Divine Evil

the padded bench and say “ah.” Being rewarded with a balloon regardless of whether or not she'd cried at the prick of a needle.
    There was comfort here, in the smell of freshly cut grass, in the gleam of new spring paint on the window trim, and in the quiet voice she heard singing, off key.
    She saw him bent over his lilies of the valley, patiently weeding. Gardening was the obsession Doc Crampton had shared with her father-an obsession that had cemented their friendship in spite of Doc's being a good deal older than Jack Kimball.
    “Hey, Doc.”
    He straightened quickly, wincing a little at the creak in his back. His round face brightened. Beneath a battered old hat, his white hair flowed, making her think of Mark Twain.
    “Clare, I wondered when you were going to come by for a visit. We didn't have much time to get reacquainted the other day at Jane's.”
    “Alice told me you take a half day off now and then during the week. I was hoping to catch you when you weren't busy.”
    “You did. Just tending my ladies.”
    “Your flowers are lovely.” It hurt a little to look at them and remember Doc and her father discussing pruning and fertilizer. “Just as always.”
    Though she was smiling, he saw trouble in her eyes. A general practitioner in a small town learned to listen to problems as well as pulse rates. He patted the stone wall and sat. “Keep an old man company. I want to hear all about what you've been up to.”
    She sat and told him a little because they both knew it would help ease her into what she had come to say or to ask.
    “So, Mom and Jerry should be back in Virginia in a couple of weeks. She likes it there.”
    “Since you're this far, maybe you'll go visit them before heading back.”
    “Maybe.” Eyes lowered, she brushed at a smudge on her slacks. “I'm glad she's happy. I really am glad she's happy.”
    “Of course you are.”
    “I didn't know it would be so hard.” Her voice shook, broke. She had to take two deep breaths to control it. “I went upstairs last night. Into the attic.”
    “Clare.” He reached for her hand, tucked it comfortably between his. “You didn't have to do that alone.”
    “I'm not a child anymore, afraid of ghosts.”
    “You'll always be your father's child. You still miss him. I understand that. I miss him, too.”
    She gave a shaky sigh, then went on. “I know what a good friend you were to him. How you tried to help when he started drinking. And how you stood by us when the scandal came out.”
    “A friend doesn't turn his back because of hard times.”
    “Some do.” She straightened and smiled at him. “But not you. Never you. I was hoping you were still his friend so that you'd help me.”
    Disturbed by the strain in her voice, he kept her hand in his. “Clare, you've been coming around here since you could toddle. Of course I'll help you. For Jack. And for you.”
    “I've made a mess out of my life.”
    His brows drew together. “How can you say that? You're a very successful young woman.”
    “Artist,” she corrected. “Pretty successful there. But as a woman…You'll have heard I was married and divorced.”The faintest trace of humor lit her eyes. “Come on, Doc, I know how you disapprove of divorce.”
    “Generally, yes.” He huffed a bit, not wanting to sound pompous. “A vow is a vow, as far as I can see. But I'm not so set in my ways that I don't understand there are sometimes…circumstances.”
    “I was the circumstances.” Reaching down, she plucked a blade of grass that grew close to the wall. “I couldn't love him enough, couldn't be what he wanted. Couldn't be what I wanted, I guess. So I messed it up.”
    Now he pursed his lips. “I would say that it takes two people to cause a marriage to succeed or to fail.”
    She nearly laughed. “Rob wouldn't agree, believe me. And when I look back over it and the other relationships I've had, or tried to have, I realize I keep holding something back.”
    “If you believe that, you must have an idea why.”
    “Yes. I-I need to understand how he could have done it,” she blurted out. “Oh, I know all about addiction and alcoholism as an illness. But those are just generalities, and he was my father. He was mine. I have to understand, somehow, so I can… ”
    “Forgive him,” Crampton said gently, and Clare closed her eyes.
    “Yes.” That was the one thing, the single thing, she had refused to admit no matter how Janowski had prodded. But the guilt wasn't so painful