Twice in a Lifetime (18 page)

It was a check. It was made out in his name for two thousand dollars.

“Why…why would…” he stammered.

“This is business,” Eddie explained. “That money is yours, no strings attached, so long as you do one thing.”

Drake’s pulse hammered in his ears.

Eddie leaned forward. “All you have to do is pack your things, throw them in that fancy car of yours, and drive away. And then, once you’ve left Sunset, you don’t ever come back. As a matter of fact, you never so much as think about Clara Sinclair again.”

He looked into the banker’s eyes, sure that this was some sort of joke, but even though Eddie couldn’t meet the intensity of his gaze for long, the businessman was serious. He wondered if the man had done this before: buying someone off, making them give up something they cared about in exchange for money.

Drake wasn’t a rich man, never had been.

There were times in his life when he’d struggled with money, wondering where his next meal might come from, how he was going to pay for a hotel room on a rainy night, or how he might afford enough gas to race. Somehow, through hard work and the strength of his convictions, he’d always managed to come up with what he needed. But Clara wasn’t for sale. Love wasn’t something that could be bought at a roadside stand. It was a priceless jewel. For Drake to surrender Clara and walk away from something he’d spent his whole life searching for would have been ridiculous. It was too great a cost, one he would never pay.

“You’re insane,” Drake spat as he began ripping the check into little pieces.

For a split second, Eddie looked stunned, wide-eyed at the turn of events. But then his face hardened. He reached inside his suit and pulled out his checkbook.

“All right, then. You want more, is it?” he asked. “Name your price.”

“You don’t have enough to make me leave Clara.”

“Come on, now. What if I double it?” Eddie prodded, raising his pen, poising it above another check.

“Go to hell,” Drake snarled.

“You would walk away from
four thousand dollars
?”

“You’re damn right I would,” he replied, and made to do exactly that.

But then Eddie said something that made Drake stop in his tracks. “Do you know what will happen to Clara if you refuse this money?”

Drake turned back.

“You see, my bank owns the note on Clara’s house,” Eddie explained. “With some creative accounting, by changing a number here and there, I can make it appear that Clara’s behind in her payments. Her loan would be in arrears.” He paused, his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips. “If she couldn’t come up with the money, the bank would own the house and she’d be out on the street.”

Drake fumed, his thoughts churning. It was obvious that this was the leverage Eddie was using against Clara; it explained why she’d been so reluctant to talk about what had happened at the bank. If she didn’t give in to Eddie, he would take her house and ruin her life, along with those of her mother and son.

“You’d never get away with it.”

“Oh, I most certainly would. If I were you, it’s a risk I wouldn’t be willing to take,” the banker said, flashing a smug, irritating smile.

“You son of a bitch,” Drake growled.

Eddie held up his hands, as if he was afraid that Drake was about to tear him limb from limb. “I don’t want to do it that way,” he said. “I want her love unconditionally, but to have her, I
will
use force if I have to.”

Unfortunately, Drake believed every word the bastard said.

So what was he going to do about it?

But then, surprisingly, Eddie gave him a sliver of hope. “I know this is a lot to think about,” the banker said, nervously drumming his fingers on the table. “How about you take a day or two to think it over, to fantasize about what all this money might buy you? With some time, I’m sure you’ll see it my way. If you actually have feelings for Clara, you’ll agree that the best thing you can do is get as far away from her as possible. Because if you don’t…”

Drake understood all too clearly.

Without a word, he turned and left. The clock was ticking…

O
PEN UP,
M
OM
,” Clara said as she leaned against the closed bedroom door, her ear pressed against the wood, straining for a sound. “Please…”

She held another plate of food in her hands, the third she had brought for Christine to eat: a couple of eggs, some sausage, and two pieces of toast. Clara hoped this one would have a different fate than the others; each had remained untouched, reluctantly taken away after they’d turned cold as stone.

After Drake had left the night before, Clara had gone to bed but once again hadn’t been able to sleep. She had stared at the ceiling, listening for any sound her mother might make: the creak of a floorboard, the rustling of bedsheets, even a cough or a snore. But all she heard was the beating of her own heart. Eventually, it had calmed her to sleep.

But once morning had come, still without a sound, a touched plate, or an opened door, Clara had started to grow concerned.

“Mom! Can you hear me?” She knocked hard, insistently, her fist pounding against the wood, but there was still no answer.

Suddenly, panic flared in Clara’s heart. What if something had happened to her mother? What if she was hurt, in need of help?

“Mom! Open up! Open your door!”

Even as Clara yelled, her imagination began to run wild, creating one horrible scenario after another, terrifying her. She grabbed the doorknob, turned it while pulling at the same time, rattling the door in its frame in a desperate attempt to make it open. Shame filled her for not doing it sooner, for letting her mother wallow in her pain, for not trying to help. She was only vaguely aware of the plate shattering on the floor, food spilling at her feet. She pounded and yanked and shouted, all at the same time.

But then, just as she was about to ram the door with her shoulder, hoping she might be able to force it open, Clara heard something.

“Leave me alone…” Christine said from inside, her voice faint.

