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“To you, too.”
He waited for her to say something more; the quiet that crackled through the lines made him remember how easily they’d once talked.
“Hard day for you, huh?” Her voice was soft, sad. He heard talking in the background. A man’s voice. A child’s.
“I’ve been invited to Thanksgiving dinner.”
“That’s great. Are you going?”
He heard the doubt in her voice. “I am.”
“Good.”
They talked for a few minutes about little things, nothing that mattered, then came to a natural pause. Finally, Susan said, “I need to get back. We’ve got company.”
“Okay.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“You, too,” he said. “Tell your folks hi from me.”
“I will.” She paused. Her voice lowered. “Let it go, Max. It’s been too long.”
She made it sound easy, but they both knew better than that. “I don’t know how to do that, Suze.”
“So you keep risking your life. Why don’t you try taking a real chance, Max?” She sighed and fell silent.
“Maybe I will,” he said softly.
In the end, as always, it was Max who hung up first.
He sat there, staring down at his watch. The minutes ticked past.
It was time. There was no reason for him to be hiding out here, worrying, and the truth was, he wanted to go. It had been too long since he’d enjoyed a holiday.
As the crow flies, if one followed the river, the distance between their two houses was less than a mile. Crows, however, flew well above the dense thicket of trees. On the old highway and out along the River Road, it was slow going. The week’s rainfall had left huge potholes in the road.
He parked back from the house and killed the lights and engine. Getting the wine from the backseat, he shut the car door with his hip and turned to the house. It was a pretty little farmhouse with a wraparound porch, perched on a patch of grass that rolled gently down to the river. An old, thick-stemmed garden of roses ran the length of the house. There were no blossoms now, just dark thorns and blackening leaves. Giant trees protected the west side of the house, their tips pointed up to a velvety sky.
Susan would have loved this house. She would have run across the yard now, pointing to places only she could see. The orchard will be there . . . the swing set goes there. They’d spent two years looking for their dream house. Why hadn’t they seen that any house they’d chosen would have become the very thing they sought?
He crossed the yard and slowly climbed
the steps. As he neared the front door, he could hear music. It was John Denver’s voice: “Coming home to a place he’d never been before.”
He could see them through the oval etched glass in the front door.
Julia and Ellie were dancing with each other, bumping hips and falling sideways and laughing. Alice stood by the fireplace, watching them with huge, unblinking eyes, eating a flower. Every now and then a smile seemed to take her by surprise.
He heard a car drive up behind him and then shut off. Doors opened, closed. Footsteps crunched through the gravel driveway, accompanied by the high-pitched chatter of children’s voices.
“Doc!”
It was Cal’s voice, calling out to him.
Before he could turn and answer, the front door opened and Ellie stood there, staring up at him. It was a cop’s look; assessing.
“I’m glad you could make it,” she said, stepping back to let him in. Dressed in emerald velvet pants and a sparkly black sweater, she was every inch the legendary small-town beauty queen.
