Clarissa stared out the window of her condominium. The golf course below looked so green, manicured, perfect. In the fading light of a spring evening, a group of twenty-something men putted four little white balls into the hole and hurried over to the last tee, trying to get their game in before darkness enveloped them.
The darkness was closing in on her, too.
If only she could get through all this, open up the store in the Lancaster Building, everything would be all right. She knew that she wouldn’t hate retail so much if she worked in Nashville instead of Shoal Creek. Not having to deal with all the insurance, the crowds, and just being able to provide top-notch service to the people who wanted it would be so much better. Yes, that wouldn’t be nearly as miserable as normal retail.
Then she thought about Mrs. Vaerge.
A person had almost died because of a bad decision Clarissa had made. Even if Mrs. Vaerge recovered fully, even if her bills were being taken care of, the thought of what might have happened was staggering.
Her doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but it wasn’t unlike her friends to drop by.
“Hey.” Tony’s eyes drooped at the corners in a way Clarissa hadn’t seen before.
It had been several weeks since they’d last talked—not since they went out for ice cream. Surely he wasn’t still moping about Paige. “What’s wrong?”
“How do you know something’s wrong?”
“Like you don’t have the most readable face in the western hemisphere. Come on in and tell your darling niece all about it.”
He followed her inside. “You busy?”
“Never too busy for you. What’s up?” She motioned him toward a seat at her dinette.
He dropped into it. “I got a visit from Jeff Sweeney today.”
“Really? Why would he come see you?”
Tony studied her face while she spoke as if he expected some sort of clue to emerge. “I had him checking out a few things that just didn’t add up.”
“Like what?”
“All that stuff in Atlanta, something didn’t seem right to me. I asked him what he thought about it. I believe his exact words were, ‘I smell a PR rat.’ What he found confirmed that. Paige took the fall for blame that could have been spread in a lot more directions.”
Clarissa shrugged. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?” He leaned his chin into his hand and continued to watch her evenly.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Did you set her up?”
“Hello. That happened a long time before I’d ever even set eyes on the girl. How exactly do you think I set her up?”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about in Shoal Creek.”
“What do her mistakes in Shoal Creek have to do with the situation in Atlanta?”
He leaned farther across the table. “Did you set her up?”
“Of course not.”
He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “I knew you wouldn’t do something like that. I told him there was no way that the sweetheart of a niece I’ve known all my life would do something like that. I said, ‘She’s been the one who was getting stomped on most of her life. She would never do that to another person. Especially another person who was working and saving every penny to help pay her mother’s medical costs.”
“Medical costs?”
“Come on, Clarissa, tell me you knew that her mother has cancer.”
“All she’s ever told me about her family is that her parents are on a trip to Texas for a few months, so she’s house-sitting.”
“Her mother’s in Houston getting a stem cell transplant. According to Jeff Sweeney, her parents’ credit is maxed out, and Paige was apparently helping to support them financially. You can’t tell me you didn’t know any of that.”
“I . . . didn’t . . .” Clarissa thought of the times she’d talked about shopping, and how Paige had always said something to the effect of, “I’m trying to save my money right now.” Never once had she mentioned anything about sending money to a sick mother. Never once in all that time. “No, I didn’t know. She never talked about it.”
Tony shook his head almost imperceptibly. “I’m sure you realize that she’s having trouble finding another job because of all this. In fact, what you probably don’t realize is that her father had to sell his truck and plumbing supplies. That’ll make it kind of hard for him to return to work when he gets back into town, wouldn’t you say?”
Clarissa looked at Tony and recoiled. The look in his eyes was one she recognized well; she’d seen it often enough in her stepmother. Disgust. Just another family member disappointed in her.
His accusation awoke in her the only thing that could defend her now. Anger. “Well, she shouldn’t have made mistakes, then.”
If Tony had even blinked during this conversation, Clarissa hadn’t seen it. He nodded very slowly. “I’m glad to know your conscience is clear.”
“Sparkling.” Clarissa folded her arms and propped her feet in the chair across the table.
“Then I guess I don’t have anything else to talk to you about. Have a good evening.” He stood and walked to the door. He opened it, then turned. “Sleep well.”
Paige was driving down the busy freeway. Cars whizzing past. A beautiful young girl with huge blue eyes was waving to her from the middle seat of her mother’s SUV. No, wait, she wasn’t waving, she was screaming.
Paige sat up in the bed, gasping for breath. The dream never seemed to go away, or lessen in intensity. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse.
She got up and walked to the kitchen for a drink of water. The digital clock on the oven displayed 4:30 a.m. in brilliant neon blue. Paige sat down at the oak table and took a sip of water. She couldn’t go back to bed and face the possibility of another dream, so she went to the den and picked up the remote, but never pushed the button.
“God, will you please tell Mr. Bartlett it wasn’t my fault? I want him to know that.”
A twang of something ran through her, and it felt a lot like guilt. She shook her head. “Well, it wasn’t. The nurse wrote it, the doctor signed it. I filled it just like it was written.” The feeling did not subside, in spite of her logic. But it was true. She did not carry the blame.
She remembered the nightmares she’d had so many times, of Mr. Bartlett’s seizure behind the wheel. “You know what, I’m not backing down here. The blame is at least fifty percent the nurse’s who wrote it down wrong, and the other fifty percent was the doctor’s who signed it.”
Her words were true. Why didn’t they give her any relief?
“Okay, maybe three percent of the blame is mine. But that is three out of one hundred. Get it? Not my fault!”
Three percent.
Three percent blame in a man’s death.
The thought battered her with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. How was she supposed to live with that?
Until this very moment she’d insulated herself with the knowledge that she carried the lesser blame. But any blame was too much. A man lay in a grave in Atlanta, and if she had taken extra precaution, he’d still be with his family today. Maybe watching his granddaughter’s ballet recital, or his grandson’s little league game.
Paige leaned her head back against the sofa cushions and thought about the wreck. What must Mr. Bartlett have felt when his limbs started to jerk as he drove down the interstate? Did he see the toddler in the other car, try his very best to control his arms one last time so that he avoided hitting her? Maybe he was a hero, and they would never know. Because he hadn’t lived to tell them.
Then a thought occurred that rocked her even more. What percentage blame was hers for Ora’s heart attack? If she had told the truth to the board inspector that very first day, would this still have happened? Was her cover-up even now putting more people in danger?
She went to her wallet and found the business card she’d put there over a month ago. She knew the office was closed, but if she didn’t make this call now, she might change her mind. She punched in the appropriate numbers on her cell phone and held her breath until it clicked over to voice mail.
“This is Paige Woodward. I’d like to make an appointment to see Gary Powell. It’s about my time at Richardson Apothecary,” she said and left a call-back number. This was something that she had to do if she was ever going to sleep with a clear conscience again.