The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(50)

20





By Wednesday, Lacy was bored and contemplating a return to work. Her face looked much better but she was still reluctant to be seen by her colleagues. Ann shopped and ran errands and did whatever Lacy wanted, but she was getting bored too. She drove Lacy to the grocery store and to a doctor’s appointment. She drove her to the office of an insurance adjuster who handed over a check for the Prius, a total loss. Ann was a terrible driver and poked along regardless of the traffic. Lacy was numb with fear of moving vehicles, and her mother’s dangerous driving didn’t help matters.

Lacy was sleeping well and without pain medication. Her physical therapy was progressing nicely and her appetite was returning. So it was no surprise when Ann announced over Wednesday dinner that she needed to go home. Very diplomatically, Lacy encouraged this. She appreciated her mother’s care and concern, but she was clearly on the mend and tired of the babysitting. She wanted her space all to herself.

More important, she’d met someone, a physical therapist who’d dropped by late Tuesday for a quick session, one carefully observed by Ann. His name was Rafe and he was in his mid-twenties, a good ten years younger, which didn’t bother Lacy at all. There was a spark or two as he worked on her knee, and perhaps another as he said good-bye. He did not seem the least bit bothered by her cuts and bruises. She e-mailed him a short hey-howdy Wednesday night, and he responded within an hour. Back and forth a few times, and it was established that neither was in a relationship and both were interested in a drink.

At last, Lacy thought, maybe something good might come from this catastrophe.

In bed, flipping through a magazine, Lacy was startled by an e-mail from Verna. It read,


Lacy—Sorry not to have written or called sooner. I hope you’re doing fine and recuperating. I’m so relieved your injuries were not as bad as they could have been. Me, I’m hanging on by a thread. Actually, I am completely overwhelmed with anything and everything. The kids are a mess and refuse to go to school. Pippin cries even more. At times they’re all crying and I want to give up. But I refuse to break down in front of them. They need someone to be strong, so I just go hide in the shower and bawl my eyes out. I can barely survive each day and I hate the thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow without Hugo. Next week, next month, next year without Hugo. I cannot comprehend the future. The present is a nightmare. The past seems so long ago and so happy that it makes me sick. My mother is here, along with my sister, so I’m getting plenty of help with the kids. But nothing is real; everything seems artificial. They can’t stay so they’ll leave soon and I’ll be here with four kids and no husband. I’d like to see you but not now. I need some time. When I think of you I think of Hugo and the way he died. Sorry. Please, just give me some time. Don’t answer right now. Verna



Lacy read it twice and went back to her magazine. She would think about Verna tomorrow.

—

Ann finally got away late Thursday morning, several hours after Lacy had hoped. Wonderfully alone for the first time in ten days, she fell onto the sofa with Frankie and enjoyed the stillness. She closed her eyes and heard nothing, and it was lovely. Then she thought of Verna and of all the horrible sounds echoing through the Hatch home—crying kids and ringing phones and kinfolk shuffling in and out. She felt guilty for the contrast.

She closed her eyes and was about to catch a wink when Frankie growled softly. There was a man standing at her door.

Lacy went to the front window for a closer look. The door was locked. She felt safe. One quick push of a button on the security panel and all manner of alarms would erupt. The man was vaguely familiar—deep tan, lots of long gray hair.

Mr. Greg Myers, she decided. On dry land.

She spoke through the intercom. “Hello.”

His voice was familiar. “Looking for Lacy Stoltz,” he said.

“And who are you?”

“Last name is Myers.”

She opened the door with a grin and said hello. As he stepped inside, she scanned the parking lot and noticed nothing unusual.

“Where’s the Panama hat and gaudy shirt?” she asked.

“I save that for the boat. What happened to all that beautiful hair?”

She pointed to the ugly scar on her head. “Twenty-four stitches and still pretty sore.”

“You look great, Lacy. I was so afraid you were badly injured. The newspapers have not said much about your condition, only that you had a head injury.”

“Have a seat. I assume you want a beer.”

“No, I’m driving. Just some water.”

She pulled two bottles of fizzy water out of the fridge and they sat at a small table in the breakfast nook. “So you’ve kept up through the papers?” she asked.

“Yes, an old habit, I suppose. Since I live on a boat I need some contact with reality.”

“I haven’t looked at a newspaper since the wreck.”

“You haven’t missed much. As for you and Hugo, they’ve already moved on.”

“I’m assuming I was easy to find here.”

“Quite. You’re not trying to hide, are you?”

“No. I’m not living like that, Greg. I’m not afraid.”

“Must be nice. Look, Lacy, I’ve just driven five hours from Palm Harbor. I want to know what happened. You gotta tell me. It wasn’t an accident, was it?”