Clara gasped with a mixture of relief and sadness. Tears filled her eyes. “Mom…Oh, Mom…” she answered, her face again pressed against the door. “Please…open the door…”

Once more, there was silence.

Slowly, Clara straightened, wiping away her tears as she tried to compose herself. Her mother had given her what she wanted, the acknowledgment that she was alive. But she would grant nothing more.

Reluctantly, and with a heavy heart, Clara walked away.

Clara absently pushed herself on the porch swing. Lazy clouds drifted by on the afternoon breeze. On the opposite side of the street, George Atkinson, Sunset’s mailman, went about his appointed rounds. Somewhere nearby, a car honked its horn; two short beeps followed by one long note, its own Morse code.

How different everything looked last night…

Hours earlier, she had sat in the swing beside Drake, their fingers entwined, the warmth of his skin enough to ward off the evening’s chill. After the day’s excitement, his presence had been a comfort. She wanted him beside her, and was thankful that that was right where he wished to be. So much had changed in such a short time; she could only imagine how different it would become now that Drake had expressed a desire to remain in Sunset, to stay by her side.

Drake’s declaration had surprised her. That he was willing to give up a part of his life
for her
was amazing. When she listened to him talk, about their relationship, opening a garage, a future in Sunset, it gave her hope. Her life since Joe’s death had been so gloomy, it was hard to believe that sunnier days were on the horizon. She was scared that she could be wrong, that she was misunderstanding something about the situation, but she refused to surrender to her fears that she couldn’t find happiness, that she didn’t deserve love. She most certainly did.

Still, there were problems.

Foremost on Clara’s mind was Tommy. Her son still hadn’t come home since his grandmother had nearly lit the house on fire. He was surely with Naomi, unaware of the calamity that had struck his family. But what alarmed Clara most was her reaction to his absence; she’d started to get used to it. She knew that it was wrong of her, that Tommy was in a precarious spot in his life where one mistake could ruin him. So right then and there, Clara decided that regardless of her mother’s deteriorating health, her troubles with Eddie, and even her relationship with Drake, her son had to come first. Nothing else was more important.

It was then that Clara heard a sound that stunned her.

Piano music.

Without hesitation, Clara was out of the porch swing and hurrying for the front door. Inside, she froze, dumbfounded by what she saw.

Her mother was playing the piano.

Christine sat on the small bench, her hands moving quickly, dancing from one note to another. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows to fall across the wooden floor, wash over the black instrument, its heavy lid closed, and finally reach the edges of the ivory keys. Music echoed around the room. The melody was familiar, a song that Clara had listened to often when she’d been a little girl: “Song of the Lark,” by Tchaikovsky. Christine’s hands worked up and down the keys, her face a mask of concentration, while her foot gently pumped the pedals.

Tears filled Clara’s eyes. Happiness and relief flooded her heart. It had been many long years since her mother had last played. For as long as Clara could remember, music had been Christine’s greatest passion. She plunked children’s tunes, contorted her fingers through the complexities of Mozart, somberly played during funerals, reveled at weddings, and had even composed a few songs of her own. But then her memory had begun to fade…

One day, years ago, Clara had suddenly realized that her mother hadn’t played for a long time; it was easy to understand why. For Christine, the frustration of tripping over a note she’d struck thousands of times before had become unbearable. Rather than embarrass herself, it was easier to shut the lid over the keys. That was the end of it.

Until today.

Once she finished Tchaikovsky, Christine moved on to a church processional, then a show tune that Clara recognized but couldn’t name, and finally a lively Duke Ellington number. Sweat beaded on her brow, but Christine never slowed. Occasionally, she would stumble over a note, making the slightest of errors, but Clara didn’t know if it was because of a deficiency in her memory or simply the rust from not having played for so long. Listening to the music, Clara was reminded of happier times, back when Tommy used to stand next to his grandmother and sing with the enthusiasm of a child, not the least bit self-conscious of his voice; reminiscing made her happy and sad at the same time.

Clara wondered if her mother knew she was there, listening, but when Christine finished playing with a flourish, she looked up and right into her daughter’s eyes; a small, satisfied smiled lit up her face.

“That was incredible,” Clara said.

Her mother didn’t answer, but a bit of color rose in her cheeks. For a moment, neither of them spoke; after so much music, the silence felt heavy, ominous.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer the door,” Christine finally said. “I…I’m just so ashamed of what happened. I could have killed us all.”

“But you
didn’t
,” Clara insisted; it was the same conversation they’d had yesterday, which made her wonder if her mother had forgotten.

“What if you hadn’t come home when you did? What then?”

“I didn’t call the fire department, so that means one of our neighbors did. They would have put it out instead of Drake.”

Clara’s reassurance seemed to have no effect on her mother; Christine shook her head as her eyes grew wet. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she explained. “Every time I try to recall what I was doing, so much of it stays hidden away, like it’s wrapped in fog. I remember wanting to start dinner. I got out the skillet, put in some lard, turned on the stove, but then a curtain comes down and the next thing I know, you’re shaking me awake and telling me that the house is on fire.”

