Read Online The Second Time Around by Mary Higgins Clark - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
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business establishments: Gap, J. Crew, Pottery Barn, a furniture store, a post office, a beauty parlor, a pizza joint, a few restaurants, an insurance broker. I cruised through a couple of the intersecting blocks. On Elm Street I passed a funeral parlor and a shopping mall that included a supermarket, dry cleaner, liquor store, and movie house. On Hickory Street I found a diner and next to it a two-story building with a sign that read caspien town journal.
From my map I could see that the Spencer family home was located at 71 Winslow Terrace, an avenue that spiked off from the end of Main Street. At that address I found a roomy frame house with a porch, the kind of turn-of-the-century house I grew up in. There was a shingle outside that read PHILIP BRODERICK, M.D . I wondered if Dr. Broderick lived on the upstairsfloor where the Spencer family had lived.
In an interview, Nicholas Spencer had painted a glowing picture of his childhood: âI knew I couldnât interrupt my father when he had patients, but just knowing he was there downstairs, a minute away, made me feel so great.â
I intended to pay a visit to Dr. Philip Broderick, but not yet. Instead I drove back to the building that housed the Caspien Town Journal, parked at the curb, and went inside.
The heavyset woman at the reception desk was so absorbed in something on the Internet that she looked startled when the door opened. But her expression immediately became pleasant. She gave me a cheery âgood morningâ and asked how she could help me. Wide rimless glasses magnified her light blue eyes.
I had decided that instead of announcing myself as a reporter for Wall Street Weekly, I would simply request recent back issues of the newspaper. Spencerâs plane had crashed nearly three weeks ago. The scandal about the missing money and the vaccine was now two weeks old. My guess was that this hometown paper had probably covered both stories in depth.
The woman had an amazing lack of curiosity about what I was doing there. She disappeared down the hall and returned with copies of the last weeksâ editions. I paid for themâa total of $3.00âtucked them under my arm, and headed for the diner next door. Breakfast had been half an English muffin and a cup of instant coffee. I decided that a bagel and brewed coffee wouldmake excellent âelevensesâ as my British friends call their mid-morning tea or coffee break.
The diner was small and cozy, one of those places with red checkered curtains and plates with pictures of hens and their chicks lining the wall behind the counter. Two men in their seventies were just getting up to leave. The waitress, a tiny bundle of energy, was whisking away their empty cups.
She looked up when the door opened. âTake your pick of the tables,â she said, smiling. âEast, west, north, or south.â The name tag on her uniform read, âCall me Milly.â I judged her to be about my motherâs age, but unlike my mother, Milly had fiercely red hair.
I chose the rounded corner booth where I could spread out the papers. Before Iâd settled, Milly was beside me, order pad in hand. Moments later the coffee and bagel were in front of me.
Spencerâs plane had gone down on April 4. The oldest paper Iâd bought was dated April 9. The front page had a picture of him. The headline read âNicholas Spencer Feared Dead.â
The story was an ode to the memory of a small-town boy who had made good. The picture was a recent one. It had been taken on February 15 when Spencer was awarded the first âDistinguished Citizen Awardâ ever presented by the town. I did some arithmetic. February 15 to April 4. At the time of the award, he had forty-seven days left on this planet. Iâve often wondered if people get a sense that their time is running out. I think my father did. He went out for a walk that morning eight years ago, but my mother told me that at the doorhe hesitated,
From my map I could see that the Spencer family home was located at 71 Winslow Terrace, an avenue that spiked off from the end of Main Street. At that address I found a roomy frame house with a porch, the kind of turn-of-the-century house I grew up in. There was a shingle outside that read PHILIP BRODERICK, M.D . I wondered if Dr. Broderick lived on the upstairsfloor where the Spencer family had lived.
In an interview, Nicholas Spencer had painted a glowing picture of his childhood: âI knew I couldnât interrupt my father when he had patients, but just knowing he was there downstairs, a minute away, made me feel so great.â
I intended to pay a visit to Dr. Philip Broderick, but not yet. Instead I drove back to the building that housed the Caspien Town Journal, parked at the curb, and went inside.
The heavyset woman at the reception desk was so absorbed in something on the Internet that she looked startled when the door opened. But her expression immediately became pleasant. She gave me a cheery âgood morningâ and asked how she could help me. Wide rimless glasses magnified her light blue eyes.
I had decided that instead of announcing myself as a reporter for Wall Street Weekly, I would simply request recent back issues of the newspaper. Spencerâs plane had crashed nearly three weeks ago. The scandal about the missing money and the vaccine was now two weeks old. My guess was that this hometown paper had probably covered both stories in depth.
The woman had an amazing lack of curiosity about what I was doing there. She disappeared down the hall and returned with copies of the last weeksâ editions. I paid for themâa total of $3.00âtucked them under my arm, and headed for the diner next door. Breakfast had been half an English muffin and a cup of instant coffee. I decided that a bagel and brewed coffee wouldmake excellent âelevensesâ as my British friends call their mid-morning tea or coffee break.
The diner was small and cozy, one of those places with red checkered curtains and plates with pictures of hens and their chicks lining the wall behind the counter. Two men in their seventies were just getting up to leave. The waitress, a tiny bundle of energy, was whisking away their empty cups.
She looked up when the door opened. âTake your pick of the tables,â she said, smiling. âEast, west, north, or south.â The name tag on her uniform read, âCall me Milly.â I judged her to be about my motherâs age, but unlike my mother, Milly had fiercely red hair.
I chose the rounded corner booth where I could spread out the papers. Before Iâd settled, Milly was beside me, order pad in hand. Moments later the coffee and bagel were in front of me.
Spencerâs plane had gone down on April 4. The oldest paper Iâd bought was dated April 9. The front page had a picture of him. The headline read âNicholas Spencer Feared Dead.â
The story was an ode to the memory of a small-town boy who had made good. The picture was a recent one. It had been taken on February 15 when Spencer was awarded the first âDistinguished Citizen Awardâ ever presented by the town. I did some arithmetic. February 15 to April 4. At the time of the award, he had forty-seven days left on this planet. Iâve often wondered if people get a sense that their time is running out. I think my father did. He went out for a walk that morning eight years ago, but my mother told me that at the doorhe hesitated,
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