Divine Evil

one?”
    “Yeah.” Clare nibbled at her sandwich. “She and Jerry seem to be having the time of their lives.”
    “Honeymoons are supposed to be fun.” He leaned forward, touched her hand. “She needs Jerry, Clare. She loves him and deserves some happiness.”
    “I know. I know.” Impatient with herself, she pushed the plate aside and reached for a cigarette. Her appetite seemed to vacillate as quickly as her moods these days. “In my head I do. She worked hard after Daddy-after he died, to keep the family together, to keep the business from going under. And to keep herself sane, I guess. I know all that,” she repeated, rubbing at her temple. “I know.”
    “But?”
    She shook her head. “Jerry's a good guy. I like him, really. He's funny and he's sharp, and he's obviously crazy about Mom. It's not as if we're kids, wondering whether he's trying to take Daddy's place.”
    “But?”
    “I keep feeling like he's taking Daddy's place.” She laughed and drew deeply on the cigarette. “That's not really it, or not all of it. Christ, Blair, it just seems likewe're so scattered now, so separate. Mom off in Europe for weeks on her honeymoon, you in D.C., me here. I keep thinking of the way it was before we lost Dad.” “That was a long time ago.”
    “I know. Jesus, I know.” With her free hand she began to ball and unball her napkin. She wasn't certain she had the words. It was often easier to express emotions with steel and solder. “It's only that-well, even after… when it was only the three of us …” She shut her eyes a moment. “It was tough, the shock of the accident, then all that business about kickbacks and collusion and under-the-table deals for the shopping center. One minute we're a nice happy family, and the next Dad is dead and we're in the middle of a scandal. But we held on so tight, maybe too tight, then boom, we're scattered.”
    “I'm only a phone call away, Clare. An hour by plane.”
    “Yeah. I don't know what it is, Blair. Everything was going along just dandy. My work's great. I love what I'm doing-I love my life. And then … I had the dream again.”
    “Oh.” He took her hand again, holding it this time. “I'm sorry. Want to talk about it?”
    “The dream?” In jerky motions she tapped the cigarette out in a gaudy metal ashtray. She had never talked about the details, not even with him. Only the fear of it. “No, it's the same. Pretty awful when it's happening, but then it fades. Only this time, I haven't been able to get back into the groove. I've been working, but my heart doesn't seem to be in it, and it shows. I keep thinking about Dad, and the house, and, Christ, Mrs. Negley's little black poodle. French toast at Martha's Diner after church on Sunday.” She took a deep breath. “Blair, I think I want to go home.”
    “Home? To Emmitsboro?”
    “Yes. Look, I know you told me you were in the middleof interviewing new tenants for the house, but you could hold off. Mom wouldn't care.”
    “No, of course she wouldn't.” He saw her strain, felt it in the restless movements of her hand in his. “Clare, it's a long way from New York to Emmitsboro. I'm not talking about miles.”
    “I've already made the trip once.”
    “From there to here. Going back is a whole different thing. You haven't been there in …”
    “Nine years,” she told him. “Almost ten. I guess it was easier to just keep going after we started college. Then with Mom deciding to move to Virginia, there didn't seem to be any reasons to go back.” She broke off a corner of her sandwich, eating more from nerves than hunger now. “But at least she kept the house.”
    “It's a good investment. Mortgage-free, low taxes. The rental income is-”
    “Do you really believe that's the only reason she didn't sell? For rental income?”
    Blair looked down at their joined hands. He wished he could tell her yes so that she might look for her peace of mind in the future instead of in the past. His own wounds were healed, but they could throb at unexpected moments, reminding him of his father's dishonesty and his own painful disillusionment.
    “No. There are memories there, most of them good. I'm sure all of us feel an attachment.”
    “Do you?” she asked quietly.
    His eyes met hers. There was understanding in them and the remnants of pain. “I haven't forgotten him, if that's what you mean.”
    “Or forgiven?”
    “I've learned to live with it,” he said briefly. “We all have.”
    “I want