“Everyone has moments like that,” Clara argued. “There are lots of times when I can’t remember doing something. Why, just last week, I—”

“Stop it,” her mother interrupted.

“But it’s not as bad as—”

“Clara Elizabeth, you just hush up right now!” Christine snapped, using her daughter’s middle name to silence her. “Don’t you lie to make me feel better. We both know I’m getting worse. There’s no use in acting any different.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Clara nodded.

“Can you imagine what this is like for me?” Christine asked, her lip trembling. “To know that the day might come when I don’t recognize you? That I might do something that gets Tommy hurt? It’s unbearable.”

Though she wanted to say something, anything that might alleviate her mother’s suffering and worries, Clara couldn’t. The truth was, she had the same concerns and had yet to come up with any answers.

“I know you won’t want to hear this,” her mother continued, tears flowing down her cheeks, “but some nights, just before I fall asleep, I think it would be better for you and Tommy if I didn’t wake up…”

Clara rushed to her mother’s side, sitting beside her on the piano bench. She pulled Christine close, wrapping her arms around the older woman’s shoulders as the two of them sobbed. It devastated Clara to hear her mother say such things, to admit that she would rather die than live with the fear of her deteriorating memory. She was angry, at both the unfairness of what was happening and her inability to do anything about it. Whenever Clara had needed her mother, especially in the years after Joe’s death, Christine had always been there, providing support, care for Tommy, anything that might be needed. But now that their situation was reversed, the mother needing her child, Clara was helpless.

Once their tears had subsided, Clara tried to come up with a solution. “Maybe we could hire a nurse, someone who can be with you all day.”

Christine shook her head. “You know we can’t afford that.”

“How about one of your friends? Ruth Mitchell is retired now. She might be willing to come over while I’m at work.”

Her mother didn’t respond; Clara suspected that the idea was too embarrassing to consider.

“Then I’ll stay home with you.”

“And what will we do for money? We can barely make ends meet now, especially since I’m not at the library anymore.”

“We’ll find a way,” Clara declared, though she had no idea how.

Her mother was right; they were scraping by as it was. The house was slowly falling apart, one broken thing after another, to say nothing of the problems with the pickup truck. On top of everything, there was Eddie’s threat to take away the house. If that happened, they would lose everything. But then, Clara thought about what Drake had said the night before.

“Do you remember Evelyn Price?” she asked.

Her mother smiled. “That’s a name I haven’t heard for a very long time. Her family moved away ten years ago or so, didn’t they?”

Clara nodded. “She used to bully me on the way home from school when we were little. I asked you to make her stop, but you wouldn’t do it.”

“I made you stick up for yourself,” Christine said. “It was one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn as a mother, to let you fight your own battles. All I wanted was to march over to the Prices’ and give her parents a piece of my mind, but I couldn’t. You needed to learn how to stand up for yourself.”

“And I did. I fought back and she never bothered me again.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Clara took a deep breath. “Because you encouraged me. You gave me strength. Because of what you said, even if Evelyn had continued to bully me, I wouldn’t have quit. So that’s just what we’re going to do now. We’re going to fight this.” As she spoke, Clara’s voice, as well as her conviction, grew stronger. “You’re not going to lock yourself in your room anymore, too frightened to do something because of what might happen. Each one of us, together as a family, Tommy included, we’re going to get through this.”

Her mother nodded, but she didn’t seem very convinced, so Clara tried a different approach. “What made you decide to play the piano again?”

“I don’t know…not exactly…” Christine answered. “Whenever I used to be out of sorts, sad or angry, I would sit at the piano and play until those bad feelings went away. After what happened yesterday…after the fire…I was drawn to it.” Offering a weak smile, she added, “Maybe I forgot I
couldn’t
play.”

“But you still can.”

“Today, at least. But what about tomorrow or the day after that?”

“There are no guarantees,” Clara answered. “But you’re never going to know what you can or can’t do unless you try. It doesn’t matter if you forget what you wanted for breakfast or if you already went to get the mail or even how to play the piano. You just find something else to eat, check the mailbox again, or sit back down and start plunking the keys. Mistakes and failures are only temporary.” Nodding toward the piano, she added, “They clearly don’t mean forever.”

“I…I don’t want to be a burden to you…” Christine said.

“You couldn’t ever be,” Clara told her, smiling through tears. “But there is something you could do that would make me plenty angry.”

“What’s that?”

“You could give up,” Clara replied. “Now is the time to fight, not surrender. Isn’t that what you taught me?”

Christine smiled, more genuinely than before. “And you actually listened. If that isn’t a miracle, I don’t know what is.”

This time, instead of music or sobs, laughter filled the room.

Clara put the last of the dishes from lunch into the sink. Her mother had gone upstairs to lie down, promising that she wouldn’t so much as shut her door, let alone lock it. After their conversation at the piano, things between them felt easier. Trying to keep things positive, Clara told Christine that this was a new beginning for all of them, a chance to start fresh. But then, just as she started to hum one of the melodies her mother had played, there was a knock at the front door. She slipped off her apron, dried her hands, and went to answer.