Cracks in the Sidewalk(91)

When they reached the changing room, Claire turned to them and said, “You did a wonderful job. I’m very proud of you all.”

“Even me?” Sara asked shyly.

“Especially you,” Claire said, giving her a hug.

~

When the final chord of “Silent Night” faded from the auditorium, parents came to collect their children and the room became a whirlwind of activity. “Do you have your mittens?” mothers asked. “Where’s your sweater?” “Hurry up, Daddy’s waiting in the car.”

Claire was looking for Luke’s muffler when Adam pulled her aside.

“This is for you,” he said. He handed her a small raisin box and then ran toward the doorway where his father waited. Halfway there he stopped, ran back, wrapped his arms around Claire’s knees, and said, “Merry Christmas, Miss Claire.” Before Claire could say anything he was out the door and gone.

Until that moment Claire had not considered any part of the season merry. In fact, she’d struggled through the days just hoping not to cry. She had expected it to be the saddest and loneliest Christmas ever. There was no Christmas tree at the McDermott house that year, no gaily-wrapped presents. Yet when Claire showed Charlie the raisin box, there was Christmas. Inside the box she found three marbles and a matchbox car—a gift that brought tears to Claire’s eyes.





Charlie McDermott


What does a banker know about hiring a private investigator? Nothing, that’s what. Okay, I’ve watched a few episodes of “The Rockford Files” and “Magnum, P.I.,” but those guys deal with hardcore criminals. All I want is to find Jeffrey so we can see our grandchildren.

Claire thinks she’s the only one who misses Elizabeth and the kids. I miss them just as much as she does, but I can’t afford to let her know I’m hurting, or she’d fall apart.

The more sympathetic I am, the more depressed Claire gets. That’s not good for anybody. Life won’t stop and wait for a person to get over the pain. You’ve got to push past it and move on. If I don’t help Claire do that, who else will?

Helping out in Sunday school has been good for Claire. It took her mind off herself. She says it’s exhausting and she’s glad it’s over, but I’m hoping they’ll call her back. For the past few weeks she’s been sleeping at night, which is a lot better than wandering through the pitch-black house. It’s a relief for me, because I worried that she’d fall down the stairs.

Anyway, about this private investigator, I finally got hold of one. Dudley gave me the name of a guy. Funny, I never thought of Dudley as the sort of lawyer who’d need a private investigator. He says this Frank Walsh is good at finding out things about people who are involved in messy divorces.

Walsh seems nice enough, but he’s no Rockford. He’s skinny, wears a three-button suit, and looks more like a stockbroker than a private investigator. I definitely can’t imagine Frank Walsh crawling through drainpipes or popping bullets at someone.

I met with Walsh last Tuesday and gave him what information I had along with photographs of Jeffrey and the kids, at least the older two. Can you believe the only picture we have of Christian is the one taken in the hospital? Christian’s two years old now. He’s a blond-haired toddler, not a bald baby, so I doubt the hospital picture would be of any help.

Walsh seemed confident that he’d be able to locate the kids. Jeffrey’s more than likely changed his name, so I asked if that decreased the probability of finding them. Walsh said no. Apparently, a man with three kids is easier to trace than someone who’s traveling alone.

Even if Walsh finds them, it won’t help unless Jeffrey’s willing to let bygones be bygones. I can understand how hardships like losing Liz, then the store, and most probably the house can tear the guts from a man and make him resentful, but I’m hoping we can get past it. God knows I’ve got plenty of reasons to hate Jeffrey as much as he does me, but I’m ready to give it up for the sake of our grandchildren. I’m even willing to help him get back on his feet, if it lets us reassemble the pieces of Elizabeth’s life. I’d do anything in the world for our daughter, and that includes making sure her family is cared for.





Moving On


The following morning Claire awoke with Louise and her ill health on her mind. For weeks, Louise had talked about nothing but the pageant. She’d sewn feathers on costumes, painted gold rings, and threaded together enough leaves to fashion a tree, so it was strange that she’d miss the pageant. Louise was getting on in years and now rather frail, the sort of person who shouldn’t be living alone. If she had the flu, who would care for her? The flu could become serious. If her fever spiked she might stop eating; then what? For all anyone knew Louise could be—

Claire jumped out of bed, and within the hour she tromped across the street with a pot of chicken soup. She rang Louise’s doorbell and waited long enough to consider going for help when finally she heard the shuffling of feet and the door opened.

“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “You look awful!”

Louise did look terrible. She shivered from head to toe and looked as green and bug-eyed as a frog.

“What do you expect,” she said. “I’m sick!”

Claire pushed through the doorway and headed for the kitchen. She set the pot of soup on the stove, laid the potholders aside, and turned on a gas burner.