The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(48)

“You’re kidding, Michael. Verna is blaming me?”

“Right now Verna is blaming everyone. She’s broken, she’s terrified, and she’s not rational. And, I’m not sure she’s getting good advice. I got the impression these guys are sitting around the table, her table, scheming ways to sue anyone who’s remotely connected to Hugo’s death. Your name got kicked around, and I heard no objection from Verna.”

“They discussed this in front of you?”

“Oh, they don’t care. The house is packed with people, food is still arriving. Aunts, uncles, cousins, anybody with an opinion can grab a cupcake and pull up a chair. I left with a bad feeling.”

“I don’t believe this, Michael. Verna and I have been close for years.”

“It will take time, Lacy. Time for you to heal, time for her to heal. Verna is a good person, and when she gets over the shock she’ll come around. For now, though, I’d cool it.”

“I don’t believe this,” she mumbled again.

Gunther barged in with a tray and three cups of steaming coffee. “This stuff even smells bad,” he said. He passed out the coffee and excused himself while he stepped into the bathroom.

Michael leaned over and whispered, “When is he leaving?”

“Tomorrow. I promise.”

“Not a moment too soon.”





19





Ann Stoltz arrived late Monday morning to spend a day or two with her daughter. Fortunately, her son was not in the room, though it was apparent he had not yet closed down his office and moved out. Lacy explained that Gunther was running errands. The good news was that he would be leaving around noon, because, of course, Atlanta was collapsing in his absence and the city had to be saved. The even better news was that her doctor planned to release her on the following day. She had convinced him her hair would grow just as fast at home.

A nurse removed stitches as Ann prattled on about the gossip down in Clearwater. A physical therapist arrived for half an hour of stretching and he gave Lacy a chart of exercises to work on every day at home. When Gunther returned, he had a sackful of deli sandwiches and the urgent news that he must get home. After an hour with his mother, he couldn’t wait to leave the hospital. After four days with him, Lacy needed a break.

He was wiping tears as he said good-bye. He begged Lacy to call him for anything, especially if slimeballs like insurance adjusters and ambulance-chasing lawyers came slithering around. He knew exactly how to handle such people. On the way out, he gave his mother a perfunctory peck on the cheek, and he was gone. Lacy closed her eyes and enjoyed the silence for a long time.

—

The following day, Tuesday, an orderly rolled her out of the hospital and helped her into Ann’s car. She was perfectly capable of making the walk herself, but the hospital had its rules. Fifteen minutes later, Ann parked in the lot beside Lacy’s building. Lacy looked at it and said, “Only eight days ago, but it seems like a month.”

Ann said, “I’ll get the crutches.”

“I don’t need crutches, Mom, and I’m not using them.”

“But the physical therapist said—”

“Please. He’s not here, and I know what I can do.”

She walked without a limp into her apartment. Simon, her British neighbor, was waiting. He had been caring for Frankie, the Frenchie, and when Lacy saw her dog she slowly bent to her knees and grabbed him.

“How do I look?” Lacy asked Simon.

“Well, pretty good, I’d say, in spite of it all. I suppose things could be worse.”

“You should’ve seen me a week ago.”

“It’s good seeing you now, Lacy. We’ve been quite worried.”

“Let’s have some tea.”

It was exhilarating to be out of the hospital, and Lacy chattered away as Simon and Ann listened and laughed. The conversation stayed clear of Hugo and the accident. There would be enough of that later. Lacy hit her stride telling Gunther stories, all of which seemed even funnier now that he was gone.

Ann kept saying, “His father raised him, not me.”

Throughout the afternoon, Lacy called friends, napped off and on, stretched and exercised precisely as told, laid off the painkillers, nibbled on nuts and fruit bars, and looked at a few of her work files.

At 4:00 p.m., Michael arrived for a meeting and Ann went to the nearest mall. Claiming to have a stiff back, Michael said he needed to stay on his feet. So he paced, back and forth along the wide front window of her apartment, walking and talking, a man troubled by his thoughts. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a leave of absence?” he asked. “We can cover your salary for thirty days.”

“And what would I do for thirty days around here, Michael? Pull my hair out just as it starts sprouting?”

“You need the rest. The doctors said so.”

“Forget it,” she said bluntly. “I’m not calling time-out. I’ll be at the office next week, scars and all.”

“That’s what I figured. Have you talked to Verna?”

“No. You discouraged it, remember?”

“Right. Nothing has changed since Sunday. She’s out of money, of course, no surprise there, and eager to collect the life insurance.”

“You know his salary, Michael. They were living week to week. Can we help in some way?”