Read Online No Place Like Home by Mary Higgins Clark - Free Book Online Page B

mouth is quick to smile, but his eyes sometimes hold a hint of worry, even of fear. I held up my watch. “What time is it?” I demanded with mock seriousness.
    â€œTen o’clock, Mom.”
    â€œWhat time do you think I’m going to be back?”
    He smiled. “Twelve o’clock on the dot.”
    I kissed his forehead. “Agreed.”
    I got up quickly, as Miss Durkin took his hand. “Jack, I want you to meet Billy. You can help me cheer him up.”
    Tears were streaming down Billy’s face. It was clear he’d rather be anywhere than in this pre-K class.
    When Jack turned toward him, I slipped out of the classroom and made my way back down the hall. As I passed the door of the office, I saw an older woman behind the secretarial desk who somehow quickened something in my memory.Was I wrong, or had she been here all those years ago? She had. I was sure of it, and sure that I would recall her name.
    In the month since my birthday, I had avoided coming to Mendham. When Alex suggested that we measure the rooms for furniture and carpets and window treatments, I used every excuse in the book to delay being put in the position of ordering any household trappings that would be suitable for my former home. I said that I wanted to live in the house and get the feel of it before I made any final selections.
    I resisted the temptation to walk in the graveyard and visit my parents’ graves. Instead I got in the car and drove a few minutes down Main Street, intending to go into the small shopping center for a cup of coffee. Now that I was alone, my mind felt as though the events of the past twenty-four hours were racing through it, endlessly replaying.
    The vandalism. The sign on the lawn. Sergeant Earley. Marcella Williams. Georgette Grove. The newspaper photo in the barn this morning.
    Reaching the shopping center, I parked, bought the newspapers, and went into the coffee shop where I ordered black coffee. I forced myself to read every word of the stories about the house, and cringed at the picture of me, my knees buckling under me.
    If there was any morsel of comfort, it was clear that all the newspapers referred to us only as “the new owners of the house.” The only personal informationwas the brief mention that I was the widow of the philanthropist Laurence Foster, and that Alex was a member of the riding club and about to open a branch of his law firm in Summit.
    Alex. What was I doing to him? Yesterday, typical of his thoughtfulness, he had hired enough extra help so that by six o’clock the house was in as good shape as it could possibly be on move-in day. Of course, we did not have enough furniture, but the table and chairs and armoire were in place in the dining room, as were the couches and lamps and tables and occasional chairs in the living room. The bedrooms—Alex’s and mine, and Jack’s—were in relatively good order. Our hanging bags were in the closets and the suitcases were unpacked.
    I remembered how hurt Alex had been and how puzzled the movers were by my refusal to allow them to unpack the good china and silver and crystal. Instead I had them placed in one of the guest bedrooms along with other boxes marked “Fragile,” a word that I thought was more appropriate to use describing me than the china.
    I could see the disappointment growing in Alex’s eyes as I sent more and more boxes to be stacked in the guest bedroom. He knew that it meant our stay in the house would probably be measured in weeks, not months or years.
    Alex wanted to live in this area, and I knew that when I married him. I sipped my coffee and reflected on that simple fact. Summit is only half an hour from here, and he was already a member ofthe Peapack Club when I met him. Is it possible that subconsciously I have always wanted to come back here to the familiar scenes that are embedded in my memory? Generations of my ancestors have lived here, after all. Certainly I