Paul? That first night when she got in from the police station, the house seemed suddenly too big, too empty, for just one person.
Paul had wanted more. He had talked about children on their second date and third date and countless dates thereafter. He had told Claire about his parents, how wonderful they were, how he had been devastated when they’d died. Paul was sixteen when the Scotts were killed in a car accident during a freak ice storm. He was an only child. The only relative he’d had left was an uncle who passed away while Paul was in high school.
Her husband had made it clear that he wanted a big family. He wanted lots and lots of kids to inoculate himself against loss and Claire had tried and tried with him until finally she had agreed to go see a fertility expert who had informed Claire that she couldn’t have children because she had an IUD and was taking birth control pills.
Of course, Claire hadn’t shared that information with Paul. She had told her husband that the doctor had diagnosed her with something called an “inhospitable womb,” which was true because what was more inhospitable than a pipe cleaner stuck up your uterus?
“Almost there,” Helen said. She reached over and touched Claire’s knee. “We’ll get through this, sweetheart.”
Claire grabbed her mother’s hand. They both had tears in their eyes. They both looked away without acknowledging them.
“It’s good you have a grave to visit.” Ginny stared out the window with a pleasant smile on her face. There was no telling where her mind was. “When your father died, I remember standing at his grave and thinking, This is the place where I can leave my grief. It wasn’t immediate, of course, but I had somewhere to go, and every time I visited the cemetery, I felt like when I got back into my car, a tiny little bit of grief was gone.”
Helen brushed invisible lint from her skirt.
Claire tried to summon good memories of her father. She was in college when Helen called to say that he was dead. At the end of his life, her father had been a very sad, very broken man. No one had been surprised when he’d committed suicide.
Ginny asked, “What’s that missing girl’s name again?”
“Anna Kilpatrick.”
The limo slowed as it made the wide turn into the driveway. Helen shifted in her seat to look out the front window. “Is the gate supposed to be open?”
“I guess the caterers—” Claire didn’t finish the sentence. There were three police cars parked behind the caterers’ van. “Oh, God. What now?”
A policewoman motioned for the limo to park on the pad down from the main house.
Helen turned to Claire. “Have you done something?”
“What?” Claire couldn’t believe the question, but then she thought about the Valium and the Tramadol and the Scotch and her heartless parole officer who’d said Claire’s smart mouth was going to get her in trouble one day, to which Claire had told him that day had come and gone or she wouldn’t have a parole officer.
Would he really drug-test her on the day of her husband’s funeral?
“For the love of God.” Helen slid toward the door. “Claire, do something about your expression. You look guilty as hell.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Claire said, resurrecting a whiny tone she hadn’t deployed since the ninth grade.
“Let me handle this.” Helen pushed open the door. “Is there a problem, Officer?” She was using her librarian voice, low and terse and highly annoyed.
The cop held up her hand. “You need to step back, lady.”
“This is private property. I know my rights.”
“I’m sorry.” Claire edged in front of her mother. No wonder she had a problem with authority. “I’m Claire Scott. This is my house.”
“Can I see some ID?”
Helen stamped her foot. “Oh, for Godsakes. Are you really here with three police cars to arrest my daughter on the day she put her husband in the ground?” She threw a hand toward Claire. “Does she look like a
Paul had wanted more. He had talked about children on their second date and third date and countless dates thereafter. He had told Claire about his parents, how wonderful they were, how he had been devastated when they’d died. Paul was sixteen when the Scotts were killed in a car accident during a freak ice storm. He was an only child. The only relative he’d had left was an uncle who passed away while Paul was in high school.
Her husband had made it clear that he wanted a big family. He wanted lots and lots of kids to inoculate himself against loss and Claire had tried and tried with him until finally she had agreed to go see a fertility expert who had informed Claire that she couldn’t have children because she had an IUD and was taking birth control pills.
Of course, Claire hadn’t shared that information with Paul. She had told her husband that the doctor had diagnosed her with something called an “inhospitable womb,” which was true because what was more inhospitable than a pipe cleaner stuck up your uterus?
“Almost there,” Helen said. She reached over and touched Claire’s knee. “We’ll get through this, sweetheart.”
Claire grabbed her mother’s hand. They both had tears in their eyes. They both looked away without acknowledging them.
“It’s good you have a grave to visit.” Ginny stared out the window with a pleasant smile on her face. There was no telling where her mind was. “When your father died, I remember standing at his grave and thinking, This is the place where I can leave my grief. It wasn’t immediate, of course, but I had somewhere to go, and every time I visited the cemetery, I felt like when I got back into my car, a tiny little bit of grief was gone.”
Helen brushed invisible lint from her skirt.
Claire tried to summon good memories of her father. She was in college when Helen called to say that he was dead. At the end of his life, her father had been a very sad, very broken man. No one had been surprised when he’d committed suicide.
Ginny asked, “What’s that missing girl’s name again?”
“Anna Kilpatrick.”
The limo slowed as it made the wide turn into the driveway. Helen shifted in her seat to look out the front window. “Is the gate supposed to be open?”
“I guess the caterers—” Claire didn’t finish the sentence. There were three police cars parked behind the caterers’ van. “Oh, God. What now?”
A policewoman motioned for the limo to park on the pad down from the main house.
Helen turned to Claire. “Have you done something?”
“What?” Claire couldn’t believe the question, but then she thought about the Valium and the Tramadol and the Scotch and her heartless parole officer who’d said Claire’s smart mouth was going to get her in trouble one day, to which Claire had told him that day had come and gone or she wouldn’t have a parole officer.
Would he really drug-test her on the day of her husband’s funeral?
“For the love of God.” Helen slid toward the door. “Claire, do something about your expression. You look guilty as hell.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Claire said, resurrecting a whiny tone she hadn’t deployed since the ninth grade.
“Let me handle this.” Helen pushed open the door. “Is there a problem, Officer?” She was using her librarian voice, low and terse and highly annoyed.
The cop held up her hand. “You need to step back, lady.”
“This is private property. I know my rights.”
“I’m sorry.” Claire edged in front of her mother. No wonder she had a problem with authority. “I’m Claire Scott. This is my house.”
“Can I see some ID?”
Helen stamped her foot. “Oh, for Godsakes. Are you really here with three police cars to arrest my daughter on the day she put her husband in the ground?” She threw a hand toward Claire. “Does she look like a
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