Zack. “You two can run along.”
Zack touched Katie on the shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you this evening.”
The man gave Gracie a weak smile. “And I’ll talk to you later, Gracie.”
“O-okay.” She looked at him. Her chin trembled. “I didn’t mean…,” she started. “I mean, I’m… I’m…”
Sorry.
The word stuck in her throat like a chicken bone. Dear God, she was sorry about so many things, things that she could barely
stand to think about, things that woke her up in the night sobbing and covered with sweat, things that she would never be
able to apologize for. How could she say she was sorry for this, when she’d never be able to apologize for the things that
possessed her like a demon, stank up the air she breathed, and tainted her every thought?
Sorry.
Yeah, she was, but what good did it do? It was just a word—a stupid, meaningless word that didn’t change anything.
Nothing could ever change all the things she was sorry for.
“It’s okay, Gracie,” Dave said. His weathered face creased in a smile, and he said the words she needed to hear but didn’t
believe. “It’s not your fault.”
Zack opened the door, punched open the umbrella, and held it over her. She moved away from him, stepping off the sidewalk
and into the gutter. Raindrops plopped down on her head. The sky was weeping, she thought as she wiped her face. No one needed
to know that she was, too.
C HAPTER FIVE
The sun rode low in the sky as Dave steered his sedan into the parking lot of the Sunnyside Assisted-Living Villa. He turned
off the engine, picked up the bouquet of roses he’d bought at the grocery store, and climbed out of the car. As he walked
toward the large, French-country-style building, he thought again how the place looked more like a resort than a place for
the elderly or disabled.
Disabled. It was hard to think of Annette that way. Of course, she was just temporarily in that condition—a nasty fall down
the stairs at her home in New Orleans had broken her leg in three places and required a total knee replacement—but it was
still hard, because in his mind’s eye, she’d always be the girl he’d fallen in love with in high school. Annette had been
his first kiss, his first lover, his first wife.
Hell. She’d been his only real wife. That thing with his secretary didn’t count. That had been nothing but a stupid, alcohol-fueled,
midlife crisis—a way of denying the fact he was getting older, of trying to feel better about himself. It was no excuse, but
if he hadn’t been drinking so heavily, it never would have happened.